N^o CXXVI.

I Am ſitting down to begin the taſk of adding a new volume to theſe eſſays, when the laſt day of the year 1789 is within a few hours of its concluſion, and I ſhall bid farewell to this eventful period with a grateful mind for its having paſſed lightly over my head without any extraordinary perturbation or misfortune on my part ſuffered, gently leading me towards that deſtined and not far diſtant hour, when I, like it, ſhall be no more.

I have accompanied it through all thoſe changes and ſucceſſions of ſeaſons, which in our [2] climate are ſo ſtrongly diſcriminated; have ſhared in the pleaſures and productions of each, and if any little idle jars or bickerings may occa⯑ſionally have ſtarted up betwixt us, as will ſome⯑times happen to the beſt of friends, I willingly conſign them to oblivion, and keep in mind only thoſe kind and good offices, which will pleaſe on reflection, and ſerve to endear the memory of the deceaſed.

All days in twelve months will not be days of ſunſhine; but I will ſay this for my friend in his laſt moments, that I cannot put my finger upon one in the ſame century, that hath given birth to more intereſting events, been a warmer advocate for the liberties and rights of mankind in general, or a kinder patron to this country in particular: I could name a day (if there was any need to point out what is ſo ſtrongly im⯑preſſed on our hearts) a day of gratulation and thankſgiving, which will ever ſtand forth amongſt the whiteſt in our calendar.

Though my friend in his laſt moments hath in this and other inſtances been ſo conſiderate of our happineſs, I am afraid he is not likely to leave our morals much better than he found them: I cannot ſay that in the courſe of my duty as an Obſerver any very ſtriking inſtance of amendment hath come under my notice; and though I have all the diſpoſition in life to ſpeak as favourably in my friend's behalf as truth will let me, I am bound to confeſs he was not apt to think ſo ſeriouſly of his latter end as I could have wiſhed: there was a levity in his conduct, which he took no pains to conceal; he did not ſeem to reflect upon the lapſe of time, how ſpeedily his ſpring, ſummer, and autumn would paſs away and the winter of his days come upon him; like Wolſey he was not aware how ſoon the froſt, the killing froſt would nip his root: he was however a gay convivial fellow, loved his bottle and his friend, paſſed his time peaceably amongſt us, and certainly merits the good word of every loyal ſubject in this kingdom.

As for his proceedings in other countries, it [4] is not here the reader muſt look for an ac⯑count of them; politics have no place in theſe volumes; but it cannot be denied that he has made many widows and orphans in Europe, been an active agent for the court of death, and dipped his hands deep in Chriſtian and Mahometan blood. By the friends of freedom he will be celebrated to the lateſt time. He has begun a buſineſs, which, if followed up by his ſucceſſor with equal zeal, leſs ferocity and more diſcre⯑tion, may lead to wonderful revolutions: there are indeed ſome inſtances of cruelty, which bear hard upon his character; if ſeparately viewed, they admit of no palliation; in a general light, allowances may be made for that phrenſy, which ſeizes the mind, when impelled to great and arduous undertakings; when the wound is gan⯑grened the inciſion muſt be deep, and if that is to be done by coarſe inſtruments and unſkilful hands, who can wonder if the gaſh more reſem⯑bles the ſtab of an aſſaſſin than the operation of a ſurgeon? An aera is now opened, awful, in⯑tereſting and ſo involved in myſtery, that the acuteſt ſpeculation cannot penetrate to the iſſue of it: In ſhort, my friend in his laſt moments hath put a vaſt machine in motion, and left a taſk to futurity, that will demand the ſtrongeſt hands [5] and ableſt heads to compleat: in the mean time I ſhall hope that my countrymen, who have all thoſe bleſſings by inheritance, which leſs-fa⯑voured nations are now ſtruggling to obtain by force, will ſo uſe their liberty, that the reſt of the world, who are not ſo happy, may think it an object worth contending for, and quote our peace and our proſperity as the beſt proofs exiſt⯑ing of its real value.

Whilſt my thoughts have been thus employed in reflecting upon the laſt day of an ever-memo⯑rable year, I have compoſed a few elegiac lines to be thrown into the grave, which time is now opening to receive his reliques.

N^o CXXVII.

I Am under promiſe to reſume the hiſtory of my friend Ned Drowſy, from which I was obliged to break off in my laſt volume, N^o 122. The events, which have ſince occurred, ſhall now be related.

The reader will perhaps recollect that the worthy Hebrew, who aſſumes the name of Abrahams, had juſt concluded the narrative of his adventures, and that the next morning was appointed for a conciliatory interview between Mrs. Goodiſon and her father. Ned, whoſe natural indolence had now began to give place to the moſt active of all paſſions, had been ſo much agitated by the events of the day, that we had no ſooner parted from honeſt Abrahams, than he began to comment upon the lucky incident of our rencontre with the old gentleman at the comedy; he ſeemed ſtrongly inclined to deal with deſtiny for ſome certain impulſes, which he remembered to have felt, when he was ſo earneſt to go to the play; and declared with much gra⯑vity, that he went thither fully prepoſſeſſed ſome good fortune would turn up: ‘"Well, to be ſure,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I ought to rejoice in the [9] happy turn affairs have now taken, and I do rejoice; but it would have given me infinite delight to have fulfilled the plan I had in de⯑ſign for Mrs. Goodiſon's accommodation; ſhe will now want no aſſiſtance from me; my little cottage will never have the honour of re⯑ceiving her; all thoſe ſchemes are at an end; Conſtantia too will be a great fortune, ſhe will have higher views in life, and think no more of me; or, if ſhe did, it is not to be ſuppoſed her grandfather, who ſo bitterly re⯑ſented his daughter's match, will ſuffer her to fall into the offence."’ I muſt confeſs I thought ſo entirely with my friend Ned in the concluding part of theſe remarks, that I could only adviſe him to wait the event of time, and recommend himſelf in the mean while as well as he could to Mr. Somerville, the grandfather of Conſtantia. Art and education, it is true, had not contributed much to Ned's accompliſhments, but nature had done great things in his favour; to a perſon admirably, though not finically, formed, ſhe had given a moſt intereſting ſet of features, with ſuch a ſtriking character of bene⯑volence and open honeſty, that he might be ſaid to carry his heart in his countenance: though there was a kind of laſſitude in his deportment, [10] the effect of habits long indulged, yet his ſenſibi⯑bility was ever ready to ſtart forth upon the firſt call, and on thoſe occaſions no one would have regretted that he had not been trained in the ſchool of the graces; there was ſomething then diſplayed, which they cannot teach, and only na⯑ture in her happieſt moments can beſtow.

The next morning produced a letter from honeſt Abrahams, full of joy for the happy re⯑conciliation now eſtabliſhed, and inviting us to celebrate the day with Mrs. Somerville and the ladies at his houſe. This was an anxious criſis for my friend Ned; and I perceived his mind in ſuch a ſtate of agitation, that I thought fit to ſtay with him for the reſt of the forenoon: he began to form a variety of conjectures as to the reception he was likely to meet from the old gentleman, with no leſs a variety of plans for his own behaviour, and even of ſpeeches with which he was to uſher in his firſt addreſſes; ſometimes he ſunk into melancholy and deſpair, at other times he would ſnatch a gleam of hope, and talk him⯑ſelf into tranſports; he was now, for the firſt time in his life, ſtudiouſly contriving how to ſet off his perſon to the beſt advantage; his hair was faſhionably dreſt, and a handſome new ſuit was tried on, during which he ſurveyed himſelf in the [11] glaſs with ſome attention, and, as I thought, not entirely without a ſecret ſatisfaction, which, in⯑deed, I have ſeen other gentlemen beſtow upon their perſons in a much greater degree, with much leſs reaſon for their excuſe.

When he was compleatly equipt, and the time approached for our going, ‘"Alas!"’ he cried, ‘"what does all this ſignify? I am but a clown in better clothes. Why was my fa⯑ther ſo neglectful of my education, or rather why was I ſo negligent to avail myſelf of the little he allowed me? What would I not give to redeem the time I have thrown away! But 'tis in vain: I have neither wit to recommend myſelf, nor addreſs to diſguiſe my want of it; I have nothing to plead in my favour, but common honour and honeſty; and what cares that old hard-hearted fellow for qualities, which could not reconcile him to his own ſon-in-law? he will certainly look upon me with contempt. As for Conſtantia, gratitude, perhaps, might in time have diſpoſed her heart towards me, and my zealous ſervices might have induced her mother to overlook my deficiencies, but there is an end of that only chance I had for happineſs, and I am a fool to thruſt myſelf into a ſociety, where I [12] am ſure to heap freſh fuel on my paſſion, and freſh misfortunes on my head."’

With theſe impreſſions, which I could only ſooth but not diſpel, Ned proceeded to the place of meeting with an aching heart and dejected countenance. We found the whole party aſ⯑ſembled to receive us, and though my friend's embarraſſment diſabled him from uttering any one of the ready-made ſpeeches he had digeſted for the purpoſe, yet I ſaw nothing in Mr. So⯑merville's countenance or addreſs, that could augur otherwiſe than well for honeſt Ned; Mrs. Goodiſon was as gracious as poſſible, and Con⯑ſtantia's ſmile was benignity itſelf. Honeſt Abrahams, who has all the hoſpitality, as well as virtues of his forefathers the patriarchs, re⯑ceived us with open arms, and a face in which-wide-mouthed joy grinned moſt delectably. It was with pleaſure I obſerved Mr. Somerville's grateful attentions towards him and his good dame; they had nothing of oſtentation or arti⯑fice in them, but ſeemed the genuine effuſions of his heart; they convinced me he was not a man innately moroſe, and that the reſentment, ſo long foſtered in his boſom, was effectually extirpated. Mrs. Abrahams, in her province, had exerted herſelf to very good purpoſe, and ſpread her board, [13] if not elegantly, yet abundantly: Abrahams, on his part, kept his wine and his tongue going with inceſſant gaiety and good-humour, and whilſt he took every opportunity of drawing forth Ned's honeſt heart and natural manners to the beſt advantage, I was happy in diſcovering that they did not eſcape the intuition of Somer⯑ville, and that he made faſter progreſs towards his good opinion, than if he had exhibited better breeding and leſs ſincerity of character.

In the courſe of the evening the old gentle⯑man told us he had determined upon taking his daughter and Conſtantia into the country with him, where he flattered himſelf Mrs. Goodiſon would recover her health and ſpirits ſooner than in town, and at the ſame time gave us all in turn a preſſing invitation to his houſe. Abrahams and his wife excuſed themſelves on the ſcore of buſineſs; but Ned, who had no ſuch plea to make, nor any diſpoſition to invent one, thank⯑fully accepted the propoſal.

The day ſucceeding, and ſome few others, were paſſed by Mrs. Goodiſon and Conſtantia at Mr. Somerville's in the neceſſary preparations and arrangements previous to their leaving Lon⯑don; during this time Ned's diffidence and their occupations did not admit of any interview, and [14] their departure was only announced to him by a note from the old gentleman, reminding him of his engagement: his ſpirits were by this time ſo much lowered from their late elevation, that he even doubted if he ſhould accept the invitation: love however took care to ſettle this point in his own favour, and Ned arrived at the place of his deſtination rather as a victim under the power of a hopeleſs paſſion, than as a modern fine gentleman with the aſſuming airs of a conqueror. The charms of the beautiful Conſtantia, which had drawn her indolent admirer ſo much out of his character and ſo far from his home, now heightened by the happy reverſe of her ſituation, and ſet off with all the aids of dreſs, dazzled him with their luſtre; and though her change of for⯑tune and appearance was not calculated to dimi⯑niſh his paſſion, it ſeemed to forbid his hopes: in ſorrow, poverty and dependance ſhe had in⯑ſpired him with the generous ambition of reſ⯑cuing her from a ſituation ſo ill proportioned to her merits, and, though he had not actually made, he had very ſeriouſly meditated a propoſal of marriage: He ſaw her now in a far different point of view, and comparing her with himſelf, her beauty, fortune and accompliſhments with his own conſcious deficiencies, he ſunk into deſpair. [15] This was not unobſerved by Conſtantia, neither did ſhe want the penetration to diſcern the cauſe of it. When he had dragged on this wretched exiſtence for ſome days, he found the pain of it no longer ſupportable, and, aſhamed of wearing a face of woe in the houſe of happineſs, he took the hardy reſolution of bidding farewell to Con⯑ſtantia and his hopes for ever.

Whilſt he was meditating upon this painful ſubject one evening during a ſolitary walk, he was ſurprized to hear himſelf accoſted by the very perſon, from whoſe chains he had determined to break looſe; Conſtantia was unattended, the place was retired, the hour was ſolemn and her looks were ſoft and full of compaſſion. What cannot love effect? it inſpired him with reſolu⯑tion to ſpeak; it did more, it ſupplied him with eloquence to expreſs his feelings.

Conſtantia in few words gave him to under⯑ſtand that ſhe rightly gueſſed the ſituation of his mind; this at once drew from him a confeſſion of his love and his deſpair—of the former he ſpoke little and with no diſplay; he neither ſought to recommend his paſſion, or excite her pity; of his own defects he ſpoke more at large, and dwelt much upon his want of education; he reproached himſelf for the habitual indolence of [16] his diſpoſition, and then, for the firſt time, raiſ⯑ing his eyes from the ground, he turned them on Conſtantia, and after a pauſe exclaimed, ‘"Thank Heaven! you are reſtored to a condition, which no longer ſubjects you to the poſſible ſacrifice I had once the audacity to hint at. Conſcious as I am of my own unworthineſs at all times to aſpire to ſuch a propoſal, let me do myſelf the juſtice to declare that my heart was open to you in the pureſt ſenſe; that to have tendered an aſylum to your beloved mo⯑ther, without enſnaring your heart by the ob⯑ligation, would ſtill have been the pride of my life, and I as truly abhorred to exact, as you could diſdain to grant, an intereſted ſurrender of your hand: and now, lovely Conſtantia, when I am about to leave you in the boſom of proſperity, if I do not ſeem to part from you with all that unmixt felicity, which your good fortune ought to inſpire, do not reproach me for my unhappy weakneſs; but recollect for once in your life, that your charms are irreſiſti⯑ble, and my ſoul only too ſuſceptible of their power and too far plunged into deſpair, to admit of any happineſs hereafter."’

At the concluſion of this ſpeech Ned again fixt his eyes on the ground; after a ſhort ſilence, [17] ‘"I perceive,"’ replied Conſtantia, ‘"that my obſervations of late were rightly formed, and you have been torturing your mind with re⯑flections very flattering to me, but not very juſt towards yourſelf: believe me, Sir, your opinion is as much too exalted in one caſe, as it is too humble in the other. As for me, hav⯑ing as yet ſeen little of the world but its mi⯑ſeries, and being indebted to the benevolence of human nature for ſupporting me under them, I ſhall ever look to that principle as a greater recommendation in the character of a companion for life, than the moſt brilliant ta⯑lents or moſt elegant accompliſhments: in the quiet walks of life I ſhall expect to find my enjoyments."’ Here Ned ſtarted from his reverie, a gleam of joy ruſhed upon his heart, by an involuntary motion he had graſped one of her hands; ſhe perceived the tumult her words had created, and extricating her hand from his—‘"Permit me,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"to qualify my reſpect for a benevolent diſpoſition by remarking to you, that without activity there can be no vir⯑tue: I will explain myſelf more particularly; I will ſpeak to you with the ſincerity of a friend—You are bleſt with excellent natural endowments, a good heart and a good under⯑ſtanding; [18] you have nothing to do but to ſhake off an indolent habit, and, having youth at your command, to employ the one and cul⯑tivate the other: the means of doing this it would be preſumption in me to preſcribe, but as my grandfather is a man well acquainted with the world and fully qualified to give advice, I ſhould earneſtly recommend to you not to take a haſty departure before you have conſulted him, and I may venture to promiſe you will never repent of any confidence you may repoſe in his friendſhip and diſcretion."’

Here Conſtantia put an end to the con⯑ference and turned towards the houſe; Ned ſtood fixt in deep reflection, his mind ſometimes brightening with hope, ſometimes relapſing into deſpair: his final determination, however, was to obey Conſtantia's advice and ſeek an inter⯑view with Mr. Somerville.

N^o CXXVIII.

THE next morning, as ſoon as Ned and Mr. Somerville met, the old gentleman took him into his library, and when he was ſeated, [19] ‘"Sir,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I ſhall ſave you ſome embar⯑raſſment if I begin our conference by telling you that I am well appriſed of your ſentiments towards my Conſtantia; I ſhall make the ſame haſte to put you out of ſuſpenſe by aſſuring you that I am not unfriendly to your wiſhes."’

This was an opening of ſuch unexpected joy to Ned, that his ſpirits had nearly ſunk under the ſurprize; he ſtared wildly without power of ut⯑terance, ſcarce venturing to credit what he had heard; the blood ruſhed into his cheeks, and Somerville, ſeeing his diſorder, proceeded: ‘"When I have ſaid this on my own part, un⯑derſtand, young gentleman, that I only engage not to obſtruct your ſucceſs, I do not, nay I cannot, undertake to enſure it: that muſt de⯑pend upon Conſtantia; permit me to add, it muſt depend upon yourſelf."’ Here Ned, un⯑able to ſuppreſs his tranſports, eagerly demanded what there could be in his power to do, that might advance him in the good opinion and eſteem of Conſtantia; ſuch was his gratitude to the old gentleman for his kindneſs, that he could ſcarce refrain from throwing himſelf at his feet, and he implored him inſtantly to point out the happy means, which he would implicitly embrace, were they every ſo difficult, ever ſo dangerous.

[20] ‘"There will be neither hardſhip nor hazard,"’ replied Mr. Somerville, ‘"in what I ſhall adviſe. Great things may be accompliſhed in a ſhort time, where the diſpoſition is good and the underſtanding apt: though your father neg⯑lected your education, it is no reaſon you ſhould neglect yourſelf; you muſt ſhake off your indo⯑lence; and as the firſt ſtep neceſſary towards your future comfort is to put yourſelf at eaſe in point of fortune, you muſt make yourſelf maſter of your own eſtate; that I ſuſpect can only be done by extricating your affairs from the hands they are in; but as this is a buſineſs, that will require the aſſiſtance of an honeſt and able agent, I ſhall recommend to you my own lawyer, on whoſe integrity you may ſe⯑curely rely; he will ſoon reduce your affairs to ſuch a ſyſtem of regularity, that you will find it an eaſy buſineſs, and when you diſcover how many ſources of future happineſs it opens to you, you will purſue it as an employment of no leſs pleaſure than advantage."’

To this good advice Ned promiſed the fulleſt and moſt unreſerved obedience; Mr. Somerville reſumed his ſubject and proceeded: ‘"When you have thus laid the foundation in oeco⯑nomy, what remains to be done will be a taſk [21] of pleaſure: this will conſiſt in, furniſhing your mind and enlarging your experience, in ſhort, Sir, rubbing off the ruſt of indolence and the prejudices of a narrow education: now for this important undertaking I have a friend in my eye, whoſe underſtanding, tem⯑per, morals and manners qualify him to ren⯑der you moſt eſſential ſervices: with this ami⯑able and inſtructive companion I ſhould in the firſt place recommend you to take a tour through the moſt intereſting parts of your own country, and hereafter, as occaſion ſhall ſerve, you may, or you may not, extend your travels into other countries: this is the beſt counſel I have to give you, and I tender it with all poſſible good wiſhes for your ſucceſs."’

A plan, propoſed with ſo much cordiality and holding forth ſuch a reward for the accompliſh⯑ment of its conditions, could not fail to be em⯑braced with ardour by the late deſpairing lover of Conſtantia. The worthy lawyer was pre⯑pared for the undertaking, and Ned was all im⯑patience to convince Mr. Somerville, that in⯑dolence was no longer his ruling defect. He gave inſtant orders for his journey, and then flew to Conſtantia, at whoſe feet he poured [22] forth the humble, yet ardent, acknowledgments of a heart overflowing with gratitude and love: it ſeemed as if love's arrow, like Ithuriel's ſpear, poſſeſſed the magic powers of transformation with a touch: there was a ſpirit in his eyes, an energy in his motions, an illumination over his whole perſon, that gave his form and features a new caſt: Conſtantia ſaw the ſudden transformation with ſurprize, and as it evinced the flexibility of his nature and the influence of her own charms, ſhe ſaw it alſo with delight: ‘"So ſoon!"’ was her only reply, when he announced his immediate depar⯑ture, but thoſe words were uttered with ſuch a ca⯑dence and accompanied by ſuch a look, as to the eye and ear of love conveyed more meaning than volumes would contain, unaided by ſuch expreſ⯑ſion—‘"Yes, adorable Conſtantia,"’ he exclaimed, ‘"I am now ſetting forth to give the earlieſt proof in my power of a ready and alert obedi⯑ence to the dictates of my beſt adviſer; theſe few moments, which your condeſcenſion in⯑dulges me with, are the only moments I ſhall not rigidly devote to the immediate duties of my taſk: inſpired with the hope of returning leſs unworthy of your attention, I chearfully ſubmit to baniſh myſelf from your ſight for a time, content to cheriſh in my heart the lovely [23] image there impreſt, and flattering myſelf I have the ſanction of your good wiſhes for the ſucceſs of my undertaking."’ Conſtantia aſ⯑ſured him he had her good wiſhes for every hap⯑pineſs in life, and, then yielding her hand to him, he tenderly preſſed it to his lips and departed.

It would be an unintereſting detail to enu⯑merate the arrangements, which Ned by the in⯑ſtructions of his friendly and judicious agent adopted on his return to Poppy-hall. His affairs had indeed been much neglected, but they were not embarraſſed, ſo that they were eaſily put into ſuch order and regulation, as gave him full leiſure for purſuing other objects of a more ani⯑mating nature: with this view he returned to his friend Mr. Somerville, and was again bleſt with the preſence of Conſtantia, to whom every day ſeemed to add new graces: he was wel⯑comed by all parties in the moſt affectionate man⯑mer; Mr. Somerville, upon converſing with his lawyer, received a very flattering report of Ned's activity and attention, nor was he diſpleaſed to hear from the ſame authority, that his eſtate and property far exceeded any amount, which the unpretending owner himſelf had ever hinted at.

It was now the latter end of April, and Ned had allowed himſelf only a few days to prepare for [24] his tour, and to form an acquaintance with the amiable perſon, who at Mr. Somerville's requeſt had engaged to accompany him; their plan was to employ ſix months in this excurſion through England and part of Scotland, during which they were to viſit the chief towns and principal ma⯑nufactories, and Mr. Somerville had further con⯑trived to lay out their courſe, ſo as to fall in with the houſes of ſome of his friends by the way, where he had ſecured them a welcome in ſuch ſocieties, as promiſed no leſs profit than amuſe⯑ment to a young perſon in the purſuit of experi⯑ence. Meaſures had been taken to provide equi⯑page, ſervants and all things requiſite for a tra⯑velling eſtabliſhment, amongſt which a few well-ſelected books were not forgotten, and, thus at length equipt, Ned with his companion, on the firſt morning of the month of May, having taken leave of Mr. Somerville and Mrs. Goodiſon, and received a tender adieu from his beloved Conſtan⯑tia, ſlept reluctantly into his chaiſe, and left the fineſt eyes in the creation to pay the tribute of a tear to the ſorrows of the ſcene.

From this period I had heard nothing of his proceedings till a few days ago, when I was fa⯑voured by him with the following letter, dated from the houſe of Mr. Somerville:

N^o CXXIX.

N^o CXXX.

The caſe of this correſpondent is a melan⯑choly one, and I have admitted his letter, be⯑cauſe I do not doubt the preſent good motives of the writer; but I ſhall not eaſily yield a place in theſe eſſays to characters ſo diſguſting, and re⯑preſentations ſo derogatory to human nature. The hiſtorians of the day, who profeſs to give us intelligence of what is paſſing in the world, ought not to be condemned, if they ſometimes make a little free with our ſoibles and our follies; but downright libels are grown too dangerous, and ſcurrility is become too dull to find a mar⯑ket; the pillory is a great reformer. The detail of a court drawing-room, though not very edify⯑ing, [51] is perfectly inoffenſive; a lady cannot great⯑ly complain of the liberty of the preſs, if it is contented with the humble taſk of celebrating the workmanſhip of her mantua-maker: as for ſuch inveterate malice, as my correſpondent Wormwood deſcribes, I flatter myſelf it is very rarely to be found: I can only ſay, that though I have often heard of it in converſation, and read of it in books, I do not meet in human nature originals ſo ſtrongly featured as their paintings: amongſt a ſmall collection of ſonnets in manu⯑ſcript, deſcriptive of the human paſſions, which has fallen into my hands, the following lines upon Envy, as coinciding with my ſubject, ſhall conclude this paper.

N^o CXXXI.

I Am bewildered by the definitions, which me⯑taphyſical writers give us of the human paſ⯑ſions: I can underſtand the characters of Theo⯑phraſtus, and am entertained by his ſketches; but when your profound thinkers take the ſubject in hand, they appear to me to dive to the bottom of the deep in ſearch of that, which floats upon its ſurface: if a man in the heat of anger would de⯑ſcribe [53] the movements of his mind, he might paint the tempeſt to the life; but as ſuch deſcrip⯑tions are not to be expected, moral eſſayiſts have ſubſtituted perſonification in their place, and by the pleaſing introduction of a few natural inci⯑dents form a kind of little drama, in which they make their fictitious hero deſcribe thoſe follies, foibles and paſſions, which they who really feel them, are not ſo forward to confeſs.

When Mr. Locke in his Eſſay on the Human Underſtanding deſcribes all pity as partaking of contempt, I cannot acknowledge that he is ſpeaking of pity, as I feel it: when I pity a fel⯑low creature in pain (a woman, for inſtance, in the throes of childbirth) I cannot ſubmit to own there is any ingredient of ſo bad a quality as contempt in my pity: but if the metaphyſicians tell me that I do not know how to call my feel⯑ings by their right name, and that my pity is not pity properly ſo defined, I will not pretend to diſpute with any gentleman, whoſe language I do not underſtand, and only beg permiſſion to enjoy a ſenſation, which I call pity, without indulging a propenſity, which he calls con⯑tempt.

The flatterer is a character, which the mora⯑liſts and wits of all times and all nations have [54] ridiculed more ſeverely and more ſucceſsfully than almoſt any other; yet it ſtill exiſts, and a few pages perhaps would not be miſapplied, if I was to make room for a civil kind of gentleman of this deſcription, (by name Billy Simper) who, having ſeen his failings in their proper light of ridicule, is willing to expoſe them to public view for the amuſement it is hoped, if not for the uſe and benefit, of the reader.

I beg leave therefore to introduce Mr. Billy Simper to my candid friends and protectors, and ſhall leave him to tell his ſtory in his own words.—

I am the younger ſon of a younger brother: my father qualified himſelf for orders in the uni⯑verſity of Aberdeen, and by the help of an inſinuat⯑ing addreſs, a ſoft counter-tenor voice, a civil ſmile and a happy flexibility in the vertebrae of his back-bone, recommended himſelf to the good graces of a right reverend patron, who after a due courſe of attendance and dependance preſented him to a comfortable benefice, which enabled him to ſupport a pretty numerous family of children. The good biſhop it ſeems was paſ⯑ſionately fond of the game of cheſs, and my fa⯑ther, though the better player of the two, knew how to make a timely move ſo as to throw the [55] victory into his lordſhip's hands after a hard battle, which was a triumph very grateful to his vanity, and not a little ſerviceable to my father's purpoſes.

Under this expert profeſſor I was inſtructed in all the ſhifts and movements in the great game of life, and then ſent to make my way in the world as well as I was able. My firſt object was to pay my court to my father's elder bro⯑ther, the head of our family; an enterprize not leſs arduous than important. My uncle Antony was a widower, parſimonious, peeviſh, and re⯑cluſe; he was rich however, egregiouſly ſelf-conceited, and in his own opinion a deep philo⯑ſopher and metaphyſician; by which I would be underſtood to ſay that he doubted every thing, diſputed every thing and believed nothing. He had one ſon, his only child, and him he had lately driven out of doors and diſinherited for nonſuit⯑ing him in an argument upon the immortality of the ſoul: here then was an opening no prudent man could miſs, who ſcorned to ſay his ſoul was his own, when it ſtood in the way of his inte⯑reſt: and as I was well tutored beforehand, I no ſooner gained admiſſion to the old philoſo⯑pher, than I ſo far worked my way into his good graces, as to be allowed to take poſſeſſion of [56] a truckle-bed in a ſpare garret of the family manſion: envy muſt have owned (if envy could have looked aſquint upon ſo humble a ſituation as mine was) that, conſidering what a game I had to play, I managed my cards well; for uncle Antony was an old dog at a diſpute, and as that cannot well take place, whilſt both parties are on the ſame ſide, I was forced at times to make battle for the good of the argument, and ſeldom failed to find Antony as compleatly puzzled with the zig-zaggeries of his metaphyſics, as uncle Toby of more worthy memory was with the horn-works and counterſcarps of his fortifica⯑tions.

Amongſt the various topics, from which An⯑tony's ingenuity drew matter of diſpute ſome were ſo truly ridiculous, that if I were ſure my reader was as much at leiſure to hear, as I am juſt now to relate them, I ſhould not ſcruple the re⯑cital. One morning having been rather long⯑winded in deſcribing the circumſtances of a dream, that had diſturbed his imagination in the night, I thought it not amiſs to throw in a remark in the way of conſolation upon the fallacy of dreams in general. This was enough for him to turn over to the other ſide and ſupport the credit of dreams totis viribus: I now thought it adviſeable to trim, and took a middle courſe between both extremes [57] by humbly conceiving dreams might be ſome⯑times true and ſometimes falſe: this he con⯑tended to be nonſenſe upon the face of it, and if I would undertake to ſhew they were both true and falſe, he would engage to prove by ſound logic they could be neither one nor the other:—‘"But why do we begin to talk,"’ added he, ‘"before we ſettle what we are to talk about? What kind of dreams are you ſpeaking of, and how do you diſtinguiſh dreams?"—’ ‘"I ſee no diſtinction between them,"’ I replied; ‘"Dreams viſit our fancies in ſleep, and are all, accord⯑ing to Mr. Locke's idea, made up of the wak⯑ing man's thoughts."—’ ‘"Does Mr. Locke ſay that?"’ exclaimed my uncle. ‘"Then Mr. Locke's an impoſtor for telling you ſo, and you are a fool for believing him: wiſer men than Mr. Locke have ſettled that matter many centuries before he was born or even dreamt of; but perhaps Mr. Locke forgot to tell you how many preciſe ſorts of dreams there are, and how to denominate and define them; perhaps he forgot that I ſay."’ I confeſſed that I neither knew any thing of the matter my⯑ſelf, nor did I believe the author alluded to had left any clue towards the diſcovery.

‘"I thought as much,"’ retorted my uncle Antony in a tone of triumph, ‘"and yet this is [58] the man who ſets up for an inveſtigator of the human underſtanding; but I will tell you, Sir, though he could not, that there are neither more nor leſs than five ſeveral ſorts of dreams particularly diſtinguiſhed, and I defy even the ſeven ſleepers themſelves to name a ſixth. The firſt of theſe was by the Greeks denomi⯑nated Oneiros, by the Latins Somnium, (ſimply a Dream) and you muſt be aſleep to dream it."’ ‘"Granted,"’ quoth I. ‘"What is granted?"’ re⯑joined the philoſopher, ‘"Not that ſleep is in all caſes indiſpenſable to the man who dreams."—’ ‘"Humph!"’ quoth I.—My uncle proceeded.

‘"The ſecond ſort of dreams you ſhall under⯑ſtand was by the aforeſaid Greeks called Orama, by the Latins Viſio, or as we might ſay a viſion; in this caſe take notice you may be aſleep, or you may be awake, or neither, or as it were between both; your eyes may be ſhut, or they may be open, looking inwards or outwards or upwards, either with ſight or without ſight, as it pleaſes God, but the viſion you muſt ſee, or how elſe can it rightly be called a viſion?"’ ‘"True,"’ replied I, ‘"there is a ſect who are particularly favoured with this kind of viſions."’ ‘"Prythee, don't interrupt me,"’ ſaid my uncle, and again went on.

[59] ‘"The third ſort of dreams to ſpeak accord⯑ing to the Greeks we ſhall call Chrematiſmos, according to the Latins we muſt denominate it Oraculum, (an oracle); now this differs from a viſion, in as much as it may happen to a man born blind as well as to Argus himſelf, for he has nothing for it but to liſten, underſtand and believe, and whatever it tells him ſhall come true, though it never entered into his head to preconceive one tittle of what is told him; and where is Mr. Locke and his wak⯑ing thoughts here?"—’ ‘"He is done for,"’ I anſwered, ‘"there is no diſputing againſt an oracle."’

‘"The fourth ſort,"’ reſumed he, ‘"is the Enup⯑tion of the aforeſaid Greeks and anſwers to the Latin Inſomnium, which is in fact a dream and no dream, a kind of reſverie, when a man doſes between ſleeping and waking and builds caſtles (as we ſay) in the air upon the ram⯑blings of his own fancy."’

‘"The fifth and laſt ſort of dreams is by Greeks and Latins mutually ſtiled Phantaſma, a word adopted into our own language by the greateſt poet, who ever wrote in it: now this phantaſma is a viſitation peculiar to the firſt mental abſence or ſlumber, when the man [60] fancies himſelf yet waking, and in fact can ſcarce be called aſleep; at which time ſtrange images and appearances ſeem to float before him and terrify his imagination. Here then you have all the ſeveral denominations of dreams perfectly diſtinguiſhed and defined,"’ quoth the old ſophiſt, and throwing himſelf back in his chair with an air of triumph, waited for the applauſe, which I was not backward in be⯑ſtowing upon this pedantic farrago of dogmatiz⯑ing dullneſs.

It will readily be believed that my uncle An⯑tony did not fail to revive his favorite controverſy, which had produced ſuch fatal conſequences to his diſcarded ſon: in fact he held faſt with thoſe antient philoſophers, who maintained the eter⯑nity of this material world, and as he ſaw no period when men would not be in exiſtence, no moment in time to come when mortality ſhall ceaſe, he by conſequence argued that there could be no moment in time, when immortality ſhall commence. There were other points re⯑ſpecting this grand ſtumbling-block of his phi⯑loſophy, the human ſoul, upon which he was equally puzzled, for he ſided with Ariſtotle againſt Plato in the unintelligible controverſy concerning its power of motion: but whilſt [61] my uncle Antony was thus unluckily wedded to the wrong ſide in all caſes, where reaſon ought to have been his guide, in points of mere quibble and ſophiſtry, which reaſon has no⯑thing to ſay to, and where a wiſe man would take neither ſide, he regularly took both, or hung ſuſpended between them like Socrates in the baſket.

Of this ſort was the celebrated queſtion—Ovumne prius fuerit, an gallina—viz: ‘"Whe⯑ther the egg was anterior to the hen, or the hen to the egg."’—This enquiry never failed to in⯑tereſt his paſſions in a peculiar degree, and he found ſo much to ſay on both ſides, that he could never well determine which ſide to be of: at length however, hoping to bring it to ſome point, he took up the cauſe of Egg verſus Hen, and having compoſed a learned eſſay, publiſhed it in one of the monthly magazines, as a lure to fu⯑ture controverſialiſts. This eſſay he had ſo often avowed in my hearing, and piqued himſelf ſo highly upon it, that I muſt have been dull indeed not to have underſtood how to flatter him upon it: but when he had found month after month ſlip away, and nobody mounting the ſtage upon his challenge, he felt angry at the contempt, with which his labours were paſſed over, and [62] without imparting to me his purpoſe, furniſhed the ſame magazine with a counter-eſſay, in which his former argument was handled with an aſperity truly controverſial, and the hen was triumphantly made to cackle over the new-laid egg, decidedly poſterior to herſelf.

I am inclined to think that if Antony had any partiality, it was not to this ſide; but as the ſe⯑cond eſſay was clearly poſterior to the firſt, (whatever the egg may have been to the hen) it had the advantage of being couched in all the ſpirit of a reply with an agreeable tinge of the malice of one, ſo that when at length it came down printed in a fair type, and reſpectfully poſt⯑ed in the front of the long-wiſht-for magazine, his heart beat with joy, and calling out to me in a lofty tone of counterfeited anger, as he run his eye over it—‘"By the horns of Jupiter Ammon,"’ quoth he, ‘"here is a fellow has the confidence to enter the liſts againſt me in the notable queſtion of the egg."—’ ‘"Then I hope you will break that egg about his ears,"’ replied I.—‘"Hold your tongue, puppy, and liſt⯑en,"’ quoth the ſophiſt and immediately began to read.

At every pauſe I was ready with a pooh! or a piſh! which I hooked in with every mark of [63] contempt I could give it both by accent and action. At the concluſion of the eſſay my uncle Antony ſhut the book and demanded what I thought of the author—‘"Hang him,"’ I ex⯑claimed, ‘"poor, Grub-ſtreet Garreteer; the fellow is too contemptible for your notice; he can neither write, nor reaſon; he is a mere ignoramus, and does not know the commoneſt rules of logic: he has no feature of a critic about him, but the malice of one."—’ ‘"Hold your tongue,"’ cried Antony, no longer able to contain himſelf, ‘"you are a booby; I will maintain it to be as fine an eſſay as ever was written."’—With theſe words he ſnatched up the magazine and departed: I ſaw no more of him that night, and early next morning was pre⯑ſented by a ſervant with the following billet—‘"The Grub-ſtreet Garreteer finds himſelf no longer fit company for the ſagacious Mr. William Simper; therefore deſires him without loſs of time to ſeek out better ſociety than that of a mere ignoramus, who does not know the common rules of logic: one rule however he makes bold to lay down, which is, Never again to ſee the face of an impertinent upſtart, called William Simper, whilſt he remains on this earth."’ A. S.

N^o CXXXII.

DRIVEN from my uncle Antony's doors by my unlucky miſtake between the hen and her egg, my caſe would have been deſperate, but that I had yet one ſtring left to my bow, and this was my aunt Mrs. Suſanna Simper, who lived within a few miles of my uncle, but in ſuch declared hoſtility, that I promiſed myſelf a fa⯑vorable reception, if I could but flatter her ani⯑moſity with a ſufficient portion of invective; and for this I deemed myſelf very tolerably qualified, having ſo much good-will towards the buſineſs, and no ſlight inducements to ſpur me to it.

My aunt, who was an aged maiden, and a valetudinarian, was at my arrival cloſeted with her apothecary: upon his departure I was ad⯑mitted to my audience, in which I acquitted myſelf with all the addreſs I was maſter of: my aunt heard my ſtory through without interrupt⯑ing me by a ſingle word; at laſt, fixing her eyes upon me, ſhe ſaid, ‘"'Tis very well, child; you [65] have ſaid enough; your uncle's character I perfectly underſtand; look well to your own, for upon that will depend the terms you and I ſhall be upon."’—She now took up a phial from the table and ſurveying it for ſome time, ſaid to me—‘"Here is a noſtrum recommended by my apothecary, that promiſes great things, but perhaps contains none of the wondrous properties it profeſſes to have: the label ſays it is a carminative, ſedative mixture; in other words, it will expel vapours and ſpaſms, and quiet the mind and ſpirits: Do you think it will make good what it promiſes?"’—So whimſical a queſtion put to me at ſuch a mo⯑ment confounded me not a little, and I only murmured out in reply, that I hoped it would—‘"Take it then,"’ ſaid my aunt, ‘"as you have faith in it; ſwallow it yourſelf, and when I ſee how it operates with you, I may have more confidence in it on my own account."’—I was now in a more awkward dilemma than ever, for ſhe had emptied the doſe into a cup, and ten⯑dered it to me in ſo peremptory a manner, that, not knowing how to excuſe myſelf, and being naturally ſubmiſſive, I ſilently took the cup with a trembling hand, and ſwallowed its abominable contents.

[66] ‘"Much good may it do you, child,"’ cried ſhe, ‘"you have done more for me than I would for any doctor in the kingdom: Don't you find it nauſeous to the palate?"’—I confeſt that it was very nauſeous.—‘"And did you think yourſelf in need of ſuch a medi⯑cine?"—’ ‘"I did not perceive that I was."’ ‘"Then you did not ſwallow it by your own choice, but my deſire?"’—I had no heſitation in acknowledging that.—‘"Upon my word, child,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"you have a very accom⯑modating way with you."’ I was now fighting with the curſed drug, and had all the difficulty in life to keep it where it was. My aunt ſaw my diſtreſs, and ſmiling at it demanded if I was not ſick: I confeſt I was rather diſcompoſed in my ſtomach with the draught.—‘"I don't doubt it,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"but as you have ſo civilly made yourſelf ſick for my ſake, cannot you flatter me ſo far as to be well, when I requeſt it?"’ I was juſt then ſtruggling to keep the nauſea down, and though I could not anſwer, put the beſt face upon the matter in my power.

A maid-ſervant came in upon my aunt's ringing her bell.—‘"Betty,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"take away theſe things; this doctor will poiſon us with his doſes."—’ ‘"Foh!"’ cried the wench, [67] ‘"how it ſmells!"’ ‘"Nay, but only put your lips to the cup,"’ ſaid the miſtreſs, ‘"there is enough left for you to taſte it."—’ ‘"I taſte it! I'll not touch it, I want none of his naſty phy⯑ſic."—’ ‘"Well, but though you don't want it,"’ rejoined the miſtreſs, ‘"taſte it nevertheleſs, if it be only to flatter my humour."—’ ‘"Excuſe me, madam,"’ replied Betty, ‘"I'll not make myſelf ſick to flatter any body."—’ ‘"Humph!"’ cried my aunt, ‘"how this wench's want of man⯑ners muſt have ſhocked you, nephew William! you ſwallowed the whole doſe at a word, ſhe, though my ſervant, at my repeated command would not touch it with her lips; but theſe low-bred creatures have a will of their own."’—There was ſomething in my aunt's manner I did not underſtand; ſhe puzzled me, and I thought it beſt to keep myſelf on the reſerve, and wait the further developement of her humour in ſilence.

We went down to ſupper; it was elegantly ſerved, and my aunt particularly recommended two or three diſhes to me; her hoſpitality em⯑barraſſed me not a little, for my ſtomach was by no means reconciled; yet I felt myſelf bound in good manners to eat of her diſhes and com⯑mend their cookery; this I did, though ſorely [68] againſt the grain, and, whilſt my ſtomach roſe againſt its food, I flattered what I nauſeated.

A grave, well-looking perſonage ſtood at the ſideboard, with whom my aunt entered into converſation.—‘"Johnſon,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I think I muſt lodge my nephew in your room, which is warm and well-aired, and diſpoſe of you in the tapeſtry chamber, which has not lately been ſlept in."—’ ‘"Madam,"’ replied Johnſon, ‘"I am ready to give up my bed to Mr. Wil⯑liam at your command; but as to ſleeping in the tapeſtry chamber you muſt excuſe me."’ ‘"Why?"’ replied my aunt, ‘"what is your ob⯑jection?"’ ‘"I am almoſt aſhamed to tell you,"’ anſwered Johnſon, ‘"but every body has his humour; perhaps my objection may be none to the young gentleman, but I confeſs I don't chuſe to paſs the night in a chamber, that is under an ill name."’ ‘"An ill name for what?"’ demanded the lady. ‘"For being haunted,"’ anſwered the butler, ‘"for being viſited by noiſes, and rattling of chains and apparitions; the gentleman no doubt is a ſcholar and can account for theſe things; I am a plain man, and don't like to have my imagination diſturbed, nor my reſt broken, though it were only by my own fancies."’ [69] ‘"What then is to be done?"’ ſaid my aunt, di⯑recting her queſtion to me; ‘"Johnſon don't chuſe to truſt himſelf in a haunted chamber; I ſhall have my houſe brought into diſcredit by theſe reports: Now, nephew, if you will encounter this ghoſt, and exorciſe the chamber by ſleep⯑ing in it a few nights, I dare ſay we ſhall hear no more of it. Are you willing to under⯑take it?"’

I was aſhamed to confeſs my fears, and yet had no ſtomach to the undertaking; I was alſo afraid of giving umbrage to my aunt, and im⯑preſſing her with an unfavourable opinion of me; I therefore aſſented upon the condition of John⯑ſon's taking part of the bed with me; upon which the old lady, turning to her butler, ſaid, ‘"Well, Johnſon, you have no objection to this propo⯑ſal."’ ‘"Pardon me, madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I have ſuch objections to that chamber, that I will not ſleep in it for any body living."’ ‘"You ſee he is obſtinate,"’ ſaid my aunt, ‘"you muſt even undertake it alone, or my houſe will lie under an ill name for ever."’ ‘"Sooner than this ſhall be the caſe,"’ I replied, ‘"I will ſleep in the chamber by myſelf."’ ‘"You are very polite,"’ cried my aunt, ‘"and I admire your ſpirit: Johnſon, light my nephew to his [70] room."’ Johnſon took up the candle, but ab⯑ſolutely refuſed to march before me with the light, when we came into the gallery, where, pointing to a door, he told me that was my chamber, and haſtily made his retreat down the ſtairs.

I opened the door with no ſmall degree of terror and found a chamber comfortably and elegantly furniſhed, and by no means of that melancholy caſt, which I had pictured to myſelf from Johnſon's report of it. My firſt precaution was to ſearch the cloſet; I then peeped under the bed, examined the hangings; all was as it ſhould be; nothing ſeemed to augur a ghoſt, or (which I take to be worſe) the counterfeit of a ghoſt. I plucked up as good a ſpirit as I could, ſaid my prayers and turned into bed: With the darkneſs my terrors returned; I paſſed a ſleepleſs night, though neither ghoſt, nor noiſe of any ſort moleſted me.

‘"Why,"’ ſaid I within myſelf, ‘"could not I be as ſincere and peremptory as Johnſon? He takes his reſt and is at peace, I am ſleepleſs and in terrors: Though a ſervant by condition, in his will he is independant; I, who have not the like call of duty, have not the ſame liberty of mind: he refuſes what he does not chuſe to obey, I obey all things whether I [71] chuſe them or not; And wherefore do I this? Becauſe I am a flatterer: And why did I ſwal⯑low a whole nauſeous doſe to humour my aunt's caprice, which her own chamber-maid, who receives her wages, would not touch with her lips? Becauſe I am a flatterer: And what has this flattery done for me, who am a ſlave to it? what did I gain by it at my uncle's? I was the echo of his opinions, ſhifted as they ſhifted, ſided with him againſt truth, demonſtration, reaſon and even the evidence of my own ſenſes: Abject wretch, I ſunk myſelf in my own eſteem firſt, then loſt all ſhadow of reſpect with him, and was finally expelled from his doors, whilſt I was in the very act of proſtituting my own judgment to his groſs abſurdities: And now again, here I am at my aunt's, devoted to the ſame mean flattery, that has already ſo ſhame⯑fully betrayed me. What has flattery gained for me here? A bitter harveſt truly I have had of it; poiſoned by an infernal doſe, which I had no plea for ſwallowing; ſurfeited by dainties I had no appetite to taſte, and now condemned to ſleepleſs hours within a haunted chamber, which her own domeſtic would not conſent even to enter: Fool that [72] I am to be the dupe of ſuch a vapor as flattery! deſpicable wretch, not to aſſert a freedom of will, which is the natural right of every man, and which even ſervants and hirelings exerciſe with a ſpirit I envy, but have not the heart to imitate: I am aſhamed of my own meanneſs; I bluſh for myſelf in the compariſon, and am determined, if I ſurvive till to-morrow, to aſſert the dignity of a man, and abide by the conſequences."’

In meditations like theſe night paſſed away, and the dawn of morning called me from my bed: I roſe and refreſhed my ſpirits with a walk through a moſt charming plantation: I met a countryman at his work—‘"Friend,"’ ſaid I, ‘"you are early at your labour."—’ ‘"Yes,"’ an⯑ſwered he, ‘"'tis by my labour I live, and whilſt I have health and ſtrength to follow it, I have nothing to fear but God alone."’ So! thought I, here is a leſſon for me; this man is no flatterer; then why do I worſhip what a clown deſpiſes?

I found my aunt ready for breakfaſt; ſhe queſtioned me about my night's reſt; I an⯑ſwered her with truth that I had enjoyed no reſt, but had neither ſeen nor heard any thing to alarm me, and was perſuaded there were no [73] grounds for the report of her chamber being haunted. ‘"I am as well perſuaded as yourſelf of that,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"I know 'tis only one of Johnſon's whims; but people you know will have their whims, and it was great courteſy in you to ſacrifice a night's reſt to his humour: my ſervants have been ſpoilt by indulgence, but it is to be hoped they will learn better ſubmiſſion by your example."’ There was a ſarcaſtic tone in my aunt's manner of uttering this, which gave it more the air of ridicule than compliment, and I bluſht to the eyes with the conſciouſneſs of deſerving it.

After breakfaſt ſhe took me into her cloſet, and, deſiring me to ſit down to a writing table, ‘"Nephew,"’ ſays ſhe, ‘"I know my brother Antony full well; he is a tyrant in his nature, a bigot to his opinions, and a man of a moſt perverted underſtanding, but he is rich and you have your fortune to make; he can inſult, but you can flatter; he has his weakneſſes, and you can avail yourſelf of them; ſuppoſe you write him a penitential letter."’—I now ſaw the opportunity preſent for exerting my new-made reſolution, and felt a ſpirit riſing within me, that prompted me to deliver myſelf as follows. ‘"No, madam, I will neither gra⯑tify [74] my uncle's pride, nor lower my own ſelf-eſteem, by making him any ſubmiſſion; I deſpiſe him for the inſults he has put upon me, and myſelf for having in ſome ſort deſerved them; but I will never flatter him or any living creature more; and if I am to forfeit your favour by reſiſting your commands, I muſt meet the conſequences, and will rather truſt to my own labour for ſupport than de⯑pend upon the caprice of any perſon living; leaſt of all on him."’ ‘"Heyday,"’ cried my aunt, ‘"you refuſe to write!—you will not do as I adviſe you?"’ ‘"In this particular,"’ I re⯑plied, ‘"permit me to ſay I neither can, nor will, obey you."’ ‘"And you are reſolved to think and act for yourſelf?"’ ‘"In the preſent caſe I am, and in all caſes, let me add, where my honour and my conſcience tell me I am right."’ ‘"Then,"’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘"I acknowledge you for my nephew; I adopt you from this hour;"’ and with that ſhe took me by the hand moſt cordially; ‘"I ſaw,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"or thought I ſaw, the ſymptoms of an abject ſpirit in you, and was reſolved to put my ſuſpicions to the teſt; all that has paſt here ſince your coming has been done in concert and by way of trial; your haunted chamber, [75] the pretended fears of my butler, his blunt refuſal, all have been experiments to found your character, and I ſhould totally have de⯑ſpaired of you, had not this laſt inſtance of a manly ſpirit reſtored you to my eſteem: you have now only to perſiſt in the ſame line of conduct to confirm my good opinion of you, and enſure your own proſperity and hap⯑pineſs."’

Thus I have given my hiſtory, and if the example of my reformation ſhall warn others from the contemptible character, which I have fortunately eſcaped from, I ſhall be moſt happy, being truly anxious to approve myſelf the friend of mankind, and the Obſerver's very ſincere well-wiſher.

N^o CXXXIII.

THE celebrated author of the Rambler in his concluding paper ſays, I have laboured to refine our language to grammatical purity, and [76] to clear it from colloquial barbariſms, licentious idioms and irregular combinations: ſomething per⯑haps I have added to the elegance of its conſtruction, and ſomething to the harmony of its cadence. I hope our language hath gained all the profit, which the labours of this meritorious writer were exerted to produce: in ſtile of a certain de⯑ſcription he undoubtedly excels; but though I think there is much in his eſſays for a reader to admire, I ſhould not recommend them as a model for a diſciple to copy.

Simplicity, eaſe and perſpicuity ſhould be the firſt objects of a young writer: Addiſon and other authors of his claſs will furniſh him with examples, and aſſiſt him in the attainment of theſe excellencies; but after all, the ſtile, in which a man ſhall write, will not be formed by imitation only; it will be the ſtile of his mind; it will aſſimilate itſelf to his mode of thinking, and take its colour from the complexion of his ordinary diſcourſe, and the company he conſorts with. As for that diſtinguiſhing characteriſtic, which the ingenious eſſayiſt terms very properly the harmony of its cadence; that I take to be in⯑communicable and immediately dependant upon the ear of him, who models it. This harmony of cadence is ſo ſtrong a mark of diſcrimination [77] between authors of note in the world of letters, that we can depoſe to a ſtile, whoſe modulation we are familiar with, almoſt as confidently as to the hand-writing of a correſpondent. But though I think there will be found in the periods of every eſtabliſhed writer a certain peculiar tune, (whether harmonious or otherwiſe) which will depend rather upon the natural ear than upon the imitative powers, yet I would not be underſtood to ſay that the ſtudy of good models can fail to be of uſe in the firſt formation of it. When a ſubject preſents itſelf to the mind, and thoughts ariſe, which are to be committed to writing, it is then for a man to chuſe whether he will expreſs himſelf in ſimple or in elaborate diction, whether he will compreſs his matter or dilate it, ornament it with epithets and robe it in metaphor, or whether he will deliver it plainly and naturally in ſuch language as a well-bred perſon and a ſcholar would uſe, who affects no parade of ſpeech, nor aims at any flights of fancy. Let him decide as he will, in all theſe caſes he hath models in plenty to chuſe from, which may be ſaid to court his imitation.

For inſtance; if his ambition is to glitter and ſurprize with the figurative and metaphori⯑cal brilliancy of his period, let him tune his ear [78] to ſome ſuch paſſages as the following, where Doctor Johnſon in the character of critic and biographer is pronouncing upon the poet Con⯑greve. ‘"His ſcenes exhibit not much of hu⯑mour, imagery or paſſion: his perſonages are a kind of intellectual gladiators; every ſen⯑tence is to ward or ſtrike, the conteſt of ſmartneſs is never intermitted; his wit is a meteor playing to and fro with alternate co⯑ruſcations."’ If he can learn to embroider with as much ſpendor, taſte and addreſs as this and many other ſamples from the ſame maſter exhibit, he cannot ſtudy in a better ſchool.

On the contrary, if ſimplicity be his object, and a certain ſerenity of ſtile, which ſeems in uniſon with the ſoul, he may open the Spectator, and take from the firſt paper of Mr. Addiſon the firſt paragraph, that meets his eye—the follow⯑ing for inſtance—‘"There is nothing that makes its way more directly to the ſoul than Beauty, which immediately diffuſes a ſecret ſatisfac⯑tion and complacency through the imagina⯑tion, and gives a finiſhing to any thing that is great or uncommon: the very firſt diſ⯑covery of it ſtrikes the mind with an in⯑ward joy, and ſpreads a chearfulneſs and de⯑light through all its faculties."’ Or again [79] in the ſame eſſay. ‘"We no where meet with a more glorious or pleaſing ſhow in nature than what appears in the heavens at the riſing and ſetting of the ſun, which is wholly made up of thoſe different ſtains of light, that ſhow themſelves in clouds of a different ſituation."’ A florid writer would hardly have reſiſted the opportunities, which here court the imagination to indulge its flights, whereas few writers of any ſort would have been tempted on a topic merely critical to have employed ſuch figurative and ſpendid diction, as that of Doctor Johnſon; theſe little ſamples therefore, though ſelected with little or no care, but taken as they came to hand, may ſerve to exemplify my meaning, and in ſome degree characterize the different ſtiles of the reſpective writers.

Now as every ſtudent, who is capable of copying either of theſe ſtiles, or even of com⯑paring them, muſt diſcern on which ſide the greater danger of miſcarrying lies, as well as the greater diſgrace in caſe of ſuch miſcarriage, pru⯑dence will direct him in his outſet not to hazard the attempt at a florid diction. If his ear hath not been vitiated by vulgar habitudes, he will only have to guard againſt mean expreſſions, whilſt he is ſtudying to be ſimple and perſpicu⯑ous; [80] he will put his thoughts into language naturally as they preſent themſelves, giving them for the preſent little more than mere grammatical correction; afterwards, upon a cloſer review, he will poliſh thoſe parts that ſeem rude, harmonize them where they are unequal, compreſs what is too diffuſive, raiſe what is low, and attune the whole to that general cadence, which ſeems moſt grateful to his ear.

But if our ſtudent hath been ſmitten with the turbulent oratory of the ſenate, the acrimonious declamation of the bar, or the pompous elo⯑quence of the pulpit, and ſhall take the lofty ſpeakers in theſe ſeveral orders for his models, rather than ſuch as addreſs the ear in humbler tones, his paſſions will in that caſe hurry him into the florid and figurative ſtile, to a ſublime and ſwelling period; and if in this he excels, it muſt be owned he accompliſhes a great and ar⯑duous taſk, and he will gain a liberal ſhare of applauſe from the world, which in general is apt to be captivated with thoſe high and towering images, that ſtrike and ſurprize the ſenſes. In this ſtile the Hebrew prophets write, ‘"whoſe diſcourſe"’ (to uſe the words of the learned Doctor Bentley) ‘"after the genius of the Eaſtern nations, is thick ſet-with metaphor and alle⯑gory; [81] the ſame bold compariſons and dithy⯑rambic liberty of ſtile every where occurring—For when the Spirit of God came upon them, and breathed a new warmth and vigour through all the powers of the body and ſoul; when by the influx of divine light the whole ſcene of Chriſt's heavenly kingdom was re⯑preſented to their view, ſo that their hearts were raviſhed with joy, and their imagina⯑tions turgid and pregnant with the glorious ideas; then ſurely, if ever, their ſtile would be ſtrong and lofty, full of alluſions to all that is great and magnificent in the kingdoms of this world." (Commencement Sermon.)’—And theſe flights of imagination, theſe effuſions of rapture and ſublimity will occaſionally be found in the pulpit eloquence of ſome of our moſt correct and temperate writers; witneſs that brilliant apoſtrophe at the concluſion of the ninth diſcourſe of Biſhop Sherlock, than whom few or none have written with more didactic brevity and ſimplicity—‘"Go,"’ (ſays he to the Deiſts) ‘"go to your natural religion: Lay before her Mahomet and his diſciples arrayed in armour and in blood, riding in triumph over the ſpoils of thouſands and tens of thouſands, who fell by his victorious ſword: Shew her the cities, [82] which he ſet in flames, the countries which he ravaged and deſtroyed, and the miſerable diſtreſs of all the inhabitants of the earth When ſhe has viewed him in this ſcene, carry her into his retirements; ſhew her the pro⯑phet's chamber, his concubines and wives; let her ſee his adultery, and hear him alledge revelation and his divine commiſſion to juſtify his luſt and oppreſſion. When ſhe is tired with this proſpect, then ſhew her the bleſſed Jeſus, humble and meek, doing good to all the ſons of men, patiently inſtructing both the ignorant and perverſe; let her ſee him in his moſt retired privacies; let her follow him to the mount, and hear his devotions and ſuppli⯑cations to God; carry her to his table to view his poor fare, and hear his heavenly diſcourſe: Let her ſee him injured but not provoked; let her attend him to the tribunal, and conſi⯑der the patience with which he endured the ſcoffs and reproaches of his enemies: Lead her to his croſs, and let her view him in the agony of death, and hear his laſt prayer for his perſecutors—Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."’

This is a lofty paſſage in the high imperative tone of declamation; it is richly coloured, boldly [83] contraſted and replete with imagery, and is amongſt the ſtrongeſt of thoſe inſtances, where the orator addreſſes himſelf to the ſenſes and paſſions of his hearers: But let the diſciple tread this path with caution; let him wait the call, and be ſure he has an occaſion worthy of his ef⯑forts before he makes them.

Allegory, perſonification and metaphor will preſs upon his imagination at certain times, but let him ſoberly conſult his judgment in thoſe mo⯑ments, and weigh their fitneſs before he admits them into his ſtile. As for allegory, it is at beſt but a kind of fairy form; it is hard to natura⯑lize it and it will rarely fill a graceful part in any manly compoſition. With reſpect to perſonifi⯑cation, as I am ſpeaking of proſe only, it is but an exotic ornament, and may be conſidered ra⯑ther as the loan of the muſes than as the pro⯑perty of proſe; let our ſtudent therefore beware how he borrows the feathers of the jay, leſt his unnatural finery ſhould only ſerve to make him pointed at and deſpiſed. Metaphor, on the other hand, is common property, and he may take his ſhare of it, provided he has diſcretion not to abuſe his privilege, and neither ſurfeits the appetite with repletion, nor confounds the palate with too much variety: Let his metaphor be [84] appoſite, ſingle and unconfuſed, and it will ſerve him as a kind of rhetorical lever to lift and ele⯑vate his ſtile above the pitch of ordinary diſ⯑courſe; let him alſo ſo apply this machine, as to make it touch in as many points as poſſible; otherwiſe it can never ſo poiſe the weight above it, as to keep it firm and ſteady on its proper center.

To give an example of the right uſe and ap⯑plication of this figure I again apply to a learned author already quoted—‘"Our firſt parents hav⯑ing fallen from their native ſtate of innocence, the tincture of evil, like an hereditary diſeaſe infected all their poſterity; and the leaven of ſin having once corrupted the whole maſs of mankind, all the ſpecies ever after would be ſoured and tainted with it; the vitious fer⯑ment perpetually diffuſing and propagating itſelf through all generations."—(Bentley, Comm. Sermon).’

There will be found alſo in certain writers a profuſion of words, ramifying indeed from the ſame root, yet riſing into climax by their power and importance, which ſeems to burſt forth from the overflow and impetuoſity of the imagina⯑tion; reſembling at firſt ſight what Quintilian characteriſes as the Abundantia Juvenilis, but [85] which, when tempered by the hand of a maſter, will upon cloſer examination be found to bear the ſtamp of judgment under the appearance of precipitancy. I need only turn to the famous Commencement Sermon before quoted, and my meaning will be fully illuſtrated—‘"Let them tell us then what is the chain, the cement, the magnetiſm, what they will call it, the inviſi⯑ble tie of that union, whereby matter and an incorporeal mind, things that have no ſimili⯑tude or alliance to each other, can ſo ſympa⯑thize by a mutual league of motion and ſenſa⯑tion. No; they will not pretend to that, for they can frame no conceptions of it: They are ſure there is ſuch an union from the operations and effects, but the cauſe and the manner of it are too ſubtle and ſecret to be diſcovered by the eye of reaſon; 'tis myſtery, 'tis divine magic, 'tis natural miracle."’

N^o CXXXIV.

N. B. I do not want any thing in Kit Cracker's way; but though I decline the offer of his aſſiſtance, I willingly avail myſelf of the moral of his example.

N^o CXXXV.

A Writer of miſcellaneous eſſays is open to the correſpondence of perſons of all de⯑ſcriptions, and though I think fit to admit the following letter into my collection, I hope my readers will not ſuppoſe I wiſh to introduce the writer of it into their company, or even into my own.

[98]The letter from Urania breathes the full ſpirit of that amiable ambition, which at preſent ſeems generally to inſpire our heroines of the ſtage to accept of none but ſhining characters, and never to preſent themſelves to the public but as illuſ⯑trious models of purity and grace. If virtue be thus captivating by reſemblance only, how beautiful muſt it be in the reality! I cannot however help pitying the unknown poet, whoſe hopes were daſht with the following rebuke.

The other letter is addreſſed to the ſame un⯑fortunate poet from an artiſt, who ſeems to have ſtudied nature in her deformities only.

N^o CXXXVI.

THE humours and characters of a popu⯑lous county town at a diſtance from the capital furniſh matter of much amuſement to a curious obſerver. I have now been ſome weeks reſident in a place of this deſcription, where I have been continually treated with the private lives and little ſcandalizing anecdotes of almoſt every perſon of any note in it. Having paſſed moſt of my days in the capital, I could not but remark the ſtriking difference between it and theſe ſubordinate capitals in this particular: in London we are in the habit of looking to our own affairs, and caring little about thoſe, with whom we have no dealings: here every body's buſineſs ſeems to be no leſs his neighbour's con⯑cern than his own: A ſet of tattling goſſips (including all the idlers in the place male as well [106] as female) ſeem to have no other employment for their time or tongue, but to run from houſe to houſe, and circulate their ſilly ſtories up and down. A few of theſe contemptible impertinents I ſhall now deſcribe.

Miſs Penelope Tabby is an antiquated maiden of at leaſt forty years ſtanding, a great obſerver of decorum, and particularly hurt by the behaviour of two young ladies, who are her next-door neighbours, for a cuſtom they have of lolling out of their windows and talking to fellows in the ſtreet: The charge cannot be denied, for it is cer⯑tainly a practice theſe young ladies indulge them⯑ſelves in very freely; but on the other hand it muſt be owned Miſs Pen Tabby is alſo in the habit of lolling out of her window at the ſame time to ſtare at them, and put them to ſhame for the levity of their conduct: They have alſo the crime proved upon them of being unpardonably handſome, and this they neither can nor will attempt to con⯑tradict. Miſs Pen Tabby is extremely regular at morning prayers, but ſhe complains heavily of a young ſtaring fellow in the pew next to her own, who violates the ſolemnity of the ſervice by ogling her at her devotions: He has a way of leaning over the pew, and dangling a white hand ornamented with a flaming paſte ring, which [107] ſometimes plays the lights in her eyes, ſo as to make them water with the reflection, and Miſs Pen has this very natural remark ever ready on the occaſion—‘"Such things, you know, are apt to take off one's attention."’

Another of this illuſtrious junto is Billy Bachelor, an old unmarried petit-maitre: Billy is a courter of antient ſtanding; he abounds in anecdotes not of the freſheſt date, nor altogether of the moſt intereſting ſort; for he will tell you how ſuch and ſuch a lady was dreſſed, when he had the honour of handing her into the drawing-room; he has a court-atalantis of his own, from which he can favour you with ſome hints of ſly doings amongſt maids of honour, particularly of a certain dubious ducheſs now deceaſed, (for he names no names) who appeared at a certain maſquerade in puris naturalibus, and other won⯑derful diſcoveries, which all the world has long ago known, and long ago been tired of. Billy has a ſmattering in the fine arts, for he can nett purſes and make admirable coffee and write ſonnets; he has the beſt receipt in nature for a dentifrice, which he makes up with his own hands, and gives to ſuch ladies, as are in his favour and have an even row of teeth: He can boaſt ſome ſkill in muſic, for he plays Barberini's [108] minuet to admiration, and accompanies the airs in the Beggar's opera on his flute in their origi⯑nal taſte: He is alſo a playhouſe critic of no mean pretenſions, for he remembers Mrs. Wof⯑fington, and Quin and Mrs. Cibber; and when the players come to town, Billy is greatly looked up to, and has been known to lead a clap, where nobody but himſelf could find a reaſon for clap⯑ping at all. When his vanity is in the cue, Billy Bachelor can talk to you of his amours, and upon occaſion ſtretch the truth to ſave his credit; particularly in accounting for a certain old lameneſs in his knee-pan, which ſome, who are in the ſecret, know was got by being kicked out of a coffee-houſe, but which to the world at large he aſſerts was incurred by leaping out of a window to ſave a lady's reputation, and eſcape the fury of an enraged huſband.

Dr. Pyeball is a dignitary of the church, and a mighty proficient in the belles lettres: He tells you Voltaire was a man of ſome fancy and had a knack of writing, but he bids you beware of his principles, and doubts if he had any more chriſtianity than Pontius Pilate: He has wrote an epigram againſt a certain contemporary hiſ⯑torian, which cuts him up at a ſtroke. By a happy jargon of profeſſional phraſes with a kind [109] of Socratic mode of arguing, he has ſo bam⯑boozled the dons of the cathedral as to have ef⯑fected a total revolution in their church muſic, making Purcell, Crofts and Handel give place to a quaint, quirkiſh ſtile, little leſs capricious than if the organiſt was to play cotillons and the dean and chapter dance to them. The doctor is a mighty admirer of thoſe ingenious publica⯑tions, which are intitled The flowers of the ſeveral authors they are ſelected from; this ſhort cut to Parnaſſus not only ſaves him a great deal of round-about riding, but ſupplies him with many an apt couplet for off-hand quotations, in which he is very expert and has beſides a clever knack of weaving them into his pulpit eſſays (for I will not call them ſermons) in much the ſame way as Tiddy-Doll ſtuck plumbs on his ſhort pigs and his long pigs and his pigs with a curley tail. By a proper ſprinkling of theſe ſpiritual noſegays, and the recommenda⯑tion of a ſoft inſinuating addreſs, doctor Pyeball is univerſally cried up as a very pretty genteel preacher, one who underſtands the politeneſs of the pulpit and does not ſurfeit well-bred people with more religion than they have ſtomachs for. Amiable Miſs Pen Tabby is one of his warmeſt admirers, and declares Doctor Pyeball in his [110] gown and caſſock is quite the man of faſhion: The ill-natured world will have it ſhe has con⯑templated him in other ſituations with equal ap⯑probation.

Elegant Mrs. Dainty is another ornament of this charming coterie: She is ſeparated from her huſband, but the eye of malice never ſpied a ſpeck upon her virtue; his manners were in⯑ſupportable; ſhe, good lady, never gave him the leaſt provocation, for ſhe was always ſick and moſtly confined to her chamber in nurſing a delicate conſtitution: Noiſes racked her head; company ſhook her nerves all to pieces; in the country ſhe could not live, for country doctors and apothecaries knew nothing of her caſe; in London ſhe could not ſleep, unleſs the whole ſtreet was littered with ſtraw. Her huſband was a man of no refinement; all the fine feelings of the human heart were heathen Greek to him; he loved his friend, had no quarrel with his bot⯑tle, and, coming from his club one night a little fluſtered, his horrid dalliances threw Mrs. Dainty into ſtrong hyſterics, and the covenanted truce being now broken, ſhe kept no further terms with him and they ſeparated. It was a ſtep of abſolute neceſſity, for ſhe declares her life could no otherwiſe have been ſaved; his boiſterous [111] familiarities would have been her death. She now leads an uncontaminated life, ſupporting a feeble frame by medicine, ſipping her tea with her dear quiet friends every evening, chatting over the little news of the day, ſighing charita⯑bly when ſhe hears any evil of her kind neigh⯑bours, turning off her femme-de-chambre once a week or thereabouts, fondling her lap-dog, who is a dear ſweet pretty creature and ſo ſenſi⯑ble, and taking the air now and then on a pillion behind faithful John, who is ſo careful of her, and ſo handy, and at the ſame time one of the ſtouteſt, handſomeſt, beſt-limbed lads in all England.

Sir Hugo Fitz-Hugo is a decayed baronet of a family ſo very antient, that they have long ſince worn out the eſtate that ſupported them: Sir Hugo knows his own dignity none the leſs, and keeps a little ſnivelling boy, who can ſcarce move under the load of worſted lace, that is plaiſtered down the edges and ſeams of his livery: He leaves a viſiting card at your door, ſtuck as full of emblems as an American paper dollar. Sir Hugo abominates a tradeſman; his olfactory nerves are tortured with the ſcent of a grocer, or a butcher, quite acroſs the way, and as for a tallow-chandler he can wind him to the very [112] end of the ſtreet; theſe are people, whoſe viſits he cannot endure; their very bills turn his ſtomach upſide down. Sir Hugo inveighs againſt modern manners as ſeverely as Cato would againſt French cookery; he notes down omiſſions in punctilio as a merchant does bills for proteſting; and in cold weather Sir Hugo is of ſome uſe, for he ſuffers no man to turn his back to the fire and ſcreen it from the company who ſit round: He holds it for a ſoleciſm in good-breeding for any man to touch a lady's hand without his glove: This as a general maxim Miſs Pen Tabby agrees to, but doubts whether there are not ſome caſes when it may be waved: He anathematizes the hereſy of a gentle⯑man's ſitting at the head of a lady's table, and contends that the honours of the upper diſh are the unalienable rights of the miſtreſs of the family: In ſhort, Sir Hugo Fitz-Hugo has more pride about him than he knows how to diſpoſe of, and yet cannot find in his heart to beſtow one atom of it upon honeſty: From the world he merits no other praiſe but that of having lived ſingle all his life, and, being the laſt of his family; at his deceaſe the Fitz-Hugos will be extinct.

[113]This ſociety may alſo boaſt a tenth muſe in the perſon of the celebrated Rhodope: Her ta⯑lents are multifarious; poetical, biographical, epiſtolary, miſcellaneous: She can reaſon like Socrates, diſpute like Ariſtotle and love like Sap⯑pho; her magnanimity equals that of Marc An⯑tony, for when the world was at her feet, ſhe ſacrificed it all for love, and accounted it well loſt. She was a philoſopher in her leading-ſtrings, and had travelled geographically over the globe ere ſhe could ſet one foot fairly before the other: Her cradle was rocked to the Iambic meaſure, and ſhe was lulled to ſleep by ſinging to her an ode of Horace. Rhodope has written a book of travels full of moſt enchanting inci⯑dents, which ſome of her admirers ſay was actu⯑ally ſketched in the nurſery, and only filled up with little temporary touches in her riper years; I know they make appeal to her ſtile as internal evidence of what they aſſert about the nurſery; but though I am ready to admit that it has every infantine charm, which they diſcover in it, yet I cannot go the length of thinking with them, that a mere infant could poſſibly dictate any thing ſo nearly approaching to the language of men and women: We all know that Goody Two-ſhoes, and other amuſing books, though written for [114] children, were not written by children. Rhodo⯑pe has preſerved ſome ſingular curioſities in her muſeum: She has a bottle of coagulated foam, ſomething like the congealed blood of Saint Ja⯑nuarius; this ſhe maintains was the veritable foam of the tremendous Minotaur of Crete of immortal memory; there are ſome indeed, who profeſs to doubt this, and aſſert that it is nothing more than the ſlaver of a noble Engliſh maſtiff, which went tame about her houſe, and, though formidable to thieves and interlopers, was ever gentle and affectionate to honeſt men. She has a lyre in fine preſervation, held to be the identi⯑cal lyre, which Phaon played upon, when he won the heart of the amorous Sappho; this alſo is made matter of diſpute amongſt the cognoſcenti; theſe will have it to be a common Italian inſtru⯑ment, ſuch as the ladies of that country play upon to this day; this is a point they muſt ſettle as they can, but all agree it is a well-ſtrung inſtru⯑ment, and diſcourſes ſweet muſic. She has in her cabinet an evergreen of the cypreſs race, which is ſuppoſed to be the very individual ſhrub, that led up the ball when Orpheus fiddled and the groves began a vegetable dance; and this they tell you was the origin of all country dances, now in ſuch general practice. She has alſo in [115] her poſſeſſion the original epiſtle, which king Agenor wrote to Europa, diſſuading her from her ridiculous partiality for her favourite bull, when Jupiter in the form of that animal took her off in ſpite of all Agenor's remonſtrances, and car⯑ried her acroſs the ſea with him upon a tour, that has immortalized her name through the moſt enlightened quarter of the globe: Rhodope is ſo tenacious of this manuſcript, that ſhe rarely in⯑dulges the curioſity of her friends with a ſight of it; ſhe has written an anſwer in Europa's be⯑half after the manner of Ovid's epiſtle, in which ſhe makes a very ingenious defence for her he⯑roine, and every body, who has ſeen the whole of the correſpondence, allows that Agenor writes like a man, who knew little of human nature, and that Rhodope in her reply has the beſt of the argument.

N^o CXXXVII.

NOTHING now remains for compleat⯑ing the literary annals of Greece, accord⯑ing to the plan I have proceeded upon in the foregoing volumes, but to give ſome account of the Drama within that period of time, which [116] commences with the death of Alexander of Ma⯑cedon and concludes with that of Menander, or at moſt extends to a very few years beyond it, when the curtain may figuratively be ſaid to have dropt upon all the glories of the Athenian ſtage.

This, though the laſt, is yet a brilliant aera, for now flouriſhed Menander, Philemon, Diphi⯑lus, Apollodorus, Philippides, Poſidippus; poets no leſs celebrated for the luxuriancy than for the elegance of their genius; all writers of the New Comedy; which, if it had not all the wit and fire of the old ſatirical drama produced in times of greater public freedom, is generally reputed to have been far ſuperior to it in delicacy, regularity and decorum. All attacks upon living charac⯑ters ceaſed with what is properly denominated the Old Comedy; the writers of the Middle Claſs contented themſelves with venting their raillery upon the works of their dramatic predeceſſors; the perſons and politics of their contemporaries were ſafe; whereas neither the higheſt ſtation, nor the brighteſt talents were any ſure protec⯑tion from the unreſtrained invectives of the comic muſe in her earlieſt ſallies.

The poets under our preſent review were not however ſo cloſely circumſcribed, as to be afraid [117] of indulging their talent for ridicule and ſatire up⯑on topics of a general nature; without a latitude like this comedy could hardly have exiſted; but this was not all, for amongſt their fragments ſome are to be found, which advance ſentiments and opinions ſo directly in the teeth of the popular re⯑ligion, that we cannot but admire at the extraor⯑dinary toleration of their pagan audiences. Juſtin quotes a paſſage from Menander's comedy of The Charioteer, in which an old mendicant is introduced carrying about a painted figure of the Great Mother of the Gods, after the manner of the preſent Popiſh Roſaries, and begging a boon as uſual on thoſe occaſions; the perſon addreſſed for his ſubſcription, contemptuouſly replies—‘"I have no reliſh for ſuch deities as ſtroll about with an old beggar-woman from door to door, nor for that painted cloth you have the impu⯑dence to thruſt into my preſence: Let me tell you, woman, if your Mother of the Gods was good for any thing, ſhe would keep to her own ſtation and take charge of none but thoſe, who merit her protection by their piety and devotion."’ This rebuff is of a piece with the ſurly anſwer of the cynic Antiſthenes, recorded by Clemens Alexandrinus, when, being teazed by theſe mendicants, the philoſopher replied—‘"Let [118] the Gods provide for their own Mother; I am not bound to maintain her."’ In another frag⯑ment, quoted both by Clemens and Euſebius, Menander breaks forth into a bolder rhapſody, which breathes the ſpirit and nearly the very words of the Hebrew prophets: a perſon (in what drama does not appear) addreſſes his com⯑panion in the ſcene to this effect—‘"If any man, O Pamphilus, thinks that God will be well pleaſed with the ſacrifice of multitudes of oxen or of goats, or of any other victims; or by robing his images in cloth of gold and purple, and decking them out with ivory and emeralds; that man deceives himſelf, and his imaginations are vain; let him rather ſtudy to conciliate God's favour by doing good to all men; let him abſtain from violation and adultery; let him not commit theft or murder through the luſt of money; nay covet not, O Pamphilus, ſo much even as the thread of another's needle, for God is ever preſent and his eye is upon thee."’ This will ſerve in the place of many more paſſages, which might be adduced, to prove that the comic poets of this period were not only bold declaimers againſt the vice and immorality of the age they lived in, but that they ventured upon truths and [119] doctrines in religion totally irreconcileable to the popular ſuperſtition and idolatries of the heathen world.

It was on the new comedy of the Greeks that the Roman writers in general founded their's, and this they ſeem to have accompliſhed by the ſervile vehicle of tranſlation: It is ſaid that Te⯑rence alone tranſlated all Menander's plays, and theſe by the loweſt account amounted to eighty; ſome authorities more than double them, an im⯑probable number to have been compoſed by a poet, who died at the age of fifty, or very little after.

Menander was born at Athens, the ſon of Diopethes and Hegeſiſtrata: He was educated in the ſchool of Theophraſtus the peripatetic, Ariſ⯑totle's ſucceſſor: At the early age of twenty he began to write for the ſtage, and his paſſions ſeem to have been no leſs forward and impetuous than his genius; his attachment to the fair ſex and eſpecially to his miſtreſs Glycera is upon record, and was vehement in the extreme; ſeve⯑ral [120] of his epiſtles to that celebrated courteſan, written in a very ardent ſtile, were collected and made public after his deceaſe: The celebrity of his muſe, and the brilliancy of his wit were pro⯑bably his chief recommendations to that lady's favour; for it ſhould ſeem that nature had not been very partial to his external, beſides which he ſquinted moſt egregiouſly, and was of a tem⯑per extremely iraſcible: If we were to take his character as a writer from no other authorities but of the fragments, we ſhould form a very dif⯑ferent idea from that of Pliny, who ſays he was omnis luxuriae interpres, and this even Plutarch his avowed panegyriſt is candid enough to admit: Ovid alſo ſays—

However this may be, the remains, which have come down to us, bear the ſtamp of an auſtere and gloomy muſe rather than of a wan⯑ton and voluptuous one; but theſe it muſt be owned prove little; Terence is ſuppoſed to have copied all his comedies from Menander, except the Phormio and the Hecyra, and he gives us the beſt inſight into the character of his elegant original.

[121]All Greece ſeems to have joined in lamenting the premature loſs of this celebrated poet, who unfortunately periſhed as he was bathing in the Piraean harbour, to which Ovid alludes in his Ibis—‘Comicus ut liquidis periit dum nabat in undis.’

This happened in Olymp. CXXII; his firſt comedy, intitled Orge was performed in Olymp. CXV, which gives him ſomething leſs than thirty years for the production of more than one hundred plays, and if we take the former ac⯑count of his beginning to write for the ſtage at the age of twenty, it will agree with what we have before ſaid reſpecting the age at which he died.

Fatal as was the Piraean ſea to the perſon of this lamented poet, poſterity has more cauſe to execrate that barbarous gulph, which has ſwal⯑lowed up his works; nor his alone, but thoſe of above two hundred other eminent dramatic poets, whoſe labours are totally loſt and extinguiſhed. We have ſome lines of Callimachus upon the death of Menander, who was one amongſt many of his poetic ſurvivors, that paid the tribute of their ingenious ſorrow to his memory: Nor poets only, but princes bewailed his loſs, particularly Ptolemy the ſon of Lagus, who loved and favoured [122] him very greatly, and maintained a friendly cor⯑reſpondence with him till his death; ſome of Menander's letters to this prince were publiſhed with thoſe addreſſed to his beloved Glycera.

Though many great authorities concur in placing Menander decidedly at the head of all the comic writers of his time, yet his contempo⯑raries muſt have been of a different opinion, or elſe his rivals were more popular with their judges, for out of one hundred and five come⯑dies, which Apollodorus aſcribes to him, he tells us that he obtained only eight prizes, and that Philemon in particular triumphed over him in the ſuffrages of the theatre very frequently. If theſe deciſions were ſo glaringly unjuſt and par⯑tial as we are taught to believe they were, we have ſome ſort of apology for the ſarcaſtic queſ⯑tion put to his ſucceſsful competitor, when upon meeting him he ſaid—‘"Do you not bluſh, Phi⯑lemon, when you prevail over me?"’ This anecdote however at beſt only proves that Menander rated his own merits very highly, and that, if they were unjuſtly treated by thoſe, who decided for Philemon, he laid the blame upon the wrong perſon, and betrayed a very irritable temper upon the occaſion.

[123]We have a collection of Menander's frag⯑ments and the titles of ſeventy-three comedies; the fragments conſiſt only of ſhort ſentences, and do not give us the ſpirit and character of the dialogue, much leſs of any one entire ſcene; for though Hertelius has gone further than Grotius and Le Clerc in arranging them under diſtinct topics, and has brought into one view every paſſage of a correſpondent ſort, ſtill it is a mere disjointed medley, intereſting only to the curious, but affording little edification to the generality of readers: Many of them however are to be reſpected for their moral ſentiment, ſome are of a very elevated caſt, and others, (more in number than I could wiſh) of a gloomy, acrimonious and moroſe quality.

Antient authorities are nevertheleſs ſo loud in the praiſe of Menander, that we cannot doubt of his excellence. Quintilian after applauding him for his peculiar addreſs in preſerving the man⯑ners and diſtinctions proper to every character he introduces on his ſcene, adds in general terms, ‘"that he eclipſes every writer of his claſs, and by the ſuperior brilliancy of his genius throws them all into ſhade."’—He condemns the per⯑verted judgment of his contemporaries for af⯑fecting [124] to prefer Philemon on ſo many occa⯑ſions; and C. J. Caeſar, whilſt he is paſſing a compliment upon Terence, ſtiles him only dimi⯑diatum Menandrum. Dion Chryſoſtom recom⯑mends him as a model for all who ſtudy to excel in oratory, ‘"and let none of our wiſe men re⯑prehend me,"’ he adds, ‘"for preferring Me⯑nander to the old comic poets, inaſmuch as his art in delineating the various manners and graces is more to be eſteemed than all the force and vehemence of the antient drama."’ There is ſo much claſſical elegance in the lines, which T. Faber has prefixed to his edition of Terence, particularly in the introductory ſtanza, and this is withal ſo appoſite to the ſubject in hand, that I ſhall conclude this paper by tran⯑ſcribing it.

N^o CXXXVIII.

THE various authors, who have contri⯑buted to the collection of Menander's re⯑mains, ſeem to have extracted from him, as if by general agreement, little elſe but the moſt unfa⯑vourable delineations of the human character: So far from finding thoſe facetious and ſprightly ſallies to be expected from a comic writer, thoſe voluptuous deſcriptions, which Pliny alludes to, or any fragments of the love ſcenes Ovid tells us he ſo abounded in, we meet a melancholy diſplay of the miſeries, the enormities, the re⯑pinings of mankind.

What can be more gloomy and miſanthropic than the following ſtrain of diſcontent, extracted by Euſtathius!—

Another fragment preſents itſelf of the ſame caſt, but coloured a little nearer to the hue of comedy—

The reader will obſerve that theſe are ſpeci⯑mens of a general diſguſt againſt mankind, and of diſcontent with the common lot of human life; as ſuch they can claſs with the humour of no other character but that of an abſolute miſan⯑thrope, a kind of Timon; for general invective differs widely from that, which is pointed againſt any particular vice or folly, and in fact can hardly be conſidered as falling within the province of comedy in any caſe.

If Menander hath been juſtly celebrated for his faithful pictures of the living manners of the age he wrote in, we cannot but receive a gloomy impreſſion from the dark and diſmal tints, in which theſe ſketches are caſt; and though the age we live in hath follies and failings enough ſtill to feed the comic poet's appetite for ſatire, we may conſole ourſelves in the compariſon of our own time with his, provided the ſtage is to [128] be regarded as a faithful mirror in both inſtances. It is not however improbable but the writers of the new comedy might fall with more ſeverity upon general vices to revenge themſelves for the reſtrictions they were ſubjected to with reſpect to perſonalities: Add to this, that as far as the early Chriſtian writers were concerned in ſelecting theſe paſſages, it may well be ſuppoſed they would naturally take the moſt moral and ſententious from amongſt the comedies they quoted, and ſuch as afforded grave and uſeful remarks upon life, harmonizing with their own doctrines and in⯑ſtructions. More eſpecially it is to be ſuppoſed that they would eagerly catch at any of thoſe paſſages, which exhibit purer and more worthy notions of the Being and Providence of God, than the vulgar herd of Heathens were known to entertain: Of this caſt is the following contemp⯑tuous ridicule upon the Pagan ceremony of luſ⯑tration.

I am ſorry to remark that amongſt all the frag⯑ments of this poet not one has been preſerved, that is ſtampt with even the ſlighteſt commenda⯑tion of the fair ſex: On the contrary I find abun⯑dance of invective, chiefly againſt marriage and married women, often coarſe and always bitter: I may venture to ſay, if there was a ſingle woman in all Athens, who merited one good word, it is one more than the ſtricteſt ſcrutiny can diſcover in his remains. Mark how he rails!—

The poet, who can thus lend his wit to libel the greateſt bleſſing of life, may well be ingenious in depreciating life itſelf—

Having given ſome paſſages from this poet, where he ſpeaks in the character of a miſanthro⯑piſt, it is but juſtice to exhibit him as a moraliſt: If the following fragment ſuggeſts no new ideas upon the ſubject of Envy, it will at leaſt ſerve to convince us that mankind in all ages have thought alike upon that deſpicable paſſion—

[131] In the fragment next enſuing an old man is reproved for the vice of covetouſneſs; there is a delicacy in the manner of it, that well becomes both the age and condition of the ſpeaker, for he is a youth, and ſon to the character, whom he addreſſes: This fragment is extracted from the comedy intitled Dyſcolus (the Churl) which Plautus is ſaid to have tranſlated and performed under its original title; but of this only a few fragments remain in our volume of that poet; probably the father herein addreſſed is the perſon who gives name to the comedy—

There is another fragment of a more comic [132] ſort, which is a relique of The Minſtrel, pointed at the ſame vice—

We are indebted to Plutarch for a very reſpec⯑table fragment of his favourite poet; he quotes it for the conſolatory advice it contains, and addreſſes it to Apollonius; I give it to my readers as one of the moſt valuable ſpecimens of its author.

The lines it Italics quoted from Shakſpere's Julius Caeſar, not only correſpond with the exact meaning of the original, but are alſo appoſite as a quotation from a tragic poet, Menander him⯑ſelf having applied the words of ſome one of the writers of tragedy, probably Euripides.

Amongſt the ſmaller fragments there are ſeve⯑ral good apothegms, ſome brief moral maxims well expreſſed, and though not many of thoſe witty points, which are ſo frequent in Ariſtophanes, yet there are ſome ſpecimens of the Vis comica, which have a very ingenious turn of words in their own tongue; but generally ſuch paſſages elude tranſlation.—This quaint confeſſion from the mouth of an old miſer is of that ſort.—‘"I own I am rich, abominably rich; all the world ac⯑cuſes me of being a very warm old fellow, but [134] not a ſoul alive can ſlander me ſo far as to ſay I am a happy one."’—The following ſcrap once belonged to The Thraſyleon;

A ſtrong moral truth told with epigrammatic neatneſs ſtrikes me in this pointed remark—

I could not paſs over a ſhort but touching apoſtrophe quoted from the comedy of The Olynthian—

I ſhall conclude with a fragment of the decla⯑matory ſort, not as offering any novelty either in the ſentiment or expreſſion, but ſimply for the ſake of contraſting it with other ſpecimens—

[135] I now take leave of Menander, the moſt renowned of the writers of the latter comedy, and if my readers ſhall remark, that theſe fragments of a poet ſo eminent in his time offer nothing, which has not been ſaid over and over again by poets of our own, I hope it will ſerve to ſtrengthen their conviction, that frequently there ſhall be a coincidence of ſentiment and expreſſion be⯑tween authors without communication; for it will hardly be ſuppoſed that plagiariſms have been committed upon theſe fragments, and much leſs upon others of more obſcurity, which I have in former papers introduced into our language.

In ſhort I ſhould be happy, if any thing I have done now or may hereafter do, ſhall ſerve to mi⯑tigate the zeal of critics for detecting their con⯑temporaries in pretended pilferings and miſde⯑meanours, where the letter of the law may per⯑haps appear againſt them, but the ſpirit of it, if interpreted with candour, condemns them not. I would call upon them, as Terence did upon his audience, to reflect that men in all ages will think and ſpeak alike.—

N^o CXXXIX.

THERE is not amongſt all the Greek dramatic poets a more amiable character than Philemon: He was a Syracuſan by Suidas's account, but Strabo ſays he was born in Solae a city of Cilicia: He was ſome years elder than Menander, and no unworthy rival of that poet, though more frequently ſucceſsful in his compe⯑titions with him than the critics in general ſeem to think he deſerved to be: Of this we can form little or no judgment; they, who had acceſs to the works of both authors, had the beſt materials to decide upon. Apulcius however ſpeaks rather doubtingly in the compariſon, for he ſays of Philemon that he was fortaſſe impar; to which [137] he ſubjoins, that ‘"though his frequent triumphs over Menander are not reputable to inſiſt upon, yet there are to be found in him many witty ſtrokes, plots ingeniouſly diſpoſed, diſcoveries ſtrikingly brought to light, charac⯑ters well adapted to their parts, ſentiments that accord with human life;"’—Joca non infra ſoccum, ſeria non uſque cothurnum, viz. ‘"Jeſts that do not degrade the ſock, gravity that does not intrench upon the buſkin."’

Philemon lived to the extraordinary age of one hundred and one years, in which time he com⯑poſed ninety comedies; a competent collection it muſt be owned, though not to be compared to the bulk of Menander's productions, who in half the time wrote more in number, and with a rapidity, for which we have his own word, ‘"for when I have once determined upon the plot,"’ ſays he, ‘"I conſider the work as finiſhed."’ The longevity of Philemon was the reſult of great temperance and a placid frame of mind: Frugal to a degree that ſubjected him to the charge of avarice, he never weakened his faculties and conſtitution by exceſs, and as he ſummed up all his wiſhes in one rational and moderate petition to Heaven, which throws a moſt favourable light upon his character, it is with pleaſure I record [138] it.—‘"I pray for health in the firſt place; in the next for ſucceſs in my undertakings; thirdly, for a chearful heart, and laſtly, to be out of debt to all mankind."’—This temperate peti⯑tion ſeems to have been granted in all particu⯑lars; he was bleſſed with a long and healthful life; he was ſucceſsful in his undertakings to a degree, which poſterity ſeems to think above his merits, and he triumphed over all his competi⯑tors more perhaps through the ſuavity of his manners than from any actual ſuperiority of his talents: That he was of a gay and happy ſpirit there is every reaſon to believe, and his oecono⯑my ſecured to him that independant competency, which put him in poſſeſſion of the final object of his wiſhes. As he lived in conſtant ſerenity of mind, ſo he died without pain of body; for hav⯑ing called together a number of his friends to the reading of a play, which he had newly finiſhed, and ſitting, as was the cuſtom in that ſerene climate, under the open canopy of Hea⯑ven, an unforeſeen fall of rain broke up the company juſt when the old man had got into his third act in the very warmeſt intereſts of his fable: His hearers diſappointed by this unlucky check to their entertainment interceded with him for the remainder on the day following, to [139] which he readily aſſented; and a great company being then aſſembled, whom the fame of the re⯑hearſal had brought together, they ſate a conſi⯑derable time in eager expectation of the poet, till wearied out with waiting, and unable to ac⯑count for his impunctuality, ſome of his inti⯑mates were diſpatcht in queſt of him, who, having entered his houſe and made their way to his chamber, found the old man dead on his couch, in his uſual meditating poſture, his fea⯑tures placid and compoſed, and with every ſymp⯑tom, that indicated a death without pain or ſtruggle.

This is Apuleius's account, but Oelian embel⯑liſhes the ſtory with a viſion, in which he pre⯑tends that nine fair damſels appeared to Phile⯑mon, and upon his accoſting them as they were going out of the door, demanding why they would leave him, they told him it was becauſe it was not permitted to man to hold converſe with the Immortals: Upon waking from this trance or viſion, Philemon related it to his page, and then getting up returned to his ſtudies, and put the laſt hand to the comedy he was em⯑ployed upon: ‘"That done,"’ ſays Oelian, ‘"he ſtretched himſelf on his couch and quietly expired."’ From this ſilly anecdote he draws [140] an inference, which without his help the world had probaby diſcovered, viz. That Philemon truly was in favour with the Muſes.

Valerius Maximus varies from both theſe au⯑thors in his account of the death of this aged poet; he tells us Philemon was ſuffocated by a ſudden fit of laughter upon ſeeing an aſs, who had found his way into the houſe, devour a plate of figs, which his page had provided for him; that he called out to the boy to drive away the aſs, but when this order was not executed before the animal had emptied the plate, he bade his page pour out a goblet of wine and preſent it to the plunderer to compleat his entertainment; tickled with the pleaſantry of this conceit, and no leſs with the groteſque attitude and adventure of the animal, Philemon was ſeized with a fit of laughing and in that fit expired.

The fragments of Philemon are in general of a ſentimental, tender caſt, and, though they en⯑force found and ſtrict morality, yet no one in⯑ſtance occurs of that gloomy miſanthropy, that harſh and dogmatizing ſpirit, which too often marks the maxims of his more illuſtrious rival: The following ſpecimen will illuſtrate what I aſ⯑ſert—It is clear that our poet has Aeſchylus in his eye.

I flatter myſelf the reader will be pleaſed with the following animated apoſtrophe, which is a fragment of the Ignifer—

I ſhall next produce a paſſage from the Pyrr⯑hus, which breathes ſo ſoft and placid a ſpirit, and ſo perfectly harmonizes with the amiable character of the poet I am reviewing, that it is with pleaſure I preſent it to my readers—

Stobaeus has preſerved a fragment of the Ephe⯑bus, which is of a mild and plaintive character; though it ſpeaks the language of the deepeſt ſor⯑row, it ſpeaks at the ſame time the language of humanity; there is no turbulence, no invective; it is calculated to move our pity, not excite our horror—

In all the remains of this engaging author there ſeems a characteriſtic gentleneſs of man⯑ners; where he gives advice, it is recommended [143] rather than impoſed; his reproofs are ſoftened with ſuch an air of good humour, as gives a grace to inſtruction, and ſmiles whilſt it corrects: Can experience tutor indiſcretion in milder terms than theſe?—

Many of his maxims and remarks are neatly expreſſed and ingeniouſly conceived; they have [144] all a tincture of pleaſantry, which without im⯑pairing the morality or good ſenſe they con⯑vey, takes off the gloom and ſolemnity, which the ſame thoughts, otherwiſe expreſſed, might have.

Again—

N^o CXL.

THE poet Diphilus was a native of Sinope, a city of Pontus, and contemporary with Menander. Clemens Alexandrinus applauds him for his comic wit and humour; Euſebius ſays the ſame and adds a further encomium in reſpect of the ſententious and moral character of his drama. The poet Plautus ſpeaks of him in his prologue to the Caſina, and acknowledges the excellence of the original upon which he had formed his comedy. He died at Smyrna, a city of Ionia, and was author of one hundred come⯑dies, of which we have a liſt of two and thirty titles, and no inconſiderable collection of frag⯑ments; out of theſe I have ſelected the following example—

Apollodorus Gelous in the ſame period with the poets abovementioned was a writer high in fame, and author of many comedies, of all which the titles of eight only and ſome few frag⯑ments now remain: It is generally underſtood that the Phormio and Hecyra of Terence are copied from this poet. Very little has been preſerved from the wreck of this author's wri⯑tings [147] that can tempt me to a tranſlation; a few ſhort ſpecimens however according to cuſtom are ſubmitted.—

Athenaeus has reſcued a little ſtroke of rail⯑lery, which is ludicrous enough—

The following has ſome point in it, but comes ill into tranſlation, or, more properly ſpeaking, is ill tranſlated—

[148] There is ſomething pleaſing in the following natural deſcription of a friendly welcome—

Philippidas, the ſon of Philocles, was another of this illuſtrious band of contemporary and rival authors: His extreme ſenſibility was the cauſe of his death, for the ſudden tranſport, occaſioned by the unexpected ſucceſs of one of his comedies, put a period to his life; the poet however was at this time very aged. Donatus informs us that Philippidas was in the higheſt favour with Lyſimachus, to whom he recommended himſelf not by the common modes of flattery, but by his amiable and virtuous qualities; the intereſt he had with Lyſimachus he ever employed to the moſt honourable purpoſes, and thereby diſ⯑poſed him to confer many great and uſeful fa⯑vours upon the people of Athens: So highly did his princely patron eſteem this venerable man, that whenever he ſet out upon any expedition, and chanced upon Philippidas is his way, he ac⯑counted [149] it as the happieſt prognoſtic of good fortune.—‘"What is there,"’ ſaid Lyſimachus to him upon a certain occaſion, ‘"which Philippi⯑das would wiſh I ſhould impart to him?"—’ ‘"Any thing,"’ replied the poet, ‘"but your ſecrets."’

Poſidippus, with whom I ſhall conclude, was a Macedonian, born at Caſſandria and the ſon of Cyniſcus. Abundant teſtimonies are to be found in the old grammarians of the celebrity of this poet; few fragments of his comedies have deſ⯑cended to us, and the titles only of twelve. He may be reckoned the laſt of the comic poets, as it was not till three years after the death of Menander that he began to write for the Athe⯑nian ſtage, and poſterior to him I know of no author, who has bequeathed even his name to poſterity: Here then concludes the hiſtory of the Greek ſtage; below this period it is in vain to ſearch for genius worth recording; Grecian literature and Grecian liberty expired together; a ſucceſſion of ſophiſts, paedagogues and gram⯑marians filled the poſts of thoſe illuſtrious wits, whoſe ſpirit, foſtered by freedom, ſoared to ſuch heights as left the Roman poets little elſe except the ſecondary fame of imitation.

I have now fulfilled what I may be allowed to [150] call my literary engagements; in the courſe of which I have expended no ſmall pains and atten⯑tion in dragging from obſcurity relicks buried in the rubbiſh of the darker ages, when the whole world ſeemed to conſpire againſt Genius; when learning had degenerated into ſophiſm, and religion was made a theme of metaphyſical ſubtelty, ſerving, as it ſhould ſeem, no other pur⯑poſe but to puzzle and confound, to inflame the paſſions and to perplex the head. Then it was, the fathers of the church, in whoſe hands theſe authors were, held it a point of conſcience to deſtroy the idols of the ſtage, as they had already deſtroyed the idols of the temple, and to bury heathen wit in the ſame grave with heathen ſuper⯑ſtition; their poets and their gods were to be exterminated alike. To the more enlightened taſte, or rather perhaps to the lucky partiality, of Chryſoſtom alone we owe the preſervation of Ariſtophanes. Continually engaged in argumen⯑tative and controverſial writings there were ſome, who occaſionally condeſcended to quote a paſſage, as it ſerved their purpoſe, from theſe proſcribed comedies, either to help out their wits or illuſtrate their meaning; and theſe ſcraps and ſplinters being ſwept together by ſome few patient collectors, who had charity enough [151] to work upon the wreck, poſterity hath been put into poſſeſſion of theſe gleanings of the comic ſtage of Athens in addition to the more entire and ineſtimable remains of Ariſtophanes. It has been my taſk (and I believe it is the firſt of the ſort attempted in our language) to avail myſelf of theſe friendly guides for making ſomething like a regular detail of the names, characters and productions of theſe loſt, but once illuſtrious, poets, and to give to the public ſuch as I con⯑ceived to be the beſt of their fragments in an Engliſh tranſlation. This part of my general undertaking being heavier than all the reſt to myſelf, I was much afraid it would have proved ſo to my readers alſo; but their candid recep⯑tion of theſe papers in particular, and the encou⯑raging voice of my profeſt reviewers, have ba⯑niſhed that anxiety from my mind, and enabled me to proceed with chearfulneſs to the end.

There is one part however of theſe papers, in which I conceive I have been miſunderſtood as having carried my attack againſt the moral doc⯑trines of Socrates, and of this I am intereſted to exculpate myſelf; My ſubject led me to refer to certain anecdotes unfavourable to his private character, but I ſtudiouſly marked thoſe paſſages by obſerving that there was no deſign to glance [152] at his moral doctrines, and at the ſame time quoted the authorities upon which thoſe anec⯑dotes reſt; when any ſcholar will convince me theſe were futile and malicious tales, I will re⯑tract all credit in them and thank him for the conviction: As for the purity of Socrates's doc⯑trine I never attempted to impeach it; of the purity of his character I muſt continue to think there is much cauſe to doubt. The learned Biſhop Sherlock in his fourth diſcourſe may be referred to upon this ſubject: He there ſays that the corrupt example of Socrates was a dead weight upon the purity of his doctrine, and tended to per⯑petuate ſuperſtition in the world—Though I am aware that the corrupt example here alluded to reſpects his religious practice, yet ſurely if the preacher of Chriſtianity was intereſted to ſhew the corrupt example of Socrates in this light, the friend of Chriſtianity may be allowed to repre⯑ſent it in another point of view, and by fair au⯑thorities to exhibit what the heathens themſelves have reported of this famous philoſopher, whoſe moral purity is by ſome taken merely upon truſt, by others deſignedly extolled to the ſkies for the ſake of oppoſing character to character, and by an audacious compariſon with Chriſt diſparaging the Divinity of the World's Redeemer. I ſhould [153] expect then, that as far as truth and good autho⯑rities warrant, I am as free to diſcuſs the private vices and impurities of Socrates, as thoſe of Ma⯑homet, which the learned prelate abovementioned moſt eloquently diſplays in his parallel between Chriſt and that Impoſtor: The Deiſt will per⯑haps be much intereſted to ſupport his favourite philoſopher, and will care little for the prophet: The modern Platoniſt, who is ingenious to erect a new ſyſtem of natural religion out of the ruins of heathen idolatry, may be zealous to defend the founder of his faith, and his anger I muſt ſubmit to incur; but it is not quite ſo eaſy to bear the reproof of friends, from whom I have not deſerved it, and in whoſe ſervice I have drawn that anger upon myſelf.

As for my defence of Ariſtophanes againſt the groundleſs charge of having taken bribes from the enemies of Socrates to attack him for the purpoſe of paving the way to his public trial, that I obſerve hath been on all hands admitted; for in truth the facts and dates on which it turns, cannot be conteſted; they are deciſive for his exculpation.

N^o CXLI.

EASY as it has been to clear Ariſtophanes from the charge of conſpiring againſt the life of Socrates, he would be a hardy advocate, who ſhould attempt to defend his perſonal attack upon that philoſopher in his comedy of The Clouds. The outcry has been kept up for ſo many ages, that now to combat it would be a taſk indeed; there are ſo many, who join in it, without having examined into the merits of the caſe, and an appeal to the practice of the ſtage in thoſe times as likewiſe to the comedy itſelf would affect ſo few amongſt the many, who pre⯑tend to pronounce upon the offence, that the man, who undertook to ſoften general preju⯑dices, muſt undertake to tranſlate The Clouds; and to transfuſe the original ſpirit of ſuch a com⯑poſition into a modern language would be no eaſy work.

An attempt however to give my Engliſh rea⯑ders ſome idea of the opening ſcenes of this fa⯑mous comedy ſo far as goes to the introduction [155] of the philoſopher upon the ſtage, and the ob⯑noxious incident of the baſket, will I hope be neither thought preſumptuous or diſpleaſing: It will at leaſt diſcloſe ſomething of the character and deſign of the piece, and may in future tempt an abler hand to execute the whole, and give it to the public.

‘"At the opening of this comedy Strepſiades, (the father of the Prodigal) is diſcovered ſit⯑ting at his deſk with a number of bills and papers before him, in deep meditation, whilſt Phidippides his ſon is ſleeping on his bed in the ſame chamber—The time before break of day—Strepſiades, ſtarting from his ſeat, breaks forth into the following exclamation"—STREPSIADES.Ah me, Ah me! what an eternal night!O Kingly Jove, ſhall the day never dawn?And yet the cock ſung out long long ago;I heard him, I—But my ſlaves lie and ſnore,Snore in defiance; for the raſcals knowIt is their privilege in time of war,Which with its other plagues bring this upon us,That we mayn't rouſe theſe vermin with a cudgel.There's my young Hopeful too—He ſleeps it through,Snug under five fat blankets at the leaſt:Wou'd I cou'd ſleep as ſound! But my poor eyesHave no ſleep in them; what with debts and duns[156]And ſtable keepers bills, which this fine ſparkHeaps on my back I lie awake all night.And what cares he but to coil up his locks,Ride, drive his horſes, dream of 'em all night,Whilſt I, poor devil, may go hang?—For nowThe ſettling day of term comes on apace,And my uſurious creditors are gaping——What hoa! a light there, boy! bring me my tablets,(Boy enters.)That I may ſet down all and ſum them up,Debts, creditors and intereſt upon intereſt—(Boy gives him the tablets.)Let me ſee where I am, and what the total—Put down twelve pounds, twelve ſtandard pounds to Paſias—Out on it, and for what? A horſe, a horſe;Right noble by the mark—Curſe on ſuch marks!Wou'd I had giv'n this eye from out this head!E'er I had paid the purchaſe of this jennet. PHIDDIPPIDES,(talking in his ſleep.)Phidon! for ſhame, keep, keep the ring!— STREPSIADES.There 'tis!That's it—my bane. He's on his horſe's back:He's racing in his ſleep. PHIDIPPIDES.(as before.)A heat, a heat—How many turns to a heat? STREPSIADES.[157]More than enough:You've given me heats in plenty: I am jaded—But to my liſt—What name ſtands next to Paſias?Amynias—three good pounds—ſtill for the race,A chariot for the race of the firſt rank, PHIDIPPIDES.(as before.)Diſmount; unharneſs and away! STREPSIADES.I thank you,You have unharneſs'd me; I am diſmounted,And with a vengeance; all my goods in pawn,Fines, forfeitures and penalties in plenty. PHIDIPPIDES.My Father!—Why ſo reſtleſs; who has vext you? STREPSIADES.The Sheriff vexes me; he breaks my reſt. PHIDIPPIDES.Peace, peace! and let me ſleep awhile. STREPSIADES.Sleep on;But take this with you, all theſe debts of mineWill double on your head. A plague confoundMy evil Genius, when the crotchet took meTo wed forſooth! that precious dam of thine.[158]I liv'd at eaſe i' th' country, coarſely clad,Rough, free and full withal as oil and honeyAnd ſtore of ſtock cou'd make me, till I took,Clown as I was, this limb of quality,This vain, extravagant, high-blooded dame.Rare bedfellows and dainty, were we not?I ſmelling of the wine-vat, figs and fleeces,The produce of my farm—All eſſence ſhe,Saffron and harlot's kiſſes; feaſt and frolick,A pamper'd wanton—Idle I'll not call her,For ſhe takes pains enough to ſpend my money;Which made me tell her, pointing to this cloakNow threadbare on my ſhoulders—See, good wife,This is your work; in troth you labour hard. BOY(re-enters.)Maſter! the lamp has drank up all its oil. STREPSIADES.Aye, 'tis a drunken lamp—The more fault your's:Whelp, you ſhall howl for this! BOY.Why, for what fault? STREPSIADES.For cramming ſuch a greedy wick with oil.(exit Boy.)Well! in good time this hopeful heir was born;Then I and my beloved fell to wranglingAbout the naming of the brat—My wifeWou'd dub her colt Xanthippus, or Charippus,Or it might be Callipedes, ſhe car'd not,So 'twere a horſe, which own'd the name—But I[159]Stuck for his grandfather Phidonides.At laſt, when neither cou'd prevail, the matterWas compromis'd by calling him Phidippides:When ſhe began to fondle the ſweet babe,And taking him by th' hand—Lambkin, ſhe cried,When thou art ſome years older thou ſhalt driveThy chariot to the city, rob'd in ſtateLike thy great anceſtor Megacles—No;Not ſo, quoth I, but thou ſhalt drive thy goats,When thou art able, from the fields of Phelle,Clad in a woolly jacket like thy father;But he is deaf to all theſe frugal rules,And drives me on the gallop to my ruin:Therefore all night I call my thoughts to council,And after long debate find one chance left,To which if I can lead him, all is ſafe;If not—But ſoft! 'Tis time that I ſhou'd wake him;But how to ſoothe him is the taſk—Phidippides!Precious Phidippides!— PHIDIPPIDES.What now, my father? STREPSIADES.Kiſs me, my boy! Reach me thine hand! PHIDIPPIDES.Ah me!What wou'd you? STREPSIADES.Tell me, Sirrah, doſt thou love me? PHIDIPPIDES.[160]Aye, be content; by Neptune's ſelf I ſwear it!Neptune, the patron of the equeſtrian race. STREPSIADES.Ah! name not him; name not that chariotteer,That God, who is my bane; but, oh, my ſon!If thou indeed doſt love, hear and obey me. PHIDIPPIDES.In what muſt I obey? STREPSIADES.Reform your habits;And what I dictate, do! PHIDIPPIDES.What do you dictate? STREPSIADES.But will you do't? PHIDIPPIDES.I will, ſo help me, Bacchus! STREPSIADES.'Tis well; get up! come hither, boy! Look out—Yon little wicket and the hut hard by—Doſt thou not ſee them? PHIDIPPIDES.Yes, I do: What then? STREPSIADES.[161]Why, that's the council-chamber of all wiſdom;There the great ſophiſts meet and teach the world,That heav'n's high firmament is one vaſt oven,And men it's burning embers: Theſe are they,Who can teach pleaders how to twiſt a cauſe,So you'll but pay them for it, right or wrong, PHIDIPPIDES.But how do you call 'em? STREPSIADES.Troth, I know not that:But they are men, who take a world of pains,Wond'rous good men and able. PHIDIPPIDES.Out upon 'em!Poor rogues! I know 'em now; you mean thoſe ſcabs,Thoſe ſqualid, barefoot, beggarly enthuſiaſts,The mighty Cacodaemons of whoſe ſectAre Socrates and Chaeriphon—Away! STREPSIADES.Huſh, huſh, be ſtill! don't vent ſuch fooliſh prattle;But, if you'll take my counſel, join their collegeAnd quit your riding-ſchool. PHIDIPPIDES.Not I, by Bacchus!No; not for all Leogaras's ſtud. STREPSIADES.[162]Come, my dear boy, my darling lad, conſent;I prythee do, and learn! PHIDIPPIDES.What ſhall I learn? STREPSIADES.They have a choice of logic; this for juſtice,That for injuſtice—learn this uſeful art,And all theſe creditors, that now beſet me,Shall never touch a drachm that I owe them. PHIDIPPIDES.I'll learn of no ſuch maſters, nor be madeAn object of contempt to all my colleagues. STREPSIADES.Out of my doors then! You and your fine cattleShall feed no more at my coſt; ſo begone!To the crows I bequeath you— PHIDIPPIDES.Do your worſt!I'll to my uncle, to my noble uncle:He'll ſcorn to ſee his nephew walk on foot:To him I go: I'll trouble you no more.(exit.) STREPSIADES(alone.)He has thrown me to the ground, but I'll not there:I'll up, and with permiſſion of the GodsTry if I cannot learn theſe arts myſelf:But being old, ſluggiſh and dull of wit,[163]How am I ſure theſe ſubtilties won't poſe me?Well, I'll attempt it: What avails complaint?Why don't I knock and enter?—Hoa! within there!(Knocks violently at Socrates's door, a diſciple calls out from within.) DISCIPLE.Go hang yourſelf, and give the crows a dinner!What noiſy fellow art thou at the door? STREPSIADES.Strepſiades of Cicynna, ſon of Phidon. DISCIPLE.You're mad methinks to kick up ſuch a riot;Battering the door, you've batter'd out my brainsJuſt in the very criſis of projection.(Comes from the houſe.) STREPSIADES.Excuſe my ignorance; I'm country-bred:But tell me what rare thought your brains were hatching. DISCIPLE.That were not lawful to reveal to ſtrangers. STREPSIADES.Speak boldly then as to a fellow ſtudent;For therefore am I come. DISCIPLE.Then I will ſpeak;But ſet it down amongſt our myſteries—[164]It is a queſtion put to ChaerephonBy our great maſter Socrates to anſwer—How many of his own lengths at one ſpringA flea can hop—for we did ſee one vaultFrom Chaerephon's black eyebrow to the headOf the philoſopher. STREPSIADES.And how did t'otherContrive to meaſure this? DISCIPLE.Moſt accurately:He dipt the inſect's feet in melted wax,Which, hardening into ſandals as it cool'd,Gave him the ſpace by rule infallible. STREPSIADES.O Jupiter, what ſubtilty of thought! DISCIPLE.But there's a greater queſtion yet behind—What wou'd you ſay to that? STREPSIADES.Tell it, I pray you. DISCIPLE.'Twas put to Socrates, if he could ſay,When a gnat humm'd, whether the ſound did iſſueFrom mouth or tail— STREPSIADES.Aye, marry, what ſaid he? DISCIPLE.[165]He ſaid your gnat doth blow his trumpet backwardsFrom a ſonorous cavity within him;Which, being fill'd with breath and forc'd alongThe narrow pipe, or rectum of his body,Doth vent itſelf in a loud hum behind. STREPSIADES.Hah! then I ſee the podex of your gnatIs trumpet faſhion'd—Oh! the bleſſings on himFor this diſcovery! well may he eſcapeThe law's ſtrict ſcrutiny, who thus developesTh' anatomy of a gnat. DISCIPLE.Nor is this all;Another great experiment was marr'dBy a curſt cat— STREPSIADES.As how, good ſir? diſcuſs. DISCIPLE.One night as he was gazing at the moon,Curious and all intent upon it's motions,A cat on the houſe-ridge was at her needs,And ſquirted in his face. STREPSIADES.Beſhrew her for it!Yet I muſt laugh no leſs. DISCIPLE.[166]Sir, you ſhall knowWe had no ſupper yeſternight— STREPSIADES.How ſo?What was your maſter doing? DISCIPLE.Sifting aſhesUpon the board, then with a little broach,Crook'd for the nonce, pretending to deſcribeA circle, neatly filch'd away a cloak. STREPSIADES.Why talk we then of Thales? Open to me,Open the ſchool and let me ſee your maſter:I am on fire to enter—Come, unbar!(The ſchool is open'd.)O Hercules, defend me! Who are theſe?What kind of cattle have we here in view? DISCIPLE.Where is the wonder? What do they reſemble? STREPSIADES.Methinks they're like our Spartan priſoners,Captur'd at Pylos. What are they in ſearch of?Why are their eyes ſo rooted in the ground? DISCIPLE.Their ſtudies lie that way. STREPSIADES.[167]Oh! 'tis for onionsThey are in queſt—Come, lads, give o'er your ſearch;I'll ſhew you what you want, a noble plat,All round and ſound—But ſoft! what mean thoſe gentry,Who dip their heads ſo low? DISCIPLE.Marry, becauſeTheir ſtudies lie ſo deep; they are now divingTo the dark realms of Tartarus and Night. STREPSIADES.And why are all their cruppers mounted up? DISCIPLE.To practiſe them in ſtar-gazing, and teach themTheir proper elevations—But no more:Come, fellow ſtudents, let us hence or e'erThe maſter comes— STREPSIADES.Nay, prythee let them ſtay,And be of council with me in my buſineſs. DISCIPLE.Impoſſible; they cannot give the time. STREPSIADES.[168]Now, for the love of Heaven, what have we here?Explain their uſes to me.(Obſerving the apparatus.) DISCIPLE.This machineIs for Aſtronomy— STREPSIADES.And this—? DISCIPLE.For Geometry. STREPSIADES.As how? DISCIPLE.For meaſuring the Earth. STREPSIADES.Indeed!What, by the lot? DISCIPLE.No, faith, ſir, by the lump;Ev'n the whole world at once STREPSIADES.Well ſaid, in troth!A quaint device, and made for general uſe. DISCIPLE.[169]Look now! this line marks the circumferenceOf the whole globe, d'ye ſee—This ſpot is Athens. STREPSIADES.Athens! Go to; I ſee no courts of law;Therefore I'll not believe you. DISCIPLE.Nay, in truth,This very ſpot is Attica. STREPSIADES.And where,Where is my own Cicynna? DISCIPLE.Here it lies;And this Euboea; mark how far it runs!— STREPSIADES.How far it runs! Yes, Pericles has made it [...] far enough from us: Where's Lacedaemon? DISCIPLE.Here, cloſe to Athens. STREPSIADES.Ah! how much too cloſe!Prythee, good friends, take that had neighbour from us. DISCIPLE.[170]That's not for us to do. STREPSIADES.Then woe betide you!But look! who's this ſuſpended in a baſket?(Socrates is diſcovered.) DISCIPLE.This, this is he. STREPSIADES.What he? DISCIPLE.Why Socrates. STREPSIADES.Hah! Socrates?—Make up to him and roar:Bid him come down: Roar luſtily! DISCIPLE.Not I;Do it yourſelf: I've other things to mind.(exit.) STREPSIADES.Hoa! Socrates—What hoa! my little Socrates! SOCRATES.Mortal, how now! Thou inſect of a day,What would'ſt thou? STREPSIADES.[171]I would know what thou art doing. SOCRATES.Treading the air; contemplating the ſun. STREPSIADES.Ah! then I ſee you're baſketed ſo high,That you look down upon the Gods; on EarthGood hope you'll lower a peg. SOCRATES.Sublime in air,Sublime in thought I carry my mind with me;It's cogitations all aſſimilatedTo the pure atmoſphere in which I float:Lower me to Earth, and my mind's ſubtle powers,Seiz'd by contagious dulneſs, loſe their ſpirit:For the dry Earth drinks up the generous ſap,The vegetating vigor of philoſophy,And leaves it a mere huſk. STREPSIADES.What do you ſay?Philoſophy has ſapt your vigor?—Fie upon it!But come, my precious fellow, come down quickly,And teach me thoſe fine things I'm here in queſt of. SOCRATES.And what fine things are they?(Socrates deſcends on the ſtage.) STREPSIADES.[172]A new receiptFor fending off my creditors, and foiling themBy the art logical; for you ſhall knowBy debts, pawns, pledges, uſuries, executionsI am rackt and rent in tatters. SOCRATES.Why permit it?What ſtrange infatuation ſeiz'd your ſenſes? STREPSIADES.The horſe-conſumption, a voracious plague:But ſo you'll enter me amongſt your ſcholars,And tutor me like them to bilk my creditors,Name your own price, and by the Gods I ſwearI'll pay you the laſt drachm. SOCRATES.By what Gods?Anſwer that firſt; for your Gods are not mine. STREPSIADES.How ſwear you then? as the Byzantians ſwear,By your baſe iron coin? SOCRATES.Will you have patience,Whilſt I expound to you the myſteriesOf theſe celeſtial matters? STREPSIADES.[173]Yea, by Jove,And ſo I will—but let them be celeſtial, SOCRATES.What, if I bring you to a conferenceWith my own proper Goddeſſes, the Clouds? STREPSIADES.By all means, and moſt welcome. SOCRATES.Come, ſit down;Sit down upon this dinner-couch. STREPSIADES.Tis done. SOCRATES.Now take this chaplet: Wear it! STREPSIADES.Why this chaplet?Would'ſt make of me another Athamas,And ſacrifice me to a Cloud? SOCRATES.Fear nothing;It is a ceremony indiſpenſibleAt all initiations. STREPSIADES.[174]What to gain? SOCRATES.'Twill ſift your faculties as fine as powder;Bolt 'em like meal, grind 'em as light as duſt:Only be patient. STREPSIADES.Marry, you'll go nearTo make your words good; an you pound me thus,You'll make me very duſt and nothing elſe. SOCRATES(anapaeſtic.)Keep ſilence then, and liſten to a prayer,Which fits the gravity of age to hear.Oh, air! all-powerful air! which doſt enfoldThis pendant globe; thou vault of flaming gold!Ye Clouds, in whoſe dark womb the thunders roll,Bright Clouds, inſpire and raiſe your ſuppliant's ſoul! STREPSIADES.Hold, keep them off awhile till I am ready:Ah! luckleſs me, wou'd I had brought my cloak,And ſo eſcap'd a ſoaking.— SOCRATES.Peace—Approach,Fly ſwift, ye Clouds, and give yourſelves to view!Whether on high Olympus ſacred topSnow-crown'd ye ſit, or in the azure vales[175]Of your own father Ocean ſporting weaveYour miſty dance, or dip your golden urnsIn the ſeven mouths of Nile; whether ye dwellOn Thracian Mimas, or Maeotis lake,Hear me, yet hear, and thus invok'd approach! (CHORUS of Clouds.)Come, ye bright Clouds, aſcend on high;Daughters of Ocean, climb the ſky!And o'er the mountain's pine-capt browTow'ring your ſleecy mantle throw:Thence we may ſcan the wide-ſtretcht ſcene,Groves, lawns and rilling ſtreams between,And ſtormy Neptune's vaſt expanſe,And graſp all Nature at a glance:Now the dark tempeſt flits away,And ſee! the glittering orb of dayDarts forth his clear aetherial beam;Come, let us ſnatch the joyous gleam. SOCRATES.Yes, ye Divinities, whom I adore,I hail you now propitious to my prayer!Did'ſt thou not hear them ſpeak in thunder to me? STREPSIADES.And I too, I'm your Cloudſhips moſt devoted,And under ſufferance trump againſt your thunder:Nay, take it how you may, my frights and fearsHave pincht and cholickt my poor bowels ſo,[176]That I can't chuſe but treat your holy noſtrilsWith an unſavory ſacrifice. SOCRATES.ForbearTheſe groſs ſcurrilities for low buffoonsAnd mountebanks more fitting—Huſh, be ſtill!Liſt to the Chorus of their heavenly voices,For muſic is the language they delight in. (CHORUS of Clouds.)Ye Clouds, replete with fruitful ſhowers,Here let us ſeek Minerva's towers,The cradle of old Cecrops race,The world's chief ornament and grace:Here myſtic fanes and rites divineAnd lamps in ſacred ſplendor ſhine;Here the Gods dwell in marble domes,And feaſt on coſtly hecatombs,That round their votive ſtatues blaze,Whilſt crowded temples ring with praiſe;And pompous ſacrifices hereMake holidays throughout the year;And when gay ſpring-time comes again,Bromius convokes his ſportive train,And pipe, and ſong and choral danceHail the ſoft hours as they advance. STREPSIADES.I prythee for the love of Heaven, good Socrates,[177]Who are theſe ranting queans, that talk in ſtilts?Dames of high quality no doubt.— SOCRATES.Not ſo:No dames, but Clouds celeſtial, friendly powersTo men of ſluggiſh parts; from theſe we drawSenſe, apprehenſion, volubility,To ſtrike, dilate, ſurprize and ſeize the ſoul. STREPSIADES.Aye, therefore 'twas that my heart leapt within meFor very ſympathy, when firſt I heard 'em.Now could I prattle ſhrewdly of firſt cauſes,And ſpin out metaphyſic cobwebs finely,And dogmatize moſt rarely, and diſputeAnd paradox it with the beſt of you;So, come what may, I muſt and will behold 'em:Shew me their faces I conjure you. SOCRATES.Look!Look where I point! there, there, towards mount Parnes:Now they deſcend the hill; I ſee them plainlyAs plain can be. STREPSIADES.Where, where? I prythee ſhew me! SOCRATES.Here! a whole troop of them, thro' woods and hollows,A bye-road of their own. STREPSIADES.[178]What ails my eyes,That I can't catch a glimpſe of them? SOCRATES.Behold!Here, at the very entrance. STREPSIADES.Never truſt me,If yet I ſee them clearly. SOCRATES.Then you muſt be.Sand-blind, or worſe. STREPSIADES.Nay, now by father Jove,I cannot chuſe but ſee them—precious creatures!For in good faith there's plenty and to ſpare. (Chorus enters). SOCRATES.And did you doubt if they were Goddeſſes? STREPSIADES.Not I, ſo help me! only I had a notionThat they were clouds and dew and darkſome vapors. SOCRATES.For ſhame! Why, man, theſe are the nurſing mothersOf all our famous ſophiſts, fortune-tellers,Quacks, medicine-mongers, fops of the firſt faſhion,[179]Ballet-projectors, ſingers in CapricioAnd wonder-making cheats—a gang of idlers,Who pay them for their feeding with good ſtoreOf flattery and mouth-worſhip. STREPSIADES.Now I ſeeWhom they may thank for driving them alongAt ſuch a furious pace, tricking them outIn many-colour'd dyes; now rouſing themIn ſtorms and hurricanes about our ears;Now ſwiftly wafting them adown the ſky,Moiſt, airy, bending, burſting into ſhowers:For all which fine deſcriptions the poor roguesDine daintily on ſcraps. SOCRATES.And well rewarded:What better do they merit? STREPSIADES.Under favour,If theſe be clouds, do you mark me? very clouds,How came they metamorphos'd into women?Clouds are not ſuch as theſe. SOCRATES.And what elſe are they? STREPSIADES.Troth, I can't rightly tell, but I ſhould gueſsSomething like flakes of wool; not women, ſure:And look! theſe dames have noſes. SOCRATES.[180]Hark ye, friend!I'll put a queſtion to you.— STREPSIADES.Out with it!Be quick; let's have it—Humph! SOCRATES.This then in ſhort:Have you ne'er ſeen a Cloud, which you could fancyShap'd like a centaur, leopard, bull or wolf? STREPSIADES.Yes, marry have I, and what then? SOCRATES.Why then,Clouds can aſſume what ſhapes they will, believe me:For inſtance, ſhould they ſpy ſome hairy clown,Rugged and rough, and like the unlickt cubOf Xenophantes, ſtrait they turn to centaurs,And kick at him for vengeance. STREPSIADES.Well done, Clouds!But ſhould they meet that peculating knaveSimon, that public thief—How would they treat him? SOCRATES.[181]As wolves—in character moſt like his own. STREPSIADES.Aye, there it is now, when they ſpied Cleonymus,That daſtard run-away, they turn'd to hindsIn honor of his cowardice. SOCRATES.And now,Having ſeen Cliſthenes, to mock his lewdneſs,They change themſelves to women. STREPSIADES.Welcome, Ladies! (to the Chorus).And now, ſo pleaſe your majeſties to indulge me,Give us a touch of your celeſtial voices.—’

N^o CXLII.

NICOLAS Pedroſa, a buſy little being, who followed the trades of ſhaver, ſur⯑geon and man-midwife in the town of Madrid, mounted his mule at the door of his ſhop in the [182] Plazuela de los Affligidos, and puſhed through the gate of San Bernardino, being called to a pa⯑tient in the neighbouring village of Foncarral, upon a preſſing occaſion. Every body knows that the ladies in Spain in certain caſes do not give long warning to practitioners of a certain deſcription, and no body knew it better than Nicolas, who was reſolved not to loſe an inch of his way, nor of his mule's beſt ſpeed by the way, if cudgelling could beat it out of her. It was plain to Nicolas's conviction as plain could be, that his road laid ſtrait forward to the little con⯑vent in front; the mule was of opinion, that the turning on the left down the hill towards the Prado was the road of all roads moſt familiar and agree⯑able to herſelf, and accordingly began to diſpute the point of topography with Nicolas by fixing her fore feet reſolutely in the ground, dipping her head at the ſame time between them, and launching heels and crupper furiouſly into the air, in the way of argument. Little Pedroſa, who was armed at heel with one maſſy ſilver ſpur of ſtout, though antient, workmanſhip, re⯑ſolutely applied the ruſty rowel to the ſhoulder of his beaſt, driving it with all the good will in the world to the very butt, and at the ſame time, adroitly tucking his blue cloth capa under his [183] right arm, and flinging the ſkirt over the left ſhoulder en cavalier, began to lay about him with a ſtout aſhen ſapling upon the ears, pole and cheeks of the recreant mule. The fire now flaſhed from a pair of Andaluſian eyes, as black as charcoal and not leſs inflammable, and taking the ſegara from his mouth, with which he had vainly hoped to have regaled his noſtrils in a ſharp winter's evening by the way, raiſed ſuch a thundering troop of angels, ſaints and martyrs, from St. Michael downwards, not forgetting his own nameſake Saint Nicolas de Tolentino by the way, that if curſes could have made the mule to go, the diſpute would have been ſoon ended, but not a ſaint could make her ſtir any other ways than upwards and downwards at a ſtand. A ſmall troop of mendicant friars were at this moment conducting the hoſt to a dying man.—‘"Nicolas Pedroſa,"’ ſays an old friar, ‘"be patient with your beaſt and ſpare your blaſphemies; re⯑member Balaam."—’ ‘"Ah father,"’ replied Pe⯑droſa, ‘"Balaam cudgelled his beaſt till ſhe ſpoke, ſo will I mine till ſhe roars."—’ ‘"Fie, fie, pro⯑phane fellow,"’ cries another of the fraternity. ‘"Go about your work, friend,"’ quoth Nicolas, ‘"and let me go about mine; I warrant it is the more preſſing of the two; your patient is [184] going out of the world, mine is coming into it."—’ ‘"Hear him,"’ cries a third, ‘"hear the vile wretch, how he blaſphemes the body of God."’—And then the troop paſſed ſlowly on to the tinkling of the bell.

A man muſt know nothing of a mule's ears, who does not know what a paſſion they have for the tinkling of a bell, and no ſooner had the jing⯑ling chords vibrated in the ſympathetic organs of Pedroſa's beaſt, than boulting forward with a ſudden ſpring ſhe ran roaring into the throng of friars, trampling on ſome and ſhouldering others at a moſt profane rate; when Nicolas availing himſelf of the impetus, and perhaps not able to controul it, broke away and was out of ſight in a moment. ‘"All the devils in hell blow fire into thy tail, thou beaſt of Baby⯑lon,"’ muttered Nicolas to himſelf, as he ſcampered along, never once looking behind him or ſtopping to apologize for the miſchief he had done to the bare feet and ſhirtleſs ribs of the holy brotherhood.

Whether Nicolas ſaved his diſtance, as like⯑wiſe, if he did, whether it was a male or female Caſtilian he uſhered into the world, we ſhall not juſt now enquire, contented to await his return in the firſt of the morning next day, when he had no [185] ſooner diſmounted at his ſhop and delivered his mule to a ſturdy Arragoneſe wench, when Don Ignacio de Santos Aparicio, alguazil mayor of the ſupreme and general inquiſition, put an order into his hand, ſigned and ſealed by the inquiſidor general, for the conveyance of his body to the Caſa, whoſe formidable door preſents itſelf in the ſtreet adjoining to the ſquare, in which Nicolas's brazen baſin hung forth the emblem of his trade.

The poor little fellow, trembling in every joint and with a face as yellow as ſaffron, dropt a knee to the altar, which fronts the entrance, and croſſed himſelf moſt devoutly; as ſoon as he had aſcended the firſt flight of ſtairs, a porter habited in black opened the tremendous barricade and Nicolas with horror heard the grating of the heavy bolts that ſhut him in. He was led through paſſages and vaults and melancholy cells, till he was delivered into the dungeon, where he was finally left to his ſolitary meditations. Hap⯑leſs being! what a ſcene of horror.—Nicolas felt all the terrors of his condition, but being an An⯑daluſian and like his countrymen of a lively ima⯑gination, he began to turn over all the reſources of his invention for ſome happy fetch, if any ſuch might occur, for helping him out of the diſmal [186] limbo he was in: He was not long to ſeek for the cauſe of his misfortune; his adventure with the barefooted friars was a ready ſolution of all difficulties of that nature, had there been any: There was however another thing, which might have troubled a ſtouter heart than Nicolas's—He was a Jew.—This of a certain would have been a ſtaggering item in a poor devil's confeſſion, but then it was a ſecret to all the world but Ni⯑colas, and Nicolas's conſcience did not juſt then urge him to reveal it: He now began to over⯑haul the inventory of his perſonals about him, and with ſome ſatisfaction counted three little medals of the bleſſed virgin, two Agnus Deis, a Saint Nicolas de Tolentino and a formidable ſtring of beads all pendant from his neck and within his ſhirt; in his pockets he had had a paper of dried figs, a ſmall bundle of ſegaras, a caſe of lancets, ſquirt and forceps, and two old razors in a leathern envelope; theſe he had delivered one by one to the alguazil, who firſt arreſted him,—‘"and let him make the moſt of them,"’ ſaid he to himſelf, ‘"they can never prove me an Iſraelite by a caſe of razors."’—Upon a cloſer rummage however he diſcovered in a ſecret pocket a letter, which the alguazil had over⯑looked, and which his patient Donna Leonora de [187] Caſafonda had given him in charge to deliver as directed—‘"Well, well,"’ cried he, ‘"let it paſs; there can be no myſtery in this harmleſs ſcrawl; a letter of advice to ſome friend or relation, I'll not break the ſeal; let the fathers read it, if they like, 'twill prove the truth of my depoſition, and help out my excuſe for the hurry of my errand, and the unfortunate ad⯑venture of my damned refractory mule."’—And now no ſooner had the recollection of the wayward mule croſſed the brain of poor Nicolas Pedroſa, than he began to blaſt her at a furious rate—‘"The ſcratches and the ſcab to boot con⯑found thy ſcurvy hide,"’ quoth he, ‘"thou aſs-begotten baſtard, whom Noah never let into his ark! The vengeance take thee for an uncreated barren beaſt of promiſcuous gene⯑ration! What devil's crotch [...]t got into thy capricious noddle, that thou ſhouldſt fall in love with that Nazaritiſh bell, and run bellow⯑ing like Lucifer into the midſt of thoſe bare⯑footed vermin, who are more malicious and more greedy than the locuſts of Egypt? Oh! that I had the art of Simon Magus to conjure thee into this dungeon in my ſtead; but I warrant thou art chewing thy barley ſtraw without any pity for thy wretched maſter, [188] whom thy jade's tricks have delivered bodily to the tormentors, to be ſport of theſe uncir⯑cumciſed ſons of Dagon."’ And now the cell door opened, when a ſavage figure entered carry⯑ing a huge parcel of clanking fetters, with a collar of iron, which he put round the neck of poor Pedroſa, telling him with a truly diabolic grin, whilſt he was rivetting it on, that it was a proper cravat for the throat of a blaſphemer.—‘"Jeſu-Maria,"’ quoth Pedroſa, ‘"is all this fallen upon me for only cudgelling a reſtive mule?"’ ‘"Aye,"’ cried the demon, ‘"and this is only a taſte of what is to come,"’ at the ſame time ſlipping his pincers from the ſcrew he was forcing to the head, he caught a piece of fleſh in the forceps and wrenched it out of his cheek, laughing at poor Nicolas, whilſt he roared aloud with the pain, telling him it was a juſt reward for the torture he had put him to awhile ago, when he tugged at a tooth, till he broke it in his jaw. ‘"Ah, for the love of Heaven,"’ cried Pe⯑droſa, ‘"have more pity on me; for the ſake of Saint Nicolas de Tolentino, my holy patron, be not ſo unmerciful to a poor barber-ſurgeon, and I will ſhave your worſhip's beard for no⯑thing as long as I have life"’ One of the meſſengers of the auditory now came in, and [189] bade the fellow ſtrike off the priſoner's fetters, for that the holy fathers were in council and demanded him for examination. ‘"This is ſome⯑thing extraordinary,"’ quoth the tormentor, ‘"I ſhould not have expected it this twelvemonth to come."’ Pedroſa's fetters were ſtruck off; ſome brandy was applied to ſtaunch the bleeding of his cheeks; his hands and face were waſhed, and a ſhort jacket of coarſe ticking thrown over him, and the meſſenger with an aſſiſtant taking him each under an arm led him into a ſpacious chamber, where at the head of a long table ſate his excellency the inquiſidor general with ſix of his aſſeſſors, three on each ſide the chair of ſtate: The alguazil mayor, a ſecretary and two notaries with other officers of the holy council were attending in their places.

The priſoner was placed behind a bar at the foot of the table between the meſſengers, who brought him in, and having made his obeiſance to the awful preſence in the moſt ſupplicating manner, he was called upon according to the uſual form of queſtions by one of the junior judges to declare his name, parentage, profeſſion, age, place of abode, and to anſwer various in⯑terrogatories of the like trifling nature: His excellency the inquiſidor general now opened [190] his reverend lips, and in a ſolemn tone of voice, that penetrated to the heart of the poor trembling priſoner, interrogated him as follows—

‘"Nicolas Pedroſa, we have liſtened to the account you give of yourſelf, your buſineſs and connections, now tell us for what offence, or offences, you are here ſtanding a priſoner before us: Examine your own heart, and ſpeak the truth from your conſcience without prevarication or diſguiſe."’ ‘"May it pleaſe your excellency,"’ replied Pedroſa, ‘"with all due ſubmiſſion to your holineſs and this reve⯑rend aſſembly, my moſt equitable judges, I conceive I ſtand here before you for no worſe a crime, than that of cudgelling a refractory mule; an animal ſo reſtive in its nature, (un⯑der correction of your holineſs be it ſpoken) that although I were bleſt with the forbearance of holy Job, (for like him too I am married and my patience hath been exerciſed by a wife) yet could I not forbear to ſmite my beaſt for her obſtinacy, and the rather becauſe I was ſummoned in the way of my profeſſion, as I have already made known to your moſt mer⯑ciful ears, upon a certain crying occaſion, which would not admit of a moment's de⯑lay."’

[191] ‘"Recollect yourſelf, Nicolas,"’ ſaid his Ex⯑cellency the inquiſidor general, ‘"was there nothing elſe you did, ſave ſmiting your beaſt?"’

‘"I take ſaint Nicolas de Tolentino to wit⯑neſs,"’ replied he, ‘"that I know of no other crime, for which I can be reſponſible at this righteous tribunal, ſave ſmiting my unruly beaſt."’

‘"Take notice, brethren,"’ exclaimed the inquiſidor, ‘"this unholy wretch holds trampling over friars to be no crime."’

‘"Pardon me, holy father,"’ replied Nicolas, ‘"I hold it for the worſt of crimes, and there⯑fore willingly ſurrender my refractory mule to be dealt with as you ſee fit, and if you impale her alive it will not be more than ſhe de⯑ſerves."’

‘"Your wits are too nimble, Nicolas,"’ cried the judge; ‘"have a care they do not run away with your diſcretion: Recollect the blaſphe⯑mies you uttered in the hearing of thoſe pious people."’

‘"I humbly pray your excellency,"’ anſwered the priſoner, ‘"to recollect that anger is a ſhort madneſs, and I hope allowances will be made by your holy council for words ſpoke [192] in haſte to a rebellious mule: The prophet Balaam was thrown off his guard with a ſimple aſs, and what is an aſs compared to a mule? If your excellency had ſeen the lovely crea⯑ture that was ſcreaming in agony till I came to her relief, and how fine a boy I uſhered into the world, which would have been loſt but for my aſſiſtance, I am ſure I ſhould not be condemned for a few haſty words ſpoke in paſſion."’

‘"Sirrah!"’ cried one of the puiſny judges, ‘"reſpect the decency of the court."’

‘"Produce the contents of this fellow's poc⯑kets before the court,"’ ſaid the preſident, ‘"lay them on the table."’

‘"Monſter,"’ reſumed the aforeſaid puiſny judge taking up the forceps, ‘"what is the uſe of this diabolical machine?"’

‘"Pleaſe your reverence,"’ replied Pedroſa, ‘"aptum eſt ad extrahendos foetus."—’ ‘"Unnatural wretch,"’ again exclaimed the judge, ‘"you have murdered the mother."’

‘"The Mother of God forbid,"’ exclaimed Pedroſa, ‘"I believe I have a proof in my pocket, that will acquit me of that charge;"’ and ſo ſaying, he tendered the letter we have be⯑fore [193] made mention of: The ſecretary took it, and by command of the court read as follows:

‘"Hold,"’ cried the inquiſidor general, ſtart⯑ing haſtily from his ſeat, and ſnatching away the letter, ‘"there is more in this than meets the eye: Break up the court; I muſt take an examina⯑tion of this priſoner in private."’

N^o CXLIII.

AS ſoon as the room was cleared the inquiſi⯑dor general beckoning to the priſoner to follow him, retired into a private cloſet, where throwing himſelf careleſsly into an arm chair, he turned a gracious countenance upon the poor affrighted accoucheur, and bidding him ſit down [194] upon a low ſtool by his ſide, thus accoſted him:—‘"Take heart, ſenor Pedroſa, your impriſonment is not likely to be very tedious, for I have a commiſſion you muſt execute without loſs of time: you have too much conſideration for yourſelf to betray a truſt, the violation of which muſt involve you in inevitable ruin, and can in no degree attaint my character, which is far enough beyond the reach of ma⯑lice: Be attentive therefore to my orders; execute them punctually and keep my ſecret as you tender your own life: Doſt thou know the name and condition of the lady, whom thou haſt delivered?"’ Nicolas aſſured him he did not, and his excellency proceeded as fol⯑lows—‘"Then I tell thee, Nicolas, it is the illuſtrious Donna Leonora de Caſafonda; her huſband is the preſident of Quito and daily expected with the next arrivals from the South Seas; now, though meaſures have been taken for detaining him at the port, wherever he ſhall land, till he ſhall receive further or⯑ders, yet you muſt be ſenſible Donna Leo⯑nora's ſituation is ſomewhat delicate: It will be your buſineſs to take the ſpeedieſt meaſures for her recovery, but as it ſeems ſhe has had a dangerous and painful labour, this may be a [195] work of more time than could be wiſhed, un⯑leſs ſome medicines more efficacious than common are adminiſtered: Art thou acquaint⯑ed with any ſuch, friend Nicolas?"’—‘"So pleaſe your excellency,"’ quoth Nicolas, my ‘"proceſſes have been tolerably ſucceſsful; I have bandages and cataplaſms with oils and conſerves, that I have no cauſe to complain of; they will reſtore nature to it's proper ſtate in all decent time."—’ ‘"Thou talkeſt like a fool, friend Nicolas,"’ interrupting him, ſaid the inquiſidor; ‘"What telleſt thou me of thy ſwathings and ſwadlings? quick work muſt be wrought by quick medicines: Haſt thou none ſuch in thy botica? I'll an⯑ſwer for it thou haſt not; therefore look you, ſirrah, here is a little vial compounded by a famous chymiſt; ſee that you mix it in the next apozem you adminiſter to Donna Leo⯑nora; it is the moſt capital ſedative in nature; give her the whole of it, and let her huſband return when he will, depend upon it he will make no diſcoveries from her."—’ ‘"Humph!"’ quoth Nicolas within himſelf, ‘"Well ſaid, inquiſidor!"’ He took the vial with all poſſible reſpect, and was not wanting in profeſſions of the moſt inviolable fidelity and ſecrecy—‘"No [196] more words, friend Nicolas,"’ quoth the in⯑quiſidor, ‘"upon that ſcore; I do not believe thee one jot the more for all thy promiſes, my dependance is upon thy fears and not thy faith; I fancy thou haſt ſeen enough of this place not to be willing to return to it once for all."’—Having ſo ſaid, he rang a bell, and ordered Nicolas to be forthwith liberated, bid⯑ding the meſſenger return his clothes inſtantly to him with all that belonged to him, and hav⯑ing ſlipt a purſe into his hand well filled with doubloons, he bade him be gone about his buſi⯑neſs and not ſee his face again till he had exe⯑cuted his commands.

Nicolas boulted out of the porch without taking leave of the altar, and never checked his ſpeed till he found himſelf fairly houſed under ſhelter of his own beloved braſs baſin.—‘"Aha!"’ quoth Nicolas, ‘"my lord inquiſidor, I ſee the king is not likely to gain a ſubject more by your intrigues: A pretty job you have ſet me about; and ſo, when I have put the poor lady to reſt with your damned ſedative, my tongue muſt be ſtopt next to prevent its blabbing: But I'll ſhew you I was not born in Andaluſia for nothing."’ Nicolas now opened a ſecret drawer and took out a few pieces [197] of money, which in fact was his whole ſtock of caſh in the world; he loaded and primed his piſtols and carefully lodged them in the houſers of his ſaddle, he buckled to his ſide his truſty ſpada, and haſtened to capariſon his mule. ‘"Ah, thou imp of the old one,"’ quoth he as he entered the ſtable, ‘"art not aſhamed to look me in the face? But come, huſſey, thou oweſt me a good turn methinks, ſtand by me this once, and be friends for ever! thou art in good caſe, and if thou wilt put thy beſt foot foremoſt, like a faithful beaſt, thou ſhalt not want for barley by the way."’ The bargain was ſoon ſtruck between Nicolas and his mule, he mounted her in the happy moment and point⯑ing his courſe towards the bridge of Toledo, which proudly ſtrides with half a dozen lofty arches over a ſtream ſcarce three feet wide, he found himſelf as completely in a deſart in half a mile's riding, as if he had been dropt in the center of Arabia petraea. As Nicolas's journey was not a tour of curioſity, he did not amuſe himſelf with a peep at Toledo, or Talavera, or even Merida by the way; for the ſame reaſon he took a circumbendibus round the frontier town of Badajoz, and croſſing a little brook refreſhed his mule with the laſt draught of Spaniſh water, and [198] inſtantly congratulated himſelf upon entering the territory of Portugal. ‘"Brava!"’ quoth he, patting the neck of his mule, ‘"thou ſhalt have a ſupper this night of the beſt ſieve-meat that Eſtremadura can furniſh: We are now in a country where the ſcattered flock of Iſrael fold thick and fare well."’ He now began to chaunt the ſong of Solomon, and gently ambled on in the joy of his heart.

When Nicolas at length reached the city of Liſbon, he hugged himſelf in his good fortune; ſtill he recollected that the inquiſition has long arms, and he was yet in a place of no perfect ſecurity. Our adventurer had in early life acted as aſſiſtant ſurgeon in a Spaniſh frigate bound to Buenos Ayres, and being captured by a Britiſh man of war and carried into Jamaica, had very quietly paſſed ſome years in that place as jour⯑neyman apothecary, in which time he had ac⯑quired a tolerable acquaintance with the Engliſh language: No ſooner then did he diſcover the Britiſh enſign flying on the poop of an Engliſh frigate then lying in the Tagus, than he eagerly caught the opportunity of paying a viſit to the ſurgeon, and finding he was in want of a mate, offered himſelf and was entered in that capacity for a cruize againſt the French and Spaniards, [199] with whom Great Britain was then at war. In this ſecure aſylum Nicolas enjoyed the firſt happy moments he had experienced for a long time paſt, and being a lively good-humoured little fellow, and one that touched the guitar and ſung ſequidillas with a tolerable grace, he ſoon re⯑commended himſelf to his ſhip-mates and grew in favour with every body on board from the cap⯑tain to the cook's mate.

When they were out upon their cruize hover⯑ing on the Spaniſh coaſt, it occurred to Nicolas that the inquiſidor general at Madrid had told him of the expected arrival of the preſident of Quito, and having imparted this to one of the lieutenants, he reported it to the captain, and, as the intelligence ſeemed of importance, he availed himſelf of it by hawling into the track of the homeward-bound galleons, and great was the joy, when at the break of the morning the man at the maſt-head announced a ſquare-rigged veſſel in view: The ardor of a chace now ſet all hands at work, and a few hours brought them near enough to diſcern that ſhe was a Spaniſh frigate and ſeemingly from a long voyage: Little Pedroſa, as alert as the reſt, ſtript himſelf for his work and repaired to his poſt in the cock-pit, whilſt the thunder of the guns rolled inceſſantly [200] overhead; three cheers from the whole crew at length announced the moment of victory, and a few more minutes aſcertained the good news that the prize was a frigate richly laden from the South Seas with the governor of Quito and his ſuite on board.

Pedroſa was now called upon deck and ſent on board the prize as interpreter to the firſt lieutenant, who was to take poſſeſſion of her. He found every thing in confuſion, a deck covered with the ſlain and the whole crew in conſternation at an event they were in no de⯑gree prepared for, not having received any inti⯑mation of a war. He found the officers in general and the paſſengers without exception under the moſt horrid impreſſions of the Engliſh, and expecting to be plundered and perhaps but⯑chered without mercy. Don Manuel de Caſa⯑fonda the governor, whoſe countenance beſpoke a conſtitution far gone in a decline, had thrown himſelf on a ſopha in the laſt ſtate of deſpair and given way to an effuſion of tears; when the lieutenant entered the cabin he roſe trembling from his couch and with the moſt ſupplicating action preſented to him his ſword, and with it a caſket which he carried in his other hand; as he tendered theſe ſpoils to his conqueror, whether [201] through weakneſs or of his own will, he made a motion of bending his knee; the generous Bri⯑ton, ſhocked at the unmanly overture, caught him ſuddenly with both hands, and turning to Pedroſa, ſaid aloud—‘"Convince this gentleman he is fall⯑en into the hands of an honourable enemy."—’ ‘"Is it poſſible!"’ cried Don Manuel, and lifting up his ſtreaming eyes to the countenance of the Britiſh officer, ſaw humanity, valour and gene⯑rous pity ſo ſtrongly charactered in his youthful features, that the conviction was irreſiſtible. ‘"Will he not accept my ſword,"’ cried the Spaniard? ‘"He deſires you to wear it, till he has the honour of preſenting you to his cap⯑tain."—’ ‘"Ah then he has a captain,"’ ex⯑claimed Don Manuel, ‘"his ſuperior will be of another way of thinking; tell him this caſket contains my jewels; they are valuable; let him preſent them as a lawful prize, which will enrich the captor; his ſuperior will not heſitate to take them from me."—’ ‘"If they are your excellency's private property,"’ re⯑plied Pedroſa, ‘"I am ordered to aſſure you, that if your ſhip was loaded with jewels, no Britiſh officer in the ſervice of his king will take them at your hands; the ſhip and effects of his Catholic Majeſty are the only [202] prize of the captors; the perſonals of the paſſengers are inviolate."—’ ‘"Generous na⯑tion!"’ exclaimed Don Manuel, ‘"how greatly have I wronged thee!"’—The boats of the Britiſh frigate now came alongſide and part of the crew were ſhifted out of the prize, taking their clothes and trunks along with them, in which they were very cordially aſſiſted by their conquerors. The barge ſoon after came aboard with an officer in the ſtern-ſheets, and the crew in their white ſhirts and velvet caps, to eſcort the governor and the ſhip's captain on board the frigate, which lay with her ſails to the maſt awaiting their arrival; the accommodation ladder was ſlung over the ſide and manned for the priſon⯑ers, who were received on the gang-way by the ſecond lieutenant, whilſt perfect ſilence and the ſtricteſt diſcipline reigned in the ſhip, where all were under the decks and no inquiſitive curious eyes were ſuffered to wound the feelings of the conquered even with a glance; in the door of his cabin ſtood the captain, who received them with that modeſt complaiſance, which does not revolt the unfortunate by an overſtrained polite⯑neſs; he was a man of high birth and elegant manners with a heart as benevolent as it was brave: Such an addreſs ſet off with a perſon [203] finely formed and perfectly engaging could not fail to impreſs the priſoners with the moſt fa⯑vourable ideas, and as Don Manuel ſpoke French fluently, he could converſe with the Britiſh captain without the help of an inter⯑preter: As he expreſſed an impatient deſire of being admitted to his parole, that he might re⯑viſit friends and connections, from which he had been long ſeparated, he was overjoyed to hear that the Engliſh ſhip would carry her prize into Liſbon; and that he would there be ſet on ſhore and permitted to make the beſt of his way from thence to Madrid; he talked of his wife with all the ardor of the moſt impaſſioned lover, and apologized for his tears by imputing them to the agony of his mind and the infirmity of his health under the dread of being longer ſeparated from an object ſo dear to his heart and on whom he doated with the fondeſt affection. The ge⯑nerous captor indulged him in theſe converſa⯑tions, and, being a huſband himſelf, knew how to allow for all the tenderneſs of his ſenſations. ‘"Ah, ſir,"’ cried Don Manuel, ‘"would to Hea⯑ven it were in my power to have the honour of preſenting my beloved Leonora to you on our landing at Liſbon—Perhaps,"’ added he, turning to Pedroſa, who at that moment entered [204] the cabin, ‘"this gentleman, whom I take to be a Spaniard, may have heard the name of Donna Leonora de Caſafonda; if he has been at Madrid, it is poſſible he may have ſeen her; ſhould that be the caſe he can teſtify to her external charms; I alone can witneſs to the exquiſite perfection of her mind."—’ ‘"Senor Don Manuel,"’ replied Pedroſa, ‘"I have ſeen Donna Leonora, and your excellency is war⯑ranted in all you can ſay in her praiſe; ſhe is of incomparable beauty."’ Theſe words threw the uxorious Spaniard into raptures; his eyes ſparkled with delight; the blood ruſhed into his emaciated cheeks and every feature glowed with unutterable joy: He preſſed Pedroſa with a va⯑riety of rapid enquiries, all which he evaded by pleading ignorance, ſaying that he had only had a caſual glance of her, as ſhe paſſed along the Pardo. The embaraſſment however which ac⯑companied theſe anſwers did not eſcape the Engliſh captain, who ſhortly after drawing Pe⯑droſa aſide into the ſurgeon's cabin, was by him made acquainted with the melancholy ſituation of that unfortunate lady, and every particular of the ſtory as before related; nay the very vial was produced with it's contents, as put into the hands of Pedroſa by the inquiſidor.

N^o CXLIV.

‘"CAN there be ſuch villainy in man?"’ cried the Britiſh captain, when Pe⯑droſa had concluded his detail; ‘"Alas! my heart bleeds for this unhappy huſband: aſſuredly that monſter has deſtroyed Leonora; as for thee, Pedroſa, whilſt the Britiſh flag flies over thy head, neither Spain, nor Portugal, nor Inqui⯑ſitors, nor Devils ſhall annoy thee under it's protection; but if thou ever ventureſt over the ſide of this ſhip and raſhly ſetteſt one foot upon Catholic ſoil, when we arrive at Liſbon, thou art a loſt man."—’ ‘"I were worſe than a madman,"’ replied Nicolas, ‘"ſhould I attempt it."—’ ‘"Keep cloſe in this aſylum then,"’ re⯑ſumed the captain, ‘"and fear nothing: Had it been our fate to have been captured by the Spaniard, what would have become of thee?"—’ ‘"In the worſt of extremities,"’ replied Nicolas, ‘"I ſhould have applied to the inquiſidor's vial; but I confeſs I had no fears of that ſort; a ſhip ſo commanded and ſo manned is in little danger of being carried into a Spaniſh port."—’ ‘"I hope not,"’ ſaid the captain, ‘"and I pro⯑miſe thee thou ſhalt take thy chance in her, [206] ſo long as ſhe is afloat under my command, and if we live to conduct her to England, thou ſhalt have thy proper ſhare of prize money, which, if the galleon breaks up according to her entries, will be ſomething towards ena⯑bling thee to ſhift, and if thou art as diligent in thy duty, as I am perſuaded thou wilt be, whilſt I live thou ſhalt never want a ſeaman's friend."’—At theſe chearing words, little Ni⯑colas threw himſelf at the feet of his generous preſerver, and with ſtreaming eyes poured out his thanks from a heart animated with joy and gratitude.—The captain raiſing him by the hand forbade him as he prized his friendſhip ever to addreſs him in that poſture any more; ‘"Thank me, if you will,"’ added he, ‘"but thank me as one man ſhould another; let no knees bend in this ſhip but to the name of God.—But now,"’ continued he, ‘"let us turn our thoughts to the ſituation of our unhappy Ca⯑ſafonda; we are now drawing near to Liſbon, where he will look to be liberated on his pa⯑role."—’ ‘"By no means let him venture into Spain,"’ ſaid Pedroſa; ‘"I am well aſſured there are orders to arreſt him in every port or frontier town, where he may preſent him⯑ſelf."—’ ‘"I can well believe it,"’ replied the [207] captain; ‘"his piteous caſe will require further deliberation; in the mean time let nothing tranſpire on your part and keep yourſelf out of his ſight as carefully as you can."’—This ſaid, the captain left the cabin, and both parties re⯑paired to their ſeveral occupations.

As ſoon as the frigate and her prize caſt an⯑chor in the Tagus, Don Manuel de Caſafonda impatiently reminded our captain of his promiſed parole. The painful moment was now come when an explanation of ſome ſort became una⯑voidable: The generous Engliſhman with a countenance expreſſive of the tendereſt pity, took the Spaniard's hand in his and ſeating him on a couch beſide him, ordered the centinel to keep the cabin private, and delivered himſelf as fol⯑lows—

‘"Senor Don Manuel, I muſt now impart to you an anxiety which I labour under on your account; I have ſtrong reaſon to ſuſpect you have enemies in your own country, who are upon the watch to arreſt you on your landing; when I have told you this, I expect you will repoſe ſuch truſt in my honour and the ſincerity of my regard for you, as not to demand a fur⯑ther explanation of the particulars, on which my intelligence is founded."—’ ‘"Heaven and [208] Earth,"’ cried the aſtoniſhed Spaniard, ‘"who can be thoſe enemies I have to fear, and what can I have done to deſerve them?"—’ ‘"So far I will open myſelf to you,"’ anſwered the cap⯑tain, ‘"as to point out the principal to you, the inquiſidor general."—’ ‘"The beſt friend I have in Spain,"’ exclaimed the governor, ‘"my ſworn protector, the patron of my fortune: He my enemy! impoſſible."—’ ‘"Well, Sir,"’ replied the captain, ‘"if my advice does not meet belief, I muſt ſo far exert my authority for your ſake, as to make this ſhip your pri⯑ſon, till I have waited on our miniſter at Liſbon and made the enquiries neceſſary for your ſafety; ſuſpend your judgment upon the ſeeming harſhneſs of this meaſure till I return to you again;"’ and at the ſame time riſing from his ſeat, he gave orders for the barge, and leaving ſtrict injunctions with the firſt lieute⯑nant not to allow of the governor's quitting the frigate, he put off for the ſhore and left the me⯑lancholy Spaniard buried in profound and ſilent meditation.

The emiſſaries of the Inquiſition having at laſt traced Pedroſa to Liſbon, and there gained intelligence of his having entered on board the frigate, our captain had no ſooner turned into [209] the porch of the hotel at Buenos-Ayres, than he was accoſted by a meſſenger of ſtate with a re⯑quiſition from the prime miniſter's office for the ſurrender of one Nicolas Pedroſa, a ſubject of Spain and a criminal, who had eſcaped out of the priſon of the Inquiſition in Madrid, where he ſtood charged of high crimes and miſdemeanors.—As ſoon as this requiſition was explained to our worthy captain, without condeſcending to a word in reply he called for pen and ink, and writing a ſhort order to the officer commanding on board, inſtantly diſpatched the midſhipman, who at⯑tended him, to the barge with directions to make the beſt of his way back to the frigate and deliver it to the lieutenant: Then turning to the meſſenger, he ſaid to him in a reſolute tone—‘"That Spaniard is now borne on my books, and before you ſhall take him out of the ſervice of my King, you muſt ſink his ſhip."’—Not waiting for a reply, he immediately proceeded without ſtop to the houſe of the Britiſh Miniſter at the further end of the city: Here he found Pedroſa's intelligence with regard to the Gover⯑nor of Quito expreſsly verified, for the order had come down even to Liſbon upon the chance of the Spaniſh frigate's taking ſhelter in that port: To this Miniſter he related the horrid tale, which [210] Pedroſa had delivered to him, and with his con⯑currence it was determined to forward letters into Spain, which Don Manuel ſhould be ad⯑viſed to write to his lady and friends at Madrid, and to wait their anſwer before any further diſ⯑coveries were imparted to him reſpecting the blacker circumſtances of the caſe: In the mean time it was reſolved to keep the priſoner ſafe in his aſylum.

The generous Captain loſt no time in return⯑ing to his frigate, where he immediately im⯑parted to Don Manuel the intelligence he had obtained at the Britiſh Miniſter's—‘"This in⯑deed,"’ cried the afflicted Spaniard, ‘"is a ſtroke I was in no reſpect prepared for; I had fondly perſuaded myſelf there was not in the whole em⯑pire of Spain a more friendly heart than that of the Inquiſidor's; to my beloved Leonora he had ever ſhewn the tenderneſs of a paternal affec⯑tion from her very childhood; by him our hands were joined; his lips pronounced the nuptial benediction, and through his favour I was promoted to my government: Grant, Hea⯑ven, no misfortune hath befallen my Leonora! ſurely ſhe cannot have offended him and for⯑feited his favour."—’ ‘"As I know him not,"’ replied the Captain, ‘"I can form no judg⯑ment [211] of his motives; but this I know, that if a man's heart is capable of cruelty, the fitteſt ſchool to learn it in, muſt be the Inquiſition."’ The propoſal was now ſuggeſted of ſending let⯑ters into Spain, and the Governor retired to his deſk for the purpoſe of writing them; in the af⯑ternoon of the ſame day the Miniſter paid a viſit to the Captain, and receiving a packet from the hands of Don Manuel, promiſed to get it for⯑warded by a ſafe conveyance according to di⯑rection.

In due courſe of time this fatal letter from Leonora opened all the horrible tranſaction to the wretched huſband:—

The guilty hand of an expiring wife, under the ago⯑nizing operation of a mortal poiſon, traces theſe few trembling lines to an injured wretched huſband. If thou haſt any pity for my parting ſpirit fly the ruin that awaits thee and avoid this ſcene of villainy and horror. When I tell thee I have borne a child to the monſter, whoſe poiſon runs in my veins, thou wilt abhor thy faithleſs Leonora; had I ſtrength to re⯑late to thee the ſubtle machinations, which betrayed me to diſgrace, thou wouldſt pity and perhaps for⯑give me. Oh agony! can I write his name?—The Inquiſidor is my murderer—My pen falls from my hand—Farewell for ever.

[212]Had a ſhot paſſed through the heart of Don Manuel, it could not more effectually have ſtopt its motions, than the peruſal of this fatal writing: He dropped lifeleſs on the couch, and but for the care and aſſiſtance of the Captain and Pedroſa in that poſture he had probably expired. Grief like his will not be deſcribed by words, for to words it gave no utterance; 'twas ſuffocating, ſilent woe.

Let us drop the curtain over this melancholy pauſe in our narration, and attend upon the mournful widower now landing upon Engliſh ground, and conveyed by his humane and gene⯑rous preſerver to the houſe of a noble Earl, the father of our amiable Captain and a man by his virtues ſtill more conſpicuous than by his rank. Here amidſt the gentle ſolicitudes of a benevo⯑lent family, in one of the moſt enchanting ſpots on earth, in a climate moſt ſalubrious and reſto⯑rative to a conſtitution exhauſted by heat and a heart near broken with ſorrow, the reviving ſpirits of the unfortunate Don Manuel gave the firſt ſymptoms of a poſſible recovery. At the period of a few tranquillizing weeks here paſſed in the boſom of humanity, letters came to hand from the Britiſh Miniſter at Liſbon, in anſwer to a memorial, that I ſhould have ſtated to have [213] been drawn up by the friendly Captain before his departure from that port, with a detail of facts depoſed and ſworn to by Nicolas Pedroſa, which memorial with the documents attached to it was forwarded to the Spaniſh Court by ſpecial expreſs from the Portugueſe premier. By theſe letters it appeared that the high dignity of the perſon impeached by this ſtatement of facts had not been ſufficient to ſcreen him from a very ſe⯑rious and complete inveſtigation; in the courſe of which facts had been ſo clearly brought home to him by the confeſſion of his ſeveral agents, and the teſtimony of the deceaſed Leonora's attendants together with her own written decla⯑rations, whilſt the poiſon was in operation, that though no public ſentence had been executed upon the criminal, it was generally underſtood he was either no longer in exiſtence, or in a ſitu⯑ation never to be heard of any more, till rouſed by the awakening trump he ſhall be ſummoned to his tremendous laſt account. As for the un⯑happy widower it was fully ſignified to him from authority, that his return to Spain, whether upon exchange or parole, would be no longer oppoſed, nor had he any thing to apprehend on the part of government, when he ſhould there arrive. The [214] ſame was ſignified in fewer words to the excul⯑pated Pedroſa.

Whether Don Manuel de Caſafonda will in time to come avail himſelf of theſe overtures time alone can prove: As for little Nicolas, whoſe prize money has ſet him up in a comfort⯑able little ſhop in Duke's place, where he breathes the veins and cleanſes the bowels of his Iſraelitiſh brethren in a land of freedom and to⯑leration, his merry heart is at reſt, ſave only when with fire in his eyes and vengeance on his tongue he anathematizes the Inquiſition, and ſtruts into the ſynagogue every ſabbath with as bold a ſtep and as erect a look, as if he was himſelf High Prieſt of the Temple going to perform ſacrifice upon the re-aſſembling of the ſcattered tribes.

N^o CXLV.

I Would wiſh no man to deceive himſelf with opinions, which he has not thoroughly re⯑flected upon in his ſolitary hours: Till he has communed with his own heart in his chamber, it [215] will be dangerous to commit himſelf to its impulſes amidſt the diſtractions of ſociety: In ſolitude he will hear another voice than he has been uſed to hear in the colloquial ſcenes of life; for conſcience, though mute as the antient cho⯑rus in the buſtle of the drama, will be found a powerful ſpeaker in ſoliloquy. If I could be⯑lieve that any man in theſe times had ſeriouſly and deliberately reaſoned himſelf into an abſolute contempt of things ſacred, I ſhould expect that ſuch a being ſhould uniformly act up to his prin⯑ciples in all ſituations, and, having thrown aſide all the reſtraints of religion, ſhould diſcharge from his mind all thoſe fears, apprehenſions and ſolicitudes, that have any connection with the dread of a futurity. But, without knowing what paſſes in the private thoughts of men, who pro⯑feſs theſe daring notions, I cannot help obſerving, that, if noiſy clamour be a mark of cowardice, they alſo have the ſymptoms ſtrongly upon them of belying their own conſcience: They are bold in the crowd, and loudeſt in the revels of the feaſt; there they can echo the inſult, daſh the ridicule in the very face of Heaven, and ſtun their conſciences in the roar of the carouſal.

Let me picture to myſelf a man of this de⯑ſcription ſurprized into unexpected ſolitude after [216] the revels of an evening, where he has been the wit of the company at the expence of decency and religion; here his triumphs are over; the plaudits of his comrades no longer encourage him; the lights of the feaſt are extinguiſhed, and he is ſurrendered to darkneſs and reflection: Place him in the midſt of a deſart heath, a lone⯑ſome traveller in ſome dark tempeſtuous night, and let the elements ſubſcribe their terrors to en⯑counter this redoubted champion—‘Who durſt defy th' Omnipotent.’

If conſiſtency be the teſt of a man's ſincerity, he ought now to hold the ſame language of de⯑fiance, and with undaunted ſpirit cry out to the elements—‘"Do your worſt, ye blind tools of chance! Since there can be neither intelli⯑gence nor direction in your rage, I ſet you at nought. You may indeed ſubject me to ſome bodily inconvenience, but you can raiſe no terrors in my mind, for I have ſaid you have no maſter: There is no hand to point the lightning, and the ſtroke of its flaſh is di⯑rected to no aim: If it ſmites the oak, it pe⯑riſhes; if it penetrates my breaſt, it annihi⯑lates my exiſtence, and there is no ſoul within me to reſume it. What have I to fear? The [217] worſt you threaten is a momentary extinction without pain or ſtruggle; and as I only wait on earth till I am weary of life, the moſt you can do is to foreſtall me in the natural rights of ſuicide. I have lived in this world as the only world I have to live in, and have done all things therein as a man, who acts without ac⯑count to an Hereafter. The moral offices, as they are called, I have ſometimes regarded as a ſyſtem of worldly wiſdom, and where they have not croſſed my purpoſes, or thwarted my pleaſures, I have occaſionally thought fit to comply with them: My proper pride in ſome inſtances, and ſelf-intereſt in others, have diſ⯑ſuaded me from the open violation of a truſt, for it is inconvenient to be detected; and though I acknowledge no remonſtrances from within upon the ſcore of infamy, I do not like the clamours of the crowd. As for thoſe mercenary inducements, which a pretended revelation holds forth as lures for patience un⯑der wrongs and tame reſignation to misfor⯑tune, I regard them as derogatory to my na⯑ture; they ſink the very character of virtue by meanly tendering a reverſionary happineſs as the bribe for practiſing it; the doctrine there⯑fore of a future life, in which the obedient are [218] to expect rewards, and the diſobedient are threatened with puniſhments, confutes itſelf by its own internal weakneſs, and is a ſyſtem ſo ſordid in its principle, that it can only be calculated to dupe us into mental ſlavery, and frighten us out of that generous privilege, which is our univerſal birthright, the privilege of diſmiſſing ourſelves out of exiſtence, when we are tired with its conditions."’

Had I fabricated this language for infidelity with the purpoſe of ſtamping greater deteſlation upon its audacity, I had rather bear the blame of having overcharged the character, than to be able (as I now am) to point out a recent publication, which openly avows this ſhameleſs doctrine: But as I do not wiſh to help any anonymous blaſphe⯑mer into notice, let the toleration of the times be his ſhelter, and their contempt his anſwer! In the mean time I will take leave to oppoſe to it a ſhort paſſage from a tract, lately tranſlated into Engliſh, intitled Philoſophical and Critical Enquiries concerning Chriſtianity, by Mr. Bonnet of Geneva; a work well deſerving an attentive peruſal.

That man, hurried away by the impetuoſity of his paſſions, is capable of ſtrange and monſtrous irregularities I am not to learn; even vanity and the mean ambition of being eccentric may draw out very wild expreſſions from him in his un⯑guarded hours; but that any creature ſhould be deliberately blaſphemous, and reaſon himſelf (if I may ſo expreſs it) into irrationality, ſurpaſſes my conception, and is a ſpecies of deſperation for which I have no name.

If the voice of univerſal nature, the experience of all ages, the light of reaſon and the immediate evidence of my ſenſes cannot awaken me to a dependance upon my God, a reverence for his religion and an humble opinion of myſelf, what a loſt creature am I!

Where can we meet a more touching deſcrip⯑tion of God's omnipreſence and providence than [221] in the 139th pſalm? and how can I better con⯑clude this paper than by the following humble attempt at a tranſlation of that moſt beautiful addreſs to the Creator of mankind.

N^o CXLVI.

WHAT a delightful thing it is to find one's ſelf in a company, where tempers har⯑monize and hearts are open; where wit flows without any checks but what decency and good-nature impoſe, and humour indulges itſelf in thoſe harmleſs freaks and caprices, that raiſe a laugh, by which no man's feelings are offended.

This can only happen to us in a land of free⯑dom; it is in vain to hope for it in thoſe arbi⯑trary [225] countries, where men muſt lock the doors againſt ſpies and informers, and muſt entruſt their lives, whilſt they impart their ſentiments, to each other. In ſuch circumſtances a mind, enlightened by education is no longer a bleſſing: What is the advantage of diſcernment, and how is a man profited by his capacity of ſeparating truth from error, if he dare not exerciſe that faculty? It were ſafer to be the blind dupe of ſuperſtition than the intuitive philoſopher, if born within the juriſdiction of an inquiſitorial tribunal. Can a man felicitate himſelf in the glow of ge⯑nius and the gayety of wit, when breathing the air of a country, where ſo dire an inſtrument is in force as a lettre de cachet? But experience hath ſhewn us, that if arbitrary monarchs cannot keep their people in ignorance, they cannot re⯑tain them in ſlavery; if men read, they will me⯑ditate; if they travel, they will compare, and their minds muſt be as dark as the dungeons, which impriſon their perſons, if they do not riſe with indignation againſt ſuch monſtrous maxims, as impriſonment at pleaſure for undefined of⯑fences, ſelf-accuſations extorted by torments and ſecret trials, where the priſoner hath neither voice nor advocate. Let thoſe princes, whoſe government is ſo adminiſtered, make darkneſs [226] their pavilion, and draw their very mountains down upon them to ſhut out the light, or expect the period of their deſpotiſm: Illuminated minds will not be kept in ſlavery.

With a nation ſo free, ſo highly enlightened and ſo eminent in letters as the Engliſh, we may well expect to find the ſocial qualities in their beſt ſtate; and it is but juſtice to the age we live in to confeſs thoſe expectations may be fully gratified: There are ſome perhaps who will not ſubſcribe to this aſſertion, but probably thoſe very people make the diſappointments they com⯑plain of: If a man takes no pains to pleaſe his company, he is little likely to be pleaſed by his company. Liberty, though eſſential to good ſo⯑ciety, may in ſome of it's effects operate againſt it, for as it makes men independant, indepen⯑dance will occaſionally be found to make them arrogant, and none ſuch can be good compa⯑nions; yet let me ſay for the contemporaries I am living with, that within the period of my own acquaintance with the world the reform in it's ſocial manners and habits has been gradual and encreaſing. The feudal haughtineſs of our no⯑bility has totally diſappeared, and, in place of a proud diſtant reſerve, a pleaſing ſuavity and com⯑panionable eaſe have almoſt univerſally obtained [227] amongſt the higher orders: The pedantry of office is gone, and even the animoſity of party is ſo far in the wain, that it ſerves rather to whet our wits than our ſwords againſt each other: The agitation of political opinions is no longer a ſubject fatal to the peace of the table, but takes it's turn with other topics without any breach of good-manners or good fellowſhip.

It were too much to ſay that there are no ge⯑neral cauſes ſtill ſubſiſting, which annoy our ſo⯑cial comforts, and diſgrace our tempers; they are ſtill too many, and it is amongſt the duties of an Obſerver to ſet a mark upon them, though by ſo doing I may run into repetition, for I am not conſcious of having any thing to ſay upon the ſubject, which I have not ſaid before; but if a beggar, who aſks charity, becauſe of his impor⯑tunity ſhall at length be relieved, an author per⯑haps, who enforces his advice, ſhall in the end be liſtened to.

I muſt therefore again and again inſiſt upon it, that there are two ſides to every argument, and that it is the natural and unalienable right of man to be heard in ſupport of his opinion, he having firſt lent a patient ear to the ſpeaker, who main⯑tains ſentiments, which oppoſe that opinion: I do humbly apprehend that an overbearing voice [228] and noiſy volubility of tongue are proofs of a very underbred fellow, and it is with regret I ſee ſociety too frequently diſturbed in it's moſt de⯑lectable enjoyments by this odious character: I do not ſee that any man hath a right by obliga⯑tion or otherwiſe to lay me under a neceſſity of thinking exactly as he thinks: Though I admit that from the fullneſs of the heart the tongue ſpeaketh, I do not admit any ſuperior pretenſions it hath to be Sir Oracle from the fullneſs of the pocket. In the name of freedom what claim hath any man to be the tyrant of the table? As well he may avail himſelf of the greater force of his fiſts as of his lungs. Doth ſenſe conſiſt in ſound, or is truth only to be meaſured by the noiſe it makes? Can it be a diſgrace to be con⯑vinced, or doth any one loſe by the exchange, who reſigns his own opinion for a better? When I reflect upon the advantages of our public ſchools, where puerile tempers are cor⯑rected by colliſion; upon the mathematical ſtu⯑dies and ſcholaſtic exerciſes of our univerſities, I am no leſs grieved than aſtoniſhed to diſcover ſo few proficients in well-mannered controverſy, ſo very few, who ſeem to make truth the object of their inveſtigation, or will ſpare a few patient moments from the eternal repetition of their [229] own deafening jargon to the temperate reply of men, probably better qualified to ſpeak than themſelves.

There is another grievance not unfrequent though inferior to this abovementioned, which proceeds jointly from the mixt nature of ſociety and the ebullitions of freedom in this happy country, I mean that roar of mirth and uncon⯑trouled flow of ſpirits, which hath more vulga⯑rity in it than eaſe, more noiſe than gayety: The ſtream of elegant feſtivity will never overflow it's banks; the delicacy of ſex, the dignity of rank and the decorum of certain profeſſions ſhould never be ſo overlooked, as to alarm the feelings of any perſon preſent, intereſted for their preſervation. When the ſofter ſex entruſt themſelves to our ſociety, we ſhould never for⯑get the tender reſpect due to them even in our gayeſt hours: When the higher orders by de⯑ſcending, and the lower by aſcending out of their ſphere meet upon the level of good fellow⯑ſhip, let not our ſuperiors be revolted by a ruſti⯑city however jovial, nor driven back into their faſtneſſes by our overſtepping the partition line, and making ſaucy inroads into their proper quarters. Who queſtions a miniſter about news or politics? who talks ribaldry before a biſhop? [230] once in ſeven years is often enough for the levelling familiarity of electioneering manners.

There is another remark, which I cannot ex⯑cuſe myſelf from making, if it were only for the ſake of thoſe luckleſs beings, who being born with duller faculties, or ſtampt by the hand of nature with oddities either of humour, or of perſon, ſeem to be ſet up in ſociety as butts for the arrows of raillery and ridicule: If the ob⯑ject, thus made the victim of the company, feels the ſhaft, who but muſt ſuffer with him? If he feels it not, we bluſh for human nature, whoſe dignity is ſacrificed in his perſon; and as for the profeſt buffoon, I take him to have as little pretenſions to true humour, as a punſter has to true wit. There is ſcope enough for all the eccentricities of character without turning cruel⯑ty into ſport; let ſatire take it's ſhare, but let vice only ſhrink before it; let it ſilence the tongue that wantonly violates truth, or defames reputation; let it batter the inſulting towers of pride, but let the air-built caſtles of vanity, much more the humble roof of the indigent and infirm never provoke it's ſpleen.

It happened to me not long ago to fall into company with ſome very reſpectable perſons, chiefly of the mercantile order, where a country [231] gentleman, who was a ſtranger to moſt of the party, took upon him to entertain the company, with a tedious ſtring of ſtories of no ſort of impor⯑tance to any ſoul preſent, and all tending to diſplay his own conſequence, fortune and independance. Such converſation was ill calculated for the company preſent, the majority of whom had I dare ſay been the founders of their own fortunes, and I ſhould doubt if there was any quarter of the globe acceſſible to commerce, which had not been reſorted to by ſome one or other then ſit⯑ting at the table. This unintereſting egotiſt therefore was the more unpardonable, as he ſhut out every topic of curious and amuſing informa⯑tion, which could no where meet a happier op⯑portunity for diſcuſſion.

He was endured for a conſiderable time with that patience which is natural to men of good manners and experience in the world: This encouragement only rendered him more inſup⯑portable; when at laſt an elderly gentleman ſeized the opportunity of a ſhort pauſe in his diſcourſe to addreſs the following reproof to this eternal talker.

‘"We have liſtened to you, ſir, a long time with attention, and it does not appear that any body preſent is diſpoſed to queſtion either [232] your independance, or the comforts that are annexed to it; we rejoice that you poſſeſs them in ſo full a degree, and we wiſh every landed gentleman in the kingdom was in the ſame happy predicament with yourſelf; but we are traders, ſir, and are beholden to our induſtry and fair-dealing for what you inherit from your anceſtors and yourſelf never toiled for: Might it not be altogether as amuſing to you to be told of our adventures in foreign climes and countries; of our dangers, difficulties and eſcapes; our remarks upon the manners and cuſtoms of other nations, as to encloſe the whole converſation within the hedge of your own eſtate, and ſhut up intelligence, wide as the world itſelf, within the narrow limits of your pariſh pound? Believe me, ſir, we are glad to hear you, and we reſpect your order in the ſtate, but we are willing to hear each other alſo in our turns; for let me obſerve to you in the ſtile of the Compting-houſe, that converſa⯑tion like trade abhors a monopoly, and that a man can derive no benefit from ſociety, un⯑leſs he hears others talk as well as himſelf."’

N^o CXLVII.

IN all ages of the world men have been in habits of praiſing the time paſt at the expence of the time preſent. This was done even in the Auguſtan aera, and in that witty and celebrated period the laudator temporis acti muſt have been either a very ſplenetic, or a very ſilly charac⯑ter.

Our preſent grumblers may perhaps be better warranted; but, though there may not be the ſame injuſtice in their cavilling complaints, there is more than equal impolicy in them; for if by diſcouraging their contemporaries they mean to mend them, they take a very certain method of counteracting their own deſigns; and if they have any other meaning, it muſt be ſome⯑thing worſe than impolitic and they have more to anſwer for than a mere miſtake.

Who but the meaneſt of mankind would wiſh to damp the ſpirit and degrade the genius of the country he belongs to? Is any man lowered by the dignity of his own nation, by the talents [234] of his contemporaries? Who would not prefer to live in an enlightened and a riſing age rather than in a dark and declining one? It is natural to take a pride in the excellence of our free conſtitution, in the virtues of our Sovereign; is it not as natural to ſympathize in the proſperity of our arts and ſciences, in the reputation of our countrymen? But theſe ſplenetic Dampers are for ever ſighing over the decline of wit, the de⯑cline of genius, the decline of literature, when if there is any one thing that has declined rather than another, it is the wretched ſtate of criticiſm, ſo far as they have to do with it.

As I was paſſing from the city the other day I turned into a coffee-houſe, and took my ſeat at a table, next to which ſome gentlemen had aſſembled, and were converſing over their coffee. A diſpute was carried on between a little prat⯑tling volatile fellow and an old gentleman of a ſullen, moroſe aſpect, who in a dictatorial tone of voice was declaiming againſt the times, and treating them and their puiſny advocate with more contempt than either one or the other ſeemed to deſerve: Still the little fellow, who had abun⯑dance of zeal and no want of words, kept bat⯑tling with might and main for the world as it goes againſt the world as it had gone by, and I [235] could perceive he had an intereſt with the junior part of his hearers, whilſt the ſullen orator was no leſs popular amongſt the elders of the party: The little fellow, who ſeemed to think it no good reaſon why any work ſhould be decried only becauſe the author of it was living, had been deſcanting upon the merit of a recent pub⯑lication, and had now ſhifted his ground from the ſciences to the fine arts, where he ſeemed to have taken a ſtrong poſt and ſtood reſolutely to it; his opponent, who was not a man to be tickled out of his ſpleen by a few fine daſhes of arts merely elegant, did not reliſh this kind of ſkirmiſhing argument, and tauntingly cried out—‘"What tell you me of a parcel of gew-gaw ar⯑tiſts, fit only to pick the pockets of a diſſipated trifling age? You talk of your painters and pourtrait-mongers, what uſe are they of? Where are the philoſophers and the poets, whoſe countenances might intereſt poſterity to ſit to them? Will they paint me a Bacon, a Newton or a Locke? I defy them: There are not three heads upon living ſhoulders in the kingdom worth the oil, that would be waſted upon them. Will they or you find me a Shakeſpear, a Milton, a Dryden, a Pope, an Addiſon? You cannot find a limb, a [236] feature, or even the ſhadow of the leaſt of them: Theſe were men worthy to be record⯑ed; poets, who reached the very topmoſt ſum⯑mits of Parnaſſus; our moderns are but piſmires crawling at its loweſt root."’—This lofty defiance brought our little advocate to a nonplus; the moment was embarraſſing; the champion of time paſt was echoed by his par⯑ty with a cry of—‘"No, No! there are no ſuch men as theſe now living."—’ ‘"I believe not,"’ he replied, ‘"I believe not: I could give you a ſcore of names more, but thoſe are enough: Honeſt Tom Durfey would be more than a match for any poetaſter now breathing."’

In this ſtile he went on crowing and clapping his wings over a beaten cock, for our poor little champion ſeemed dead upon the pit: He mut⯑tered ſomething between his teeth, as if ſtrug⯑gling to pronounce ſome name that ſtuck in his throat; but either there was in fact no contem⯑porary, whom he thought it ſafe to oppoſe to theſe Goliahs in the liſts, or none were preſent to his mind at this moment.

Alas! thought I, your cauſe, my beloved contemporaries, is deſperate: Vae Victis! You are but duſt in the ſcale, while this Brennus [237] directs the beam. All that I have admired and applauded in my zeal for thoſe with whom I have lived and ſtill live; all that has hitherto made my heart expand with pride and reverence for the age and nation I belong to, will be im⯑molated to the manes of theſe departed worthies, whom, though I revere, I cannot love and cheriſh with that ſympathy of ſoul, which I feel towards you, my dear but degenerate contemporaries!

There was a young man, ſitting at the elbow of the little creſt-fallen fellow, with a round clerical curl, which tokened him to be a ſon of the church. Having ſilently awaited the full time for a rally, if any ſpirit of reſurrection had been left in the fallen hero, and none ſuch ap⯑pearing, he addreſſed himſelf to the challenger with an air ſo modeſt, but withal ſo impreſſive, that it was impoſſible not to be prejudiced in his favour, before he opened his cauſe.

‘"I cannot wonder,"’ ſaid he, ‘"if the gen⯑tleman, who has challenged us to produce a parallel to any one of the great names he has enumerated, finds us unprepared with any living rival to thoſe illuſtrious characters: Their fame, though the age in which they lived did not always appreciate it as it ought, hath yet been riſing day by day in the eſteem [238] of poſterity, till time hath ſtampt a kind of ſacredneſs upon it, which it would now be a literary impiety to blaſpheme. There are ſome amongſt thoſe, whom their advocate hath named, I cannot ſpeak or think of but with a reverence only ſhort of idolatry. Not this nation only but all Europe hath been en⯑lightened by their labours: The great princi⯑ple of nature, the very law, upon which the whole ſyſtem of the univerſe moves and gra⯑vitates, hath been developed and demon⯑ſtrated by the penetrating, I had almoſt ſaid the praeternatural, powers of our immortal Newton. The preſent race of philoſophers can only be conſidered as his diſciples; but they are diſciples, who do honour to their maſter: If the principle of gravitation be the grand deſideratum of philoſophy, the diſcovery is with him, the application, inferences and ad⯑vantages of that diſcovery are with thoſe, who ſucceed him; and can we accuſe the preſent age of being idle or unable to avail themſelves of the ground he gave them? Let me remind you that our preſent ſolar ſyſtem is furniſhed with more planets than Newton knew; that our late obſervations upon the tranſit of the planet Venus were deciſive for the proof and confirmation of his ſyſtem; that [239] we have circumnavigated the globe again and again; that we can boaſt the reſearches and diſcoveries of a Captain Cook, who, though he did not invent the compaſs, employed it as no man ever did, and left a map behind him, compared to which Sir Iſaac Newton's was a ſheet of nakedneſs and error: It is with gra⯑vitation therefore as with the loadſtone; their powers have been diſcovered by our predeceſ⯑ſors, but we have put them to their nobleſt uſes."’

‘"The venerable names of Bacon and Locke were, if I miſtake not, mentioned in the ſame claſs with Newton, and though the learned gentleman could no doubt have made his ſe⯑lection more numerous, I doubt if he could have made it ſtronger or more to the purpoſe of his own aſſertions."’

‘"I have always regarded Bacon as the father of philoſophy in this country, yet it is no breach of candor to obſerve that the darkneſs of the age, which he enlightened, affords a fa⯑vourable contraſt to ſet off the ſplendor of his talents: But do we, who applaud him, read him? Yet, if ſuch is our veneration for times long ſince gone by, why do we not? The fact is, intermediate writers have diſ⯑ſeminated [240] his original matter through more pleaſing vehicles, and we concur, whether commendably or not, to put his volumes upon the ſuperannuated liſt, allowing him however an unalienable compenſation upon our praiſe, and reſerving to ourſelves a right of taking him from the ſhelf, whenever we are diſpoſed to ſink the merit of a more recent author by a compariſon with him. I will not therefore diſturb his venerable duſt, but turn without further delay to the author of the Eſſay upon the Human Underſtanding."’

‘"This Eſſay, which profeſſes to define every thing, as it ariſes or paſſes in the mind, muſt ultimately be compiled from obſervations of it's author upon himſelf and within himſelf: Before I compare the merit of this work therefore with the merit of any other man's work of our own immediate times, I muſt compare what it advances as general to man⯑kind with what I perceive within my parti⯑cular ſelf; and upon this reference, ſpeaking only for an humble individual, I muſt own to my ſhame, that my underſtanding and the author's do by no means coincide either in de⯑finitions or ideas. I may have reaſon to la⯑ment the inaccuracy or the ſluggiſhneſs of my [241] own ſenſes and perceptions, but I cannot ſubmit to any man's doctrine againſt their conviction: I will only ſay that Mr. Locke's metaphyſics are not my metaphyſics, and, as it would be an ill compliment to any one of our contem⯑poraries to compare him with a writer, who to me is unintelligible, ſo will I hope it can never be conſidered as a reflection upon ſo great a name as Mr. Locke's, not to be under⯑ſtood by ſo inſignificant a man as myſelf."’

‘"Well, ſir,"’ cried the ſullen gentleman with a ſneer, ‘"I think you have contrived to diſpatch our philoſophers; you have now only a few obſcure poets to diſmiſs in like manner, and you will have a clear field for yourſelf and your friends."’

N^o CXLVIII.

THE ſarcaſtic ſpeech of the old Snarler, with which we concluded the laſt paper, being undeſerved on the part of the perſon, to whom it [242] was applied, was very properly diſregarded; and the clergyman proceeded as follows:—

‘"The poets you have named will never be mentioned by me but with a degree of enthu⯑ſiaſm, which I ſhould rather expect to be ac⯑cuſed of carrying to exceſs than of erring in the oppoſite extreme, had you not put me on my guard againſt partiality by charging me with it beforehand. I ſhall therefore without further apology or preface begin with Shake⯑ſpear, firſt named by you and firſt in fame as well as time: It would be madneſs in me to think of bringing any poet now living into competition with Shakeſpear; but I hope it will not be thought madneſs, or any thing re⯑ſembling it, to obſerve to you, that it is not in the nature of things poſſible for any poet to appear in an age ſo poliſhed as this of our's, who can be brought into any critical compa⯑riſon with that extraordinary and eccentric genius."’

‘"For let us conſider the two great ſtriking features of his drama, ſublimity and character, Now ſublimity involves ſentiment and expreſ⯑ſion; the firſt of theſe is in the ſoul of the poet; it is that portion of inſpiration, which we perſonify when we call it the Muſe; ſo [243] far I am free to acknowledge there is no im⯑mediate reaſon to be given, why her viſits ſhould be confined to any age, nation or per⯑ſon; ſhe may fire the heart of the poet on the ſhores of Ionia three thouſand years ago, or on the banks of the Cam or Iſis at the preſent moment; but ſo far as language is concerned, I may venture to ſay that modern diction will never ſtrike modern ears with that awful kind of magic, which antiquity gives to words and phraſes no longer in familiar uſe: In this re⯑ſpect our great dramatic poet hath an advan⯑tage over his diſtant deſcendants, which he owes to time, and which of courſe is one more than he is indebted for to his own pre⯑eminent genius. As for character, which I ſuggeſted as one of the two moſt ſtriking fea⯑tures of Shakeſpear's drama, (or in other words the true and perfect delineation of nature), in this our poet is indeed a maſter unrivalled; yet who will not allow the happy coincidence of time for this perfection in a writer of the drama? The different orders of men, which Shakeſpear ſaw and copied, are in many inſtances extinct, and ſuch muſt have the charms of novelty at leaſt in our eyes: And has the modern dramatiſt the ſame rich [244] and various field of character? The level manners of a poliſhed age furniſh little choice to an author, who now enters on the taſk, in which ſuch numbers have gone before him, and ſo exhauſted the materials, that it is juſtly to be wondered at, when any thing like va⯑riety can be ſtruck out. Dramatic characters are pourtraits drawn from nature, and if all the ſitters have a family likeneſs, the artiſt muſt either depart from the truth, or preſerve the reſemblance; in like manner the poet muſt either invent characters of which there is no counterpart in exiſtence, or expoſe himſelf to the danger of an inſipid and tire⯑ſome repetition: To add to his difficulties it ſo happens, that the preſent age, whilſt it fur⯑niſhes leſs variety to his choice, requires more than ever for it's own amuſement; the dignity of the ſtage muſt of courſe be proſti⯑tuted to the unnatural reſources of a wild imagination, and it's propriety diſturbed; muſic will ſupply thoſe reſources for a time, and accordingly we find the French and En⯑gliſh theatres in the dearth of character feeding upon the airy diet of ſound; but this, with all the ſupport that ſpectacle can give, is but a flimſy [245] ſubſtitute, whilſt the public whoſe taſte in the mean time becomes vitiated— —media inter carmina poſcunt Aut Urſum aut Pugiles— the latter of which monſtrous proſtitutions we have lately ſeen our national ſtage moſt ſhamefully expoſed to."’

‘"By comparing the different ages of poetry in our own country with thoſe of Greece, we ſhall find the effects agree in each; for as the refinement of manners took place, the lan⯑guage of poetry became alſo more refined, and with greater correctneſs had leſs energy and force; the ſtile of the poet, like the characters of the people, takes a brighter poliſh, which, whilſt it ſmooths away it's former aſperities and protuberances, weakens the ſtaple of it's fabric, and what it gives to the elegance and delicacy of it's complexion, takes away from the ſtrength and ſturdineſs of it's conſtitution. Whoever will compare Aeſchylus with Euri⯑pides and Ariſtophanes with Menander, will need no other illuſtration of this remark."’

‘"Conſider only the inequalities of Shake⯑ſpear's dramas; examine not only one with another, but compare even ſcene with ſcene in the ſame play: Did ever the imagination [246] of man run riot into ſuch wild and oppoſite extremes? Could this be done, or, being done, would it be ſuffered in the preſent age? How many of theſe plays, if acted as they were ori⯑ginally written, would now be permitted to paſs? Can we have a ſtronger proof of the barbarous taſte of thoſe times, in which Titus Andronicus firſt appeared, than the favour, which that horrid ſpectacle was received with? yet of this we are aſſured by Ben Johnſon. If this play was Shakeſpear's, it was his firſt pro⯑duction, and ſome of his beſt commentators are of opinion it was actually written by him, whilſt he reſided at Stratford upon Avon. Had this production been followed by the three parts of Henry the Sixth, by Love's Labour Loſt, the Two Gentlemen of Verona, the Comedy of Errors, or ſome few others, which our ſtage does not attempt to reform, that critic muſt have had a very ſingular de⯑gree of intuition, who had diſcovered in thoſe dramas a genius capable of producing the Macbeth. How would a young author be received in the preſent time, who was to make his firſt eſſay before the public with ſuch a piece as Titus Andronicus? Now if we are warranted in ſaying there are ſeveral of Shake⯑ſpear's [247] dramas, which could not live upon our preſent ſtage at any rate, and few, if any, that would paſs without juſt cenſure in many parts, were they repreſented in their original ſtate, we muſt acknowledge it is with reaſon that our living authors, ſtanding in awe of their audiences, dare not aim at thoſe bold and irre⯑gular flights of imagination, which carried our bard to ſuch a height of fame; and therefore it was that I ventured awhile ago to ſay, there can be no poet in a poliſhed and critical age like this, who can be brought into any fair compariſon with ſo bold and eccentric a genius as Shakeſpear, of whom we may ſay with Horace— Tentavit quoque rem, ſi digne vertere poſſet, Et placuit ſibi, natura ſublimis et acer: Nam ſpirat tragicum ſatis, et feliciter audet: Sed turpem putat in ſcriptis metuitque lituram. When I bring to my recollection the ſeveral periods of our Engliſh drama ſince the age of Shakeſpear, I could name many dates, when it has been in hands far inferior to the pre⯑ſent, and were it my purpoſe to enter into particulars, I ſhould not ſcruple to appeal to ſeveral dramatic productions within the com⯑paſs [248] of our own times, but as the taſk of ſepa⯑rating and ſelecting one from another amongſt our own contemporaries can never be a pleaſant taſk, nor one I would willingly engage in, I will content myſelf with referring to our ſtock of modern acting plays; many of which having paſſed the ordeal of critics, (who ſpeak the ſame language with what I have juſt now heard, and are continually crying down thoſe they live with) may perhaps take their turn with poſterity, and be hereafter as partially overrated upon a compariſon with the produc⯑tions of the age to come, as they are now un⯑dervalued when compared with thoſe of the ages paſt."’

‘"With regard to Milton, if we could not name any one epic poet of our nation ſince his time, it would be ſaying no more of us than may be ſaid of the world in general from the aera of Homer to that of Virgil. Greece had one ſtandard epic poet; Rome had no more; England has her Milton. If Dryden pronounced that the force of nature could no further go, he was at once a good authority and a ſtrong example of the truth of the aſſer⯑tion: If his genius ſhrunk from the under⯑taking, can we wonder that ſo few have [249] taken it up? Yet we will not forget Leonidas, nor ſpeak ſlightly of it's merit; and as death has removed the worthy author where he can⯑not hear our praiſes, the world may now, as in the caſe of Milton heretofore, be ſo much the more forward to beſtow them. If the Samp⯑ſon Agoniſtes is nearer to the ſimplicity of it's Grecian original than either our own Elfrida or Caractacus, thoſe dramas have a tender in⯑tereſt, a pathetic delicacy, which in that are wanting; and though Comus has every charm of language, it has a vein of allegory, that impoveriſhes the mine."’

‘"The variety of Dryden's genius was ſuch as to preclude compariſon, were I diſpoſed to attempt it. Of his dramatic productions he himſelf declares that he never wrote any thing in that way to pleaſe himſelf but his All for Love. For ever under arms he lived in a continual ſtate of poetic warfare with his contempora⯑ries, galling and galled by turns; he ſubſiſted alſo by expedients, and neceſſity, which forced his genius into quicker growth than was na⯑tural to it, made a rich harveſt but ſlovenly huſbandry; it drove him alſo into a duplicity of character that is painful to reflect upon; it put him ill at eaſe within himſelf, and verified [250] the fable of the nightingale, ſinging with a thorn at it's breaſt."’

‘"Pope's verſification gave the laſt and finiſh⯑ing poliſh to our Engliſh poetry: His lyre more ſweet than Dryden's was leſs ſonorous; his touch more correct, but not ſo bold; his ſtrain more muſical in it's tones, but not ſo ſtriking in it's effect: Review him as a critic, and review him throughout, you will pro⯑nounce him the moſt perfect poet in our lan⯑guage; read him as an enthuſiaſt and exa⯑mine him in detail, you cannot refuſe him your approbation, but your rapture you will reſerve for Dryden."’

‘"But you will tell me this does not apply to the queſtion in diſpute, and that, inſtead of ſettling precedency between your poets, it is time for me to produce my own: For this I ſhall beg your excuſe; my zeal for my con⯑temporaries ſhall not hurry them into compa⯑riſons, which their own modeſty would revolt from; it hath prompted me to intrude upon your patience, whilſt I ſubmitted a few miti⯑gating conſiderations in their behalf; not as an anſwer to your challenge, but as an effort to ſoften your contempt. I confeſs to you I have ſometimes flattered myſelf I have found [251] the ſtrength of Dryden in our late Churchill, and the ſweetneſs of Pope in our lamented Goldſmith: Enraptured as I am with the lyre of Timotheus in the Feaſt of Alexander, I contemplate with awful delight Gray's enthu⯑ſiaſtic bard— On a rock, whoſe haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the ſable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet ſtood; (Looſe his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,) And with a maſter's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep ſorrows of his lyre. Let the living muſes ſpeak for themſelves; I have all the warmth of a friend, but not the preſumption of a champion: The poets you now ſo loudly praiſe when dead, found the world as loud in defamation when living; you are now paying the debts of your predeceſſors and atoning for their injuſtice; poſterity will in like manner atone for your's."’

‘"You mentioned the name of Addiſon in your liſt, not altogether as a poet I preſume, but rather as the man of morals, the reformer of manners and the friend of religion; with [252] affection I ſubſcribe my tribute to his literary fame, to his amiable character: In ſweetneſs and ſimplicity of ſtile, in purity and perſpi⯑cuity of ſentiment he is a model to all eſſayiſts. At the ſame time I feel the honeſt pride of a contemporary in recalling to your memory the name of Samuel Johnſon, who as a moral and religious eſſayiſt, as an acute and penetrating critic, as a nervous and elaborate poet, an excellent grammarian and a general ſcholar ranks with the firſt names in literature."’

‘"Not having named an Hiſtorian in your liſt of illuſtrious men, you have precluded me from adverting to the hiſtories of Hume, Robertſon, Lyttelton, Henry, Gibbon and others, who are a hoſt of writers, which all antiquity cannot equal."’

Here the clergyman concluded: The conver⯑ſation now grew deſultory and unintereſting, and I returned home.

N^o CXLIX.

TO-morrow is the day, which procraſtina⯑tion always promiſes to employ and ne⯑ver overtakes: My correſpondent Tom Tortoiſe, whoſe letter I ſhall now lay before the public, ſeems to have made theſe promiſes and broken them as often as moſt men.

Alas! though the wiſe men in all ages have been calling out as it were with one voice for us to know ourſelves, it is a voice that has not yet reached the ears or underſtanding of my corre⯑ſpondent Tom Tortoiſe. Somebody or other hath left us another good maxim, never to put off till to-morrow what we can do to-day.—Whe⯑ther he was indeed a wiſe man, who firſt broached this maxim, I'll not take on myſelf to pronounce, but I am apt to think he would be no fool, who obſerved it.

If all the reſolutions, promiſes and engage⯑ments of To-day, that lie over for To-morrow, [259] were to be ſummed up and poſted by items, what a cumbrous load of procraſtinations would be transferred in the midnight criſis of a mo⯑ment! Something perhaps like the following might be the outline of the deed, by which To⯑day might will and deviſe the aforeſaid contin⯑gencies to its heir and ſucceſſor.

N^o CL.

IT is wonderful to me that any man will ſur⯑render himſelf to be the ſlave of peeviſh and iraſcible humours, that annoy his peace, impair his health and hurt his reputation. Who does not love to be greeted in ſociety with a ſmile? Who lives that is inſenſible to the frowns, the ſneers, the curſes of his neighbours? What can be more delightful than to enter our own doors 2amidſt the congratulations of a whole family, and to bring a chearful heart into a chearful houſe? Fooliſh, contemptible ſelf-tormentors ye are, whom every little accident irritates, every [263] ſlight omiſſion piques! Surely we ſhould guard our paſſions as we would any other combuſti⯑bles, and not ſpread open the inflammable maga⯑zine to catch the firſt ſpark, that may blow it and ourſelves into the air.

Tom Tinder is one of theſe touchy blockheads, whom no body can endure: The fellow has not a ſingle plea in life for his ill temper; he does not want money, is not married, has a great deal of health to ſpare and never once felt the ſlighteſt twinge of the gout. His eyes no ſooner open to the morning light than he begins to quarrel with the weather; it rains, and he wanted to ride; it is ſunſhine, and he meant to go a fiſh⯑ing; he would hunt only when it is a froſt, and never thinks of ſkaiting but in open weather; in ſhort the wind is never in the right quarter with this teſty fellow; and though I could excuſe a man for being a little out of humour with an eaſterly wind, Tom Tinder ſhall box the whole compaſs, and never ſet his needle to a ſingle point of good humour upon the face of it.

He now rings his bell for his ſervant to begin the operation of dreſſing him, a taſk more tick⯑liſh than to wait upon the toilette of a monkey: As Tom ſhifts his ſervants about as regularly as he does his ſhirt, 'tis all the world to nothing if [264] the poor devil does not ſtumble at ſtarting; or if by happy inſpiration he ſhould begin with the right foot foremoſt, Tom has another inſpiration ready at command to quarrel with him for not ſetting forward with the left: To a certainty then the razor wants ſtrapping, the ſhaving water is ſmoaked, and the devil's in the fellow for a dunce, booby and blockhead.

Tom now comes down to breakfaſt, and though the ſavage has the ſtomach of an oſtrich, there is not a morſel paſſes down his blaſphem⯑ing throat without a damn to digeſt it; 'twould be a leſs dangerous taſk to ſerve in the morning meſs to a faſting bear. He then walks forth into his garden; there he does not meet a plant, which his ill-humour does not engraft with the bitter fruit of curſing; the waſps have pierced his nectarines; the caterpillars have raiſed con⯑tributions upon his cabbages, and the infernal blackbirds have eaten up all his cherries: Tom's ſoul is not large enough to allow the denizens of creation a taſte of Nature's gifts, though he ſurfeits with the ſuperabundance of her bounty.

He next takes a turn about his farm; there vexation upon vexation croſſes him at every cor⯑ner: The fly, a plague upon't, has got amongſt [265] his turnips; the ſmut has ſeized his wheat and his ſheep are falling down with the rot: All this is the fault of his bailiff, and at his door the blame lies with a proportionable quantity of bleſſings to recommend it. He finds a few dry ſticks pickt out of his hedges, and he blaſts all the poor in his neighbourhood for a ſet of thieves, pilferers and vagabonds. He meets one of his tenants by the way, and he has a petition for a new gate to his farm-yard, or ſome repairs to his dove-houſe, or it may be a new threſhing-floor to his barn—Hell and fury! there is no end to the demands of theſe curſed farmers—His ſtomach riſes at the requeſt, and he turns aſide ſpeechleſs with rage, and in this humour pays a viſit to his maſons and carpenters, who are at work upon a building he is adding to his offices: Here his choler inſtead of ſubſiding only flames more fu⯑riouſly, for the idle raſcals have done nothing; ſome have been making holiday, others have gone to the fair at the next town, and the maſter workman has fallen from the ſcaffold, and keeps his bed with the bruiſes: Every devil is con⯑jured up from the bottomleſs pit to come on earth and confound theſe dilatory miſcreants; and now let him go to his dinner with what ſto⯑mach he may. If an humble parſon or depen⯑dant [266] couſin expects a peaceful meal at his table, he may as well ſit down to feed with Thyeſtes or the Centaurs. After a meal of miſery and a glaſs of wine, which ten to one but the infernal butler has clouded in the decanting, he is ſum⯑moned to a game at back-gammon: The parſon throws ſize-ace, and in a few more caſts covers all his points; the devil's in the dice! Tom makes a blot, and the parſon hits it; he takes up man after man, all his points are full and Tom is gammoned paſt redemption—Can fleſh and blood bear this? Was ever ſuch a run of luck? The dice-box is ſlapt down with a ven⯑geance; the tables ring with the deafening craſh, the parſon ſtands aghaſt, and Tom ſtamps the floor in the phrenzy of paſſion—Deſpicable paſ⯑ſion! miſerable dependant!—

Where is his next reſource? the parſon has fled the pit; the back-gammon table is cloſed; no chearful neighbour knocks at his unſocial gate; ſilence and night and ſolitude are his me⯑lancholy inmates; his boiling boſom labours like a turbid ſea after the winds are lulled; ſhame ſtares him in the face; conſcience plucks at his heart, and to divert his own tormenting thoughts, he calls in thoſe of another perſon, no matter whom—the firſt idle author that ſtands next to his [267] hand: he takes up a book; 'tis a volume of co⯑medies; he opens it at random; 'tis all alike to him where he begins; all our poets put together are not worth a halter; he ſtumbles by mere chance upon The Choleric Man; 'twas one to a thouſand he ſhould ſtrike upon that blaſted play—What an infernal title! What execrable non⯑ſenſe! What a canting, preaching puppy of an author!—Away goes the poet with his play and half a dozen better poets than himſelf bound up in the ſame luckleſs volume, the innocent ſuffer⯑ers for his offence.

Tom now ſits forlorn, diſguſted, without a friend living or dead to chear him, gnawing his own heart for want of other diet to feed his ſpleen upon: At length he ſlinks into a com⯑fortleſs bed; damns his ſervant as he draws the curtains round him, drops aſleep and dreams of the devil.

Major Manlove is a near neighbour, but no intimate of Tom Tinder's: With the enjoy⯑ments, that reſult from health, the major is but rarely bleſt, for a body-wound, which he re⯑ceived in battle, is apt upon certain changes of the climate to viſit him with acute pains. He is married to one of the beſt of women; but ſhe too has impaired her health by nurſing him [268] when he was wounded, and is ſubject to ſevere rheumatic attacks. Love however has an opiate for all her pains, and domeſtic peace pours a balſam into the huſband's wound. It is only by the ſcrutinizing eye of affection, that either can diſcover when the other ſuffers, for religion has endued both hearts with patience, and neither will permit a complaint to eſcape, which might invite the ſympathizing friend to ſhare it's an⯑guiſh. Diſabled for ſervice, major Manlove has retired upon half-pay, and as he plundered neither the enemy's country nor his own during the war, he is not burthened with the ſuperfluities of fortune; happily for him theſe are not amongſt his regrets, and a prudent oeconomy keeps him ſtrait with the world and indepen⯑dant.

One brave youth, trained under his own eye in the ſame regiment with himſelf, is all the off⯑ſpring Heaven hath beſtowed upon this worthy father, and in him the hearts of the fond parents are centered; yet not ſo centered, as to ſhut them againſt the general calls of philanthropy, for in the village where they live they are be⯑loved and bleſſed by every creature. The gar⯑den furniſhes amuſement to Mrs. Manlove, and when the ſharp north eaſt does not blow pain [269] into the major's wound, he is occupied with his farm: His trees, his crop, his cattle are his nurſelings, and the poor that labour in his ſervice are his children and friends. To his ſuperiors major Manlove deports himſelf with that grace⯑ful reſpect, that puts them in mind of their own dignity without diminiſhing his; to his inferiors he is ever kind and condeſcending: To all men he maintains a natural ſincerity with a counte⯑nance ſo expreſſive of the benevolence, glowing in his heart, that he is beloved as ſoon as known, and known as ſoon as ſeen. With a ſoul formed for ſociety, and a lively flow of ſpirits, this amiable man no ſooner enters into company, than his preſence diffuſes joy and glad⯑neſs over the whole circle: Every voice bids him welcome; every hand is reached out to greet him with a cordial ſhake. He ſits down with a complacent ſmile; chimes in with the converſation as it is going, hears all, overbears none, damps nobody's jeſt, if it is harmleſs; cuts no man's ſtory, if it is only tedious, and is the very life and ſoul of the table.

According to annual cuſtom I paſſed ſome days with him laſt autumn: There is a tranquil⯑lity, which tranſpires from the maſter and miſ⯑treſs of this family through every member be⯑longing [270] to it; the ſervants are few, but ſo aſſi⯑duous in their reſpective ſtations, that you can no where be better waited on: The table is plain, but elegant, and though the major himſelf is no ſportſman, and has done carrying a gun, the kindneſs of his neighbours keeps him well ſupplied with game, and every ſort of rural luxury, that their farms and gardens can furniſh. Nothing can be more delightful than the face of the country about him, and I was charmed with his little ornamented farm in particular: The diſ⯑poſition of the garden, and the abundance of it's fruits and flowers beſpeak Mrs. Manlove no common adept in that ſweet and captivating ſcience.

One day as my friend and I were riding through his fields to enjoy the weſtern breeze of a fine September morning, our ears were ſaluted with the full chorus of the hounds from a neigh⯑bouring copſe, and as we were croſſing one of the paſtures towards them, we heard two men at high words behind a thick hedge, that concealed them from our fight, and ſoon after the ſound of blows, which ſeemed to be heavily laid on, accompanied with oaths and cries, that made us puſh to the next gate with all the ſpeed we could muſter. One of the [271] combatants was lying on the ground, roaring for mercy under the cudgel of his conqueror, who was belaboring him at a furious rate: The perſon of the victor was unknown to major Manlove; the vanquiſht ſoon made him recog⯑nize the rueſul features of Tom Tinder, who called upon the major by name to interpoſe and ſave him from being murdered.

This was no ſooner done than the cudgeller, who was a ſturdy clown, gave us to underſtand, that he had been doing no more than every Engliſhman has a right to do, returning the loan of a blow with proper intereſt to the lender: This the proſtrate hero did not deny, but aſſerted that the raſcal had headed the hare as ſhe was breaking cover, and turned her into the wood again, by which means he had ſpoilt the day's ſport.—And did you this deſignedly? ſaid the major.—Not I, maſter, replied the countryman, as Heaven ſhall judge me! I love the ſport too well to ſpoil it wilfully: But if I was travelling along the road juſt as puſs was popping through the hedge, could I help it? am I in the fault? And ſhould this gentleman, if he be a gentleman, ride up to me as if he would have trampled me like a dog under his horſe's feet, and lay the butt of his whip upon my ſcull? I think no man can [272] bear that; ſo I pulled him out of the ſaddle, and banged him well, and I think no good man, as you appear to be, will ſay otherwiſe than that he well deſerved it.—If this be ſo, anſwered the ma⯑jor, I can ſay nothing to the contrary.—How, ſir, exclaimed the ſquire, who was now upon his legs, is a raſcal like this to return blow for blow, and does major Manlove abet him in ſuch inſolence?—I am ſorry, ſir, replied the ma⯑jor calmly, you ſhould put ſuch a queſtion to me; but when gentlemen loſe their temper—Sir, quoth Tom, interrupting him, I have loſt my horſe, and that's the worſe loſs of the two—'Tis what you are leaſt uſed to, replied the ma⯑jor, and without more words quietly trotted homewards.

As we jogged along my friend began to com⯑ment with much pleaſantry upon this ridiculous incident, interlarding his diſcourſe every now and then with remarks of a more ſerious ſort upon the ill effects of a haſty temper, and giving me ſome traits of his neighbour's habits of life, which, though not ſo uncommon as I could wiſh, were nevertheleſs ſuch, as, when contraſted with his benevolent character, may perhaps ſerve to furniſh out no very unedifying topic for an Eſſay in The Obſerver.

N^o CLI.

IN times of very remote antiquity, when men were not ſo laviſh of their wit as they have ſince been, Poetry could not furniſh employment for more than Three Muſes; but as buſineſs grew upon their hands and departments multi⯑plied, it became neceſſary to enlarge the com⯑miſſion and a board was conſtituted conſiſting of Nine in number, who had their ſeveral preſiden⯑cies allotted to them, and every branch of the art poetic thenceforth had its peculiar patroneſs and ſuperintendant.

As to the preciſe time when theſe three ſenior goddeſſes called in their ſix new aſſeſſors it is matter of conjecture only; but if the poet He⯑ſiod was, as we are told, the firſt, who had the honour of announcing their names and charac⯑ters to the world, we may reaſonably ſuppoſe this was done upon the immediate opening of their new commiſſion, as they would hardly en⯑ter [274] upon their offices without appriſing all thoſe, whom it might concern, of their acceſſion.

Before this period the three eldeſt ſiſters con⯑deſcended to be maids of all work; and if the work became more than they could turn their hands to, they have nobody but themſelves and their fellow deities to complain of; for had they been content to have let the world go on in its natural courſe, mere mortal poets would not pro⯑bably have overburthened either it or them; but when Apollo himſelf (who being their preſident ſhould have had more conſideration for their eaſe) begot the poet Linus in one of his terreſ⯑trial frolics, and endowed him with hereditary genius, he took a certain method to make work for the muſes: Accordingly we find the chaſte Calliope herſelf, the eldeſt of the ſiſterhood, and who ſhould have ſet a better example to the fa⯑mily, could not hold out againſt this heavenly baſtard, but in an unguarded moment yielded her virgin honours to Linus, and produced the poet Orpheus: Such an inſtance of celeſtial inconti⯑nence could not fail to ſhake the morals of the moſt demure; and even the cold goddeſs Luna caught the flame, and ſmuggled a bantling into the world, whom maliciouſly enough ſhe named Muſaeus, with a ſly deſign no doubt of laying [275] her child at the door of the Parnaſſian nun⯑nery.

Three ſuch high-blooded bards as Linus, Orpheus and Muſaeus, ſo fathered and ſo mo⯑thered, were enough to people all Greece with poets and muſicians; and in truth they were not idle in their generation, but like true patriarchs ſpread their families over all the ſhores of Ionia and the iſlands of the Archipelago: It is not therefore to be wondered at, if the three ſiſter muſes, who had enough to do to nurſe their own children and deſcendants, were diſpoſed to call in other helpmates to the taſk, and whilſt Greece was in its glory, it may well be ſuppoſed that all the nine ſiſters were fully employed in beſtowing upon every votary a portion of their attention, and anſwering every call made upon them for aid and inſpiration: Much gratitude is due to them from their favoured poets, and much hath been paid, for even to the preſent hour they are in⯑voked and worſhipped by the ſons of verſe, whilſt all the other deities of Olympus have either ab⯑dicated their thrones, or been diſmiſſed from them with contempt; even Milton himſelf in his ſa⯑cred epic invokes the heavenly muſe, who inſpired Moſes on the top of Horeb or of Sinai; by which [276] he aſcribes great antiquity as well as dignity to the character he addreſſes.

The powers aſcribed to Orpheus were under the veil of fable emblems of his influence over ſavage minds, and of his wiſdom and eloquence in reclaiming them from that barbarous ſtate: Upon theſe impreſſions civilization and ſociety took place: The patriarch, who founded a fa⯑mily or tribe, the legiſlator, who eſtabliſhed a ſtate, the prieſt, prophet, judge or king, are cha⯑racters, which, if traced to their firſt ſources, will be found to branch from that of poet: The firſt prayers, the firſt laws and the earlieſt pro⯑phecies were metrical; proſe hath a later origin, and before the art of writing was in exiſtence, poetry had reached a very high degree of excel⯑lence and ſome of it's nobleſt productions were no otherwiſe preſerved than by tradition. As to the ſacred quality of their firſt poetry the Greeks are agreed, and to give their early bards the better title to inſpiration they feign them to be deſcended from the Gods; Orpheus muſt have profited by his mother's partiality, and Linus may well be ſuppoſed to have had ſome intereſt with his father Apollo. But to dwell no longer on theſe fabulous legends of the Greeks, we may refer to the books of Moſes for the earlieſt [277] and moſt authentic examples of ſacred poetry: Every thing that was the immediate effuſion of the prophetic ſpirit ſeems to have been chaunted. forth in dithyrambic meaſure; the valedictory bleſſings of the Patriarchs, when dying, the ſongs of triumph and thankſgiving after victory are metrical, and high as the antiquity of the ſacred poem of Job undoubtedly is, ſuch nevertheleſs is its character and conſtruction as to carry ſtrong internal marks of its being written in an advanced ſtate of the art.

The poet therefore, whether Hebrew or Greek, was in the earlieſt ages a ſacred character, and his talent a divine gift, a celeſtial inſpiration: Men regarded him as the ambaſſador of Heaven and the interpreter of it's will. It is perfectly in nature and no leſs agreeable to God's provi⯑dence to ſuppoſe that even in the darkeſt times ſome minds of a more enlightened ſort ſhould break forth, and be engaged in the contempla⯑tion of the univerſe and its author: From medi⯑tating upon the works of the Creator the tranſi⯑tion to the act of praiſe and adoration follows as it were of courſe: Theſe are operations of the mind, which naturally inſpire it with a certain portion of rapture and enthuſiaſm, ruſhing upon the lips in warm and glowing language, and diſ⯑daining [278] to be expreſſed in ordinary and vulgar phraſe; the thoughts become inflated, the breaſt labours with a paſſionate deſire to ſay ſomething worthy of the ear of Heaven, ſomething in a more elevated tone and cadence, ſomething more harmonious and muſical; this can only be effected by meaſured periods, by ſome chaunt, that can be repeated in the ſtrain again and again, grateful at once to the ear and impreſſive on the memory; and what is this but poetry? Poetry then is the language of prayer, an addreſs becoming of the Deity; it may be remembered; it may be repeated in the ears of the people called together for the purpoſes of worſhip; this is a form that may be fixt upon their minds and in this they may be taught to join.

The next ſtep in the progreſs of poetry from the praiſe of God is to the praiſe of men: Illuſ⯑trious characters, heroic actions are ſingled out for celebration; the inventors of uſeful arts, the reformers of ſavage countries, the benefactors of mankind are extolled in verſe, they are raiſed to the ſkies, and the poet, having praiſed them as the firſt of men, whilſt on earth, deifies them after death, and, conſcious that they merit im⯑mortality, boldly beſtows it, and aſſigns to them a rank and office in heaven appropriate to the [279] character they maintained in life; hence it is that the merits of a Bacchus, a Hercules and numbers more are amplified by the poet, till they become the attributes of their divinity, altars are raiſed and victims immolated to their worſhip. Theſe are the fanciful effects of poetry in its ſe⯑cond ſtage: Religion over-heated turns into enthuſiaſm; enthuſiaſm forces the imagination into all the viſionary regions of fable, and idola⯑try takes poſſeſſion of the whole Gentile world. The Egyptians, a myſterious dogmatizing race, begin the work with ſymbol and hieroglyphic; the Greeks, a vain ingenious people, invent a ſet of tales and fables for what they do not un⯑derſtand, embelliſh them with all the glittering ornaments of poetry, and ſpread the captivating deluſion over all the world.

In the ſucceeding period we review the poet in full poſſeſſion of this brilliant machinery and with all Olympus at his command: Surrounded by Apollo and the muſes he commences every poem with an addreſs to them for protection: He has a deity at his call for every operation of nature; if he would roll the thunder, Jupiter ſhakes Mount Ida to dignify his deſcription; Neptune attends him in his car, if he would allay the ocean; if he would let looſe the winds to [280] raiſe it Aeolus unbars his cave; the ſpear of Mars and the aegis of Minerva arm him for the battle; the arrows of Apollo ſcatter peſtilence through the air; Mercury flies upon the meſ⯑ſages of Jupiter; Juno raves with jealouſy and Venus leads the Loves and Graces in her train. In this claſs we contemplate Homer and his in⯑ferior brethren of the epic order; it is their pro⯑vince to form the warrior, inſtruct the politician, animate the patriot; they delineate the charac⯑ters and manners; they charm us with their de⯑ſcriptions, ſurprize us with their incidents, in⯑tereſt us with their dialogue; they engage every paſſion in its turn, melt us to pity, rouſe us to glory, ſtrike us with terror, fire us with indigna⯑tion; in a word they prepare us for the drama, and the drama for us.

A new poet now comes upon the ſtage; he ſtands in perſon before us: He no longer ap⯑pears as a blind and wandering bard chaunting his rhapſodies to a throng of villagers collected in a group about him, but erects a ſplendid the⯑atre, gathers together a whole city as his audi⯑ence, prepares a ſtriking ſpectacle, provides a chorus of actors, brings muſic, dance and dreſs to his aid, realizes the thunder, burſts open the tombs of the dead, calls forth their apparitions, [281] deſcends to the very regions of the damned and drags the Furies from their flames to preſent themſelves perſonally to the terrified ſpectators: Such are the powers of the drama; here the poet reigns and triumphs in his higheſt glory.

The fifth denomination gives us the lyric poet chaunting his ode at the public games and feſti⯑vals, crowned with olive and encompaſſed by all the wits and nobles of his age and country: Here we contemplate Steſichorus, Alcaeus, Pin⯑dar, Calliſtratus; ſublime, abrupt, impetuous they ſtrike us with the ſhock of their electric ge⯑nius; they dart from earth to heaven; there is no following them in their flights; we ſtand gaz⯑ing with ſurprize, their boldneſs awes us, their brevity confounds us; their ſudden tranſitions and ellipſes eſcape our apprehenſion; we are charmed we know not why, we are pleaſed with being puzzled and applaud although we cannot comprehend. In the lighter lyric we meet Ana⯑creon, Sappho, and the votaries of Bacchus and Venus; in the grave, didactic, ſolemn claſs we have the venerable names of a Solon, a Tyrtaeus and thoſe, who may be ſtiled the demagogues in poetry: Is liberty to be aſſerted, licentiouſneſs to be repreſſed? Is the ſpirit of a nation to be rouſed? It is the poet not the orator muſt give [282] the ſoul its energy and ſpring: Is Salamis to be recovered? It is the elegy of Solon muſt found the march to it's attack. Are the Lacedaemoni⯑ans to be awakened from their lethargy? It is Tyrtaeus, who muſt ſing the war-ſong and revive their languid courage.

Poetry next appears in its paſtoral character; it affects the garb of ſhepherds and the language of the ruſtic: It repreſents to our view the rural landſcape and the peaceful cottage; it records the labours, the amuſements, the loves of the village nymphs and ſwains, and exhibits nature in its ſimpleſt ſtate: It is no longer the harp or the lyre, but the pipe of the poet, which now in⯑vites our attention: Theocritus, leaning on his crook in his ruſſet mantle and clouted brogues, ap⯑pears more perfectly in character than the court⯑ly Maro, who ſeems more the ſhepherd of the theatre than of the field. I have yet one other claſs in reſerve for the epigrammatiſt, but I will ſhut up my liſt without him, not being willing that poetry, which commences with a prayer, ſhould conclude with a pun.

N^o CLII.

WE have heard ſo much of the tragical ef⯑fects of jealouſy, that I was not a little pleaſed with an account lately given me of a gentleman, who has been happily cured of his jealouſy without any of thoſe melancholy cir⯑cumſtances, which too frequently reſult from that fatal paſſion, even when it is groundleſs: As this gentleman's jealouſy was of that deſcrip⯑tion, I am the rather tempted to relate the ſtory (under proper caution as to names and perſons) becauſe there is a moral juſtice in its cataſtrophe, which is pleaſing even in fiction, but more par⯑ticularly ſo when we meet it in the real occur⯑rences of life.

Sir Paul Teſty in his forty-eighth year mar⯑ried the beautiful Louiſa in her eighteenth; there are ſome parents, who ſeem to think a good ſet⯑tlement can atone for any diſparity of age, and Louiſa's were of this ſort. Sir Paul had a mai⯑den ſiſter ſeveral years younger than himſelf, who had kept his houſe for ſome time before his marriage with Louiſa, and as this lady was in [284] fact an admirable oeconomiſt and alſo in poſſeſ⯑ſion of a very conſiderable independent fortune, the prudent baronet took his meaſures for her continuance in his family, where under pretence of aſſiſting the inexperience of his young bride ſhe ſtill maintained her government in as abſo⯑lute authority as ever: As Miſs Rachel would have been better pleaſed with her brother, had he choſen a wife with leſs beauty and more for⯑tune than Louiſa brought into the family, it may well be doubted if ſhe would have remained with him after his marriage, had ſhe not been pretty far advanced in an affair of the heart with a cer⯑tain young gentleman, whoſe attentions, though in fact directed to her purſe, ſhe was willing to believe had been honourably addreſſed to her per⯑ſon: This young gentleman, whom I ſhall call Lionel, was undoubtedly an object well deſerv⯑ing the regards of any lady in Miſs Rachel's pre⯑dicament; with a fine perſon and engaging ad⯑dreſs he had the recommendation of high birth, being a younger ſon of the Lord Mortimer, a ve⯑nerable old peer, who reſided at his family man⯑ſion within a few miles of Sir Paul, and lived upon the moſt friendly terms with him in a fre⯑quent intercourſe of viſits: Lionel had given this worthy father great uneaſineſs from his early [285] diſſipation and extravagance; conſiderable ſums had been paid for him to clear his debts, but the old lord's eſtate being a moderate one and en⯑tailed upon his eldeſt ſon, Lionel had been obliged to ſell out of the army, and was now living at home upon the bounty of his father on a reduced and ſlender allowance.

It is not to be wondered at that Lionel, who felt his own embaraſſments too ſenſibly to neg⯑lect any fair means of getting rid of them, ſhould be willing to repair his ſhattered fortunes by an advantageous match; and though Miſs Rachel was not exactly the lady he would have choſen, yet he very juſtly conſidered that his cir⯑cumſtances did not entitle him to chuſe for him⯑ſelf; he was alſo ſtrongly urged to the meaſure by his father, to whoſe wiſhes he held himſelf bound to conform not only on the ſcore of duty but of atonement likewiſe: At this time the af⯑fair was in ſo promiſing a train, that there is lit⯑tle doubt but it would have been brought to a concluſion between the parties, had not Sir Paul's marriage taken place as it did; but as Miſs Rachel for reaſons, which are ſufficiently explained, determined upon remaining with her brother, the intercourſe between the lovers was renewed, as ſoon as Sir Peter had brought home [286] his bride, and was ſufficiently ſettled to receive the viſits of his friends and neighbours on the occaſion.

Now it was that the unhappy Rachel became a victim to the moſt tormenting of all human paſſions: her ſiſter-in-law had a thouſand charms, and ſhe ſoon diſcovered, or fancied ſhe diſ⯑covered, that Lionel's attentions were directed towards a fairer object than herſelf: She had now the ſtrongeſt of all motives for keeping a watchful eye upon Louiſa's behaviour, and it is the property of jealouſy to magnify and diſcolour every thing it looks upon; for ſome time how⯑ever ſhe kept herſelf under prudent reſtraint; a hint now and then, cautiouſly introduced in the way of advice, was all ſhe ventured upon; but theſe hints were ſo little attended to by Louiſa, whoſe innocent gayety lent no ear to ſuch re⯑monſtrances, that they were occaſionally re⯑peated in a graver tone; as theſe grew more and more peeviſh, Louiſa began to take a little miſ⯑chievous pleaſure in teazing, and was piqued in⯑to a behaviour, which probably ſhe would never have indulged herſelf in towards Lionel, had not Rachel's jealouſy provoked her to it; ſtill it was innocent, but ſo far imprudent, as it gave a handle to Rachel's malice, who now began to [287] ſow the ſeeds of diſcontent in her brother's irri⯑table boſom.

In one of thoſe ſparring dialogues, which now frequently paſſed between the ſiſters, Ra⯑chel, after deſcanting upon the old topic with ſome degree of aſperity, concluded her lecture with many profeſſions of zeal for Louiſa's happineſs, and obſerved to her as an apology for the freedom of her advice, that ſhe had a right to ſome little experience of the world more than had yet fallen to the other's lot: To which Louiſa replied with ſome tartneſs—‘"True! for you have lived more years in it than I have."—’ ‘"A few perhaps,"’ anſwered Rachel.—‘"As few, or as many as you chuſe to acknow⯑ledge,"’ added Louiſa: ‘"It is one amongſt a variety of advantages over me, which you are too generous to boaſt of, and I too humble to repine at."—’ ‘"Be that as it may,"’ ſaid the elder damſel, ‘"you will give me leave to obſerve that you have a double call upon you for diſ⯑cretion; you are a married woman."’

‘"Perhaps that very circumſtance may be a proof of my indiſcretion."’

‘"How ſo, madam! I may venture to ſay my brother Sir Paul was no unſeaſonable match for your ladyſhip; at leaſt I can wit⯑neſs [288] ſome pains were employed on your part to obtain him."’

‘"Well, my dear ſiſter,"’ replied Louiſa with an affected nonchalance, ‘"after ſo much pains is it not natural I ſhould wiſh to repoſe myſelf a little?"—’ ‘"Indiſcretion admits of no repoſe; health, honour, happineſs are ſacrificed by it's effects; it ſaps the reputation of a wife; it ſhakes the affections of a huſband."’

‘"Be content!"’ cried Louiſa, ‘"if you will give no cauſe for diſturbing the affections of the huſband, I will take care none ſhall be given for attainting the reputation of the wife."’

At this moment Sir Paul entered the room, and perceiving by the countenances of the ladies, that they were not perfectly in good-humour with each other, eagerly demanded of Louiſa why ſhe looked ſo grave.

‘"I would look grave, if I could,"’ ſhe replied, ‘"out of compliment to my company; but I have ſo light a conſcience and ſo gay a heart, that I cannot look gravity in the face without laughing at it."’

This was delivered with ſo pointed a glance at Rachel, that it was not poſſible to miſtake the application, and ſhe had no ſooner left the room, [289] than an explanation took place between the bro⯑ther and ſiſter, in the courſe of which Rachel artfully contrived to infuſe ſuch a copious por⯑tion of her own poiſonous jealouſy into the bo⯑ſom of ſir Paul, that upon the arrival of lord Mortimer, which was at this criſis announced to him, he took a ſudden determination to give him to underſtand how neceſſary it was become to his domeſtic happineſs, that Lionel ſhould be in⯑duced to diſcontinue his viſits in his family.

Under theſe impreſſions and in a very awk⯑ward ſtate of mind Sir Paul repaired to his library, where lord Mortimer was expecting him in a ſituation of no leſs embaraſſment, having conned over a ſpeech for the purpoſe of introdu⯑cing a propoſal for an alliance between the fami⯑lies, and with a view to ſound how Sir Paul might ſtand affected towards a match between his ſon Lionel and Miſs Rachel.

As ſoon as the firſt ceremonies were over, which were not very ſpeedily diſmiſſed, as both parties were ſtrict obſervers of the old rules of breeding, his lordſhip began after his manner to wind about by way of reconnoitring his ground, and having compoſed his features with much gravity and deliberation, began to open his honourable trenches as follows—‘"In very truth, Sir Paul, I [290] proteſt to you there are few things in life can give me more pleaſure than to find my ſon Lionel ſo aſſiduous in his viſits to this fa⯑mily."’—The baronet, whoſe mind at this moment was not capable of adverting to any other idea but what had reference to his own jealouſy, ſtared with amazement at this unex⯑pected addreſs and was ſtaggered how to reply to it; at laſt with much heſitation in a tone of ill-counterfeited raillery he replied that he truly believed there was one perſon in his family, to whom Mr. Lionel's viſits were particularly ac⯑ceptable; and as this was a ſubject very near his heart, nay, that alone upon which the honour and happineſs of him and his family depended, he aſſured his lordſhip that it was with avidity he embraced the opportunity of coming to an explanation, which he hoped would be as confi⯑dential on his lordſhip's part, as it ſhould be on his own. There was ſomething in the manner of Sir Paul's delivery, as well as in the matter of the ſpeech itſelf, which alarmed the hereditary pride of the old peer, who drawing himſelf up with great dignity obſerved to Sir Paul, that for his ſon Lionel he had this to ſay, that want of honour was never amongſt his failings; nay it was never to be charged with impunity againſt [291] any member of his family, and that to prevent any imputation of this ſort from being grounded upon his ſon's aſſiduities to a certain lady, he had now ſought this interview and explanation with his good friend and neighbour.

This was ſo kind a lift in Sir Paul's concep⯑tion towards his favourite point, that he immedi⯑ately exclaimed—‘"I ſee your lordſhip is not unappriſed of what is too conſpicuous to be overlooked by any body, who is familiar in this houſe; but as I know your lordſhip is a man of the niceſt honour in your own perſon, I ſhould hold myſelf eſſentially bound to you, if you would prevail upon your ſon to adopt the like principles towards a certain lady un⯑der this roof, and caution him to deſiſt from thoſe aſſiduities, which you yourſelf have noticed, and which to confeſs the truth to you I cannot be a witneſs to without very great uneaſineſs and diſcontent."’

Upon theſe words the peer ſtarted from his ſeat as nimbly as age would permit him, and with great firmneſs replied—‘"Sir Paul Teſty, if this be your wiſh and deſire, let me aſſure you, it ſhall be mine alſo; my ſon's viſits in this family will never be repeated; ſet your [292] heart at reſt; Lionel Mortimer will give you and your's no further diſturbance."’

‘"My lord,"’ anſwered the baronet, ‘"I am penetrated with the ſenſe of your very honour⯑able proceedings, and the warmth with which you have expreſſed yourſelf on a ſubject ſo cloſely interwoven with my peace of mind; you have eaſed my heart of it's burthen and I ſhall ever be moſt grateful to you for it."’

‘"Sir,"’ replied the peer, ‘"there is more than enough ſaid on the ſubject; I dare ſay my ſon will ſurvive his diſappointment."—’ ‘"I dare ſay he will,"’ ſaid Sir Paul, ‘"I cannot doubt the ſucceſs of Mr. Lionel's attentions; I have only to hope he will direct them to ſome other object."’

Lord Mortimer now muttered ſomething, which Sir Paul did not hear, nor perhaps attend to, and took a haſty leave. When it is explained to the reader that Miſs Rachel had never, even in the moſt diſtant manner, hinted the ſituation of her heart to her brother, on the contrary had induſtriouſly concealed it from him, this mal⯑entendu will not appear out of nature and proba⯑bility. Lionel, whoſe little gallantries with Louiſa had not gone far enough ſeriouſly to en⯑gage [293] his heart, was ſufficiently tired of his mer⯑cenary attachment to Miſs Rachel; ſo that he patiently ſubmitted to his diſmiſſion and readily obeyed his father's commands by a total diſcon⯑tinuance of his viſits to Sir Paul: To the ladies of the family this behaviour appeared alto⯑gether myſterious; Sir Paul kept the ſecret to himſelf, and watched Louiſa very narrowly; when he found ſhe took no other notice of Lionel's neglect, than by ſlightly remarking that ſhe ſuppoſed he was more agreeably engaged, he began to diſmiſs his jealouſy and regain his ſpirits.

It was far otherwiſe with the unhappy Rachel; her heart was on the rack, for though ſhe na⯑turally ſuſpected her brother's jealouſy of being the cauſe of Lionel's abſence, yet ſhe could not account for his ſilence towards herſelf in any other way than by ſuppoſing that Louiſa had totally drawn off his affections from her, and this was agony not to be ſupported; day after day paſſed in anxious expectation of a letter to explain this cruel neglect, but none came; all communication with the whole family of lord Mortimer was at a ſtop; no intelligence could be obtained from that quarter, and to all ſuch enquiries as ſhe ventured to try upon her brother, [294] he anſwered ſo drily, that ſhe could gather no⯑thing from him: In the mean time as he became hourly better reconciled to Louiſa, ſo he grew more and more cool to the miſerable Rachel, who now too late diſcovered the fatal conſequences of interfering between huſband and wife, and heartily reproached herſelf for her officiouſneſs in aggravating his jealouſy.

Whilſt ſhe was tormenting herſelf with theſe reflections, and when Louiſa ſeemed to have for⯑gotten that ever ſuch a perſon as Lionel exiſted, a report was circulated that he was about to be married to a certain lady of great rank and for⯑tune, and that he had gone up with lord Mor⯑timer to town for that purpoſe. There wanted only this blow to make Rachel's agonies com⯑pleat; in a ſtate of mind little ſhort of phrenſy ſhe betook herſelf to her chamber, and there ſhutting herſelf up ſhe gave vent to her paſſion in a letter fully charged with complaints and re⯑proaches, which ſhe committed to a truſty meſ⯑ſenger with ſtrict injunctions to deliver it into Lionel's own hand, and return with his anſwer: This commiſſion was faithfully performed, and the following is the anſwer ſhe received in return.—

Every hope being extinguiſhed by the receipt of this letter, the diſconſolate Rachel became [296] henceforth one of the moſt miſerable of human beings: After venting a torrent of rage againſt her brother, ſhe turned her back upon his houſe for ever, and undetermined where to ſix, whilſt at intervals ſhe can ſcarce be ſaid to be in poſſeſſion of her ſenſes, ſhe is ſtill wandering from place to place in ſearch of that repoſe, which is not to be found, and wherever ſhe goes exhibits a melan⯑choly ſpectacle of diſappointed envy and ſelf-tor⯑menting ſpleen.

N^o CLIII.

A Deliſa poſſeſt of beauty, fortune, rank, and every elegant accompliſhment, that genius and education could beſtow, was withal ſo un⯑ſupportably capricious, that ſhe ſeemed born to be the torment of every heart, which ſuffered itſelf to be attracted by her charms. Though her coquetry was notorious to a proverb, ſuch were her allurements, that very few, upon whom ſhe thought fit to practiſe them, had ever found reſolution to reſiſt their power. Of all the vic⯑tims of her vanity Leander ſeemed to be that [297] over whom ſhe threw her chains with the greateſt air of triumph; he was indeed a con⯑queſt to boaſt of, for he had long and obſtinately defended his heart, and for a time made as many repriſals upon the tender paſſions of her ſex as ſhe raiſed contributions upon his: Her better ſtar at length prevailed; ſhe beheld Leander at her feet, and though her victory was accompliſhed at the expence of more tender glances, than ſhe had ever beſtowed upon the whole ſex collec⯑tively, yet it was a victory, which only piqued Adeliſa to render his ſlavery the more intolerable for the trouble it had coſt her to reduce him to it. After ſhe had trifled with him and tortured him in every way that her ingenious malice could deviſe, and made ſuch public diſplay of her ty⯑ranny, as ſubjected him to the ridicule and con⯑tempt of all the men, who had envied his ſuc⯑ceſs, and every woman, who reſented his neglect, Adeliſa avowedly diſmiſſed him as an object which could no longer furniſh ſport to her cruelty, and turned to other purſuits with a kind of indifference as to the choice of them, which ſeemed to have no other guide but mere ca⯑price.

Leander was not wanting to himſelf in the efforts he now made to free himſelf from her [298] chains; but it was in vain; the hand of beauty had wrapped them too cloſely about his heart, and love had rivetted them too ſecurely, for reaſon, pride or even the ſtrongeſt ſtruggles of reſentment to throw them off; he continued to love, to hate, to execrate and adore her. His firſt reſolution was to exile himſelf from her ſight; this was a meaſure of abſolute neceſſity, for he was not yet recovered enough to abide the chance of meet⯑ing her, and he had neither ſpirits nor inclina⯑tion to ſtart a freſh attachment by way of experi⯑ment upon her jealouſy. Fortune however be⯑friended him in the very moment of deſpair, for no ſooner was he out of her ſight, than the co⯑quettiſh Adeliſa found ſomething wanting, which had been ſo familiar to her, that Leander, though deſpiſed when poſſeſt, when loſt was regretted. In vain ſhe culled her numerous admirers for ſome one to replace him; continually peeviſh and diſcontented Adeliſa became ſo intolerable to her lovers, that there ſeemed to be a ſpirit conjuring up amongſt them, which threatened her with a general deſertion. What was to be done? Her danger was alarming, it was immi⯑nent: She determined to recall Leander: She informed herſelf of his haunts, and threw herſelf in the way of a rencontre; but he avoided her: [299] Chance brought them to an interview, and ſhe began by rallying him for his apoſtacy: There was an anxiety under all this affected pleaſantry, that ſhe could not thoroughly conceal, and he did not fail to diſcover: He inſtantly determined upon the very wiſeſt meaſure, which deliberation could have formed; he combated her with her own weapons; he put himſelf apparently ſo much at his eaſe and counterfeited his part ſo well, as effectually to deceive her: ſhe had now a new taſk upon her hands and the hardeſt as well as the moſt hazardous ſhe had ever under⯑taken: She attempted to throw him off his guard by a pretended pity for his paſt ſufferings and a promiſe of kinder uſage for the future: He denied that he had ſuffered any thing, and aſſured her that he never failed to be amuſed by her humours, which were perfectly agreeable to him at all times.—‘"Then it is plain,"’ replied ſhe, ‘"that you never thought of me as a wife; for ſuch humours muſt be inſupportable to a huſband."—’ ‘"Pardon me,"’ cried Leander, ‘"if ever I ſhould be betrayed into the idle act of marriage, I muſt be in one of thoſe very humours myſelf: Defend me from the dull uniformity of domeſtic life! What can be ſo inſipid as the tame ſtrain of nuptial har⯑mony [300] everlaſtingly repeated? Whatever other varieties I may then debar myſelf of, let me at leaſt find a variety of whim in the woman I am to be fettered to."—’ ‘"Upon my word,"’ exclaimed Adeliſa, ‘"you would almoſt perſuade me that we were deſtined for each other."’—This ſhe accompanied with one of thoſe looks, in which ſhe was moſt expert, and which was calculated at once to inſpire and to betray ſenſi⯑bility: Leander, not yet ſo certain of his obſer⯑vations as to confide in them, ſeemed to receive this ouverture as a raillery and affecting a laugh, replied—‘"I do not think it is in the power of deſtiny herſelf to determine either of us; for if you was for one moment in the humour to promiſe yourſelf to me, I am certain in the next you would retract it; and if I was fool enough to believe you, I ſhould well deſerve to be puniſhed for my credulity: Hymen will never yoak us to each other, nor to any body elſe; but if you are in the mind to make a very harmleſs experiment of the little faith I put in all ſuch promiſes, here is my hand; 'tis fit the propoſal ſhould ſpring from my quarter and not your's; cloſe with it as ſoon as you pleaſe, and laugh at me as much as you pleaſe, if I vent one murmur when you break the [301] bargain."—’ ‘"Well then,"’ ſaid Adeliſa, ‘"to puniſh you for the ſaucineſs of your provok⯑ing challenge, and to convince you that I do not credit you for this pretended indifference to my treatment of you, here is my hand, and with it my promiſe; and now I give you warn⯑ing, that if ever I do keep it, 'twill be only from the conviction that I ſhall torment you more by fulfilling it than by flying from it."—’ ‘"Fairly declared,"’ cried Leander, ‘"and ſince my word is paſſed, I'll ſtand to it; but take notice, if I was not perfectly ſecure of being jilted, I ſhould think myſelf in a fair way to be the moſt egregious dupe in nature."’

In this ſtrain of mutual raillery they proceeded to ſettle the moſt ſerious buſineſs of their lives, and whilſt neither would venture upon a confeſ⯑ſion of their paſſion, each ſeemed to rely upon the other for a diſcovery of it. They now broke up their conference in the gayeſt ſpirits imaginable, and Leander upon parting offered to make a bett of half his fortune with Adeliſa that ſhe did not ſtand to her engagement, at the ſame time naming a certain day as the period of its taking place.—‘"And what ſhall I gain,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"in that caſe by half your fortune, when I ſhall have a joint ſhare in poſſeſſion of the [302] whole?"—’ ‘"Talk not of fortune,"’ cried Leander, giving looſe to the rapture which he could no longer reſtrain, ‘"my heart, my happi⯑neſs, my life itſelf is your's."’—So ſaying he caught her in his arms, preſſed her eagerly in his embrace, and haſtily departed.

No ſooner was he out of her ſight than he began to expoſtulate with himſelf upon his indiſ⯑cretion: In the ecſtacy of one unguarded mo⯑ment he had blaſted all his ſchemes, and by ex⯑poſing his weakneſs armed her with freſh en⯑gines to torment him. In theſe reflections he paſſed the remainder of the night; in vain he ſtrove to find ſome juſtification for his folly; he could not form his mind to believe that the ten⯑der looks ſhe had beſtowed upon him were any other than an experiment upon his heart to throw him from his guard and reeſtabliſh her tyranny. With theſe impreſſions he preſented himſelf at her door next morning and was immediately admitted; Adeliſa was alone, and Leander im⯑mediately began by ſaying to her—‘"I am now come to receive at your hands the puniſhment, which a man who cannot keep his own ſecret richly deſerves; I ſurrender myſelf to you, and I expect you will exert your utmoſt in⯑genuity in tormenting me; only remember [303] that you cannot give a ſtab to my heart with⯑out wounding your own image, which enve⯑lopes every part, and is too deeply impreſt for even your cruelty totally to extirpate."’—At the concluſion of this ſpeech, Adeliſa's counte⯑nance became ſerious; ſhe fixt her eyes upon the floor and after a pauſe without taking any notice of Leander, and as if ſhe had been talking to herſelf in ſoliloquy repeated in a murmuring tone—‘"Well, well, 'tis all over; but no mat⯑ter."—’ ‘"For the love of Heaven,"’ cried Leander in alarm, ‘"what is all over?"—’ ‘"All that is moſt delightful to woman,"’ ſhe replied; ‘"all the luxury, which the vanity of my ſex enjoys in tormenting your's: Oh Leander! what charming projects of revenge had I con⯑trived to puniſh your pretended indifference, and depend upon it I would have executed them to the utmoſt rigour of the law of reta⯑liation, had you not in one moment diſarmed me of my malice by a fair confeſſion of your love. Believe me, Leander, I never was a coquette but in ſelf-defence; ſincerity is my natural character; but how ſhould a woman of any attractions be ſafe in ſuch a character, when the whole circle of faſhion abounds with artificial coxcombs, pretenders to ſentiment [430] and profeſſors of ſeduction? When the whole world is in arms againſt innocence, what is to become of the naked children of nature, if experience does not teach them the art of de⯑fence? If I have employed this art more par⯑ticularly againſt you than others, why have I ſo done, but becauſe I had more to apprehend from your inſincerity than any other perſon's, and proportioned my defences to my danger? Between you and me, Leander, it has been more a conteſt of cunning than an affair of honour, and if you will call your own conduct into fair review, truſt me you will find little reaſon to complain of mine. Naturally diſ⯑poſed to favour your attentions more than any other man's, it particularly behoved me to guard myſelf againſt propenſities at once ſo pleaſing and ſo ſuſpicious. Let this ſuffice in juſtification of what is paſt; it now remains that I ſhould explain to you the ſyſtem I have laid down for the time to come: If ever I aſſume the character of a wife, I devote myſelf to all it's duties; I bid farewell at once to all the vanities, the petulancies, the coquetries of what is falſely called a life of pleaſure; the whole ſyſtem muſt undergo a revolution and be adminiſtered upon other principles and to [305] other purpoſes: I know the world too well to commit myſelf to it, when I have more than my own conſcience to account to, when I have not only truths but the ſimilitudes of truths to ſtudy; ſuſpicions, jealouſies, appearances to provide againſt; when I am no longer ſingly reſponſible on the ſcore of error, but of example alſo: It is not therefore in the public diſplay of an affluent fortune, in dreſs, equipage, en⯑tertainments, nor even in the fame of ſplendid charities my pleaſures will be found; they will center in domeſtic occupations; in cultivating nature and the ſons of nature, in benefiting the tenants and labourers of the ſoil that ſupplies us with the means of being uſeful; in living hap⯑pily with my neighbours, in availing myſelf of thoſe numberleſs opportunities, which a reſi⯑dence in the country affords of relieving the un⯑told diſtreſſes of thoſe, who ſuffer in ſecret, and are too humble or perhaps too proud to aſk."’—Here the enraptured Leander could no longer keep ſilence, but breaking forth into tranſports of love and admiration, gave a turn to the con⯑verſation, which it is no otherwiſe intereſting to relate than as it proved the prelude to an union which ſpeedily took place and has made Leander and Adeliſa the fondeſt and the worthieſt couple in England.

[306]From Adeliſa's example I would willingly eſtabliſh this concluſion, that the characters of young unmarried women, who are objects of admiration, are not to be decided upon by the appearances, which they are oftentimes tempted to aſſume upon the plea of ſelf-defence: I would not be underſtood by this to recommend diſguiſe in any ſhape, or to juſtify thoſe who reſort to arti⯑fice upon the pretended neceſſity of the meaſure; but I am thoroughly diſpoſed to believe that the triflings and diſſemblings of the young and fair do not ſo often flow from the real levity of their natures, as they are thought to do: Thoſe in particular, whoſe ſituation throws them into the vortex of the faſhion, have much that might be ſaid in palliation of appearances. Many co⯑quettes beſides Adeliſa have become admirable wives and mothers, and how very many more might have approved themſelves ſuch, had they fallen into the hands of men of worth and good ſenſe, is a conjecture, which leads to the moſt melancholy reflections. There is ſo little hono⯑rable love in the men of high life before mar⯑riage, and ſo much infidelity after it, that the huſband is almoſt in every inſtance the cor⯑rupter of his wife. A woman (as ſhe is called) of the world is in many people's notions a pro⯑ſcribed [307] animal; a ſilly idea prevails that ſhe is to lead a huſband into certain ruin and diſgrace: Parents in general ſeem agreed in exerting all their influence and authority for keeping her out of their families; in place of whom they fre⯑quently obtrude upon their ſons ſome raw and inexperienced thing, whom they figure to them⯑ſelves as a creature of perfect innocence and ſimplicity, a wife who may be modelled to the wiſhes of her huſband, whoſe manners are un⯑tainted by the vices of the age, and on whoſe purity, fidelity and affection he may repoſe his happineſs for the reſt of his days. Alas! how groſsly they misjudge their own true intereſts in the caſe: How dangerous is the ſituation of theſe children of the nurſery at their firſt introduction into the world! Thoſe only who are unacquaint⯑ed with the deceitfulneſs of pleaſure can be thoroughly intoxicated by it; it is the novelty which makes the danger; and ſurely it requires infinitely more judgment, ſtronger reſolutions and cloſer attentions to ſteer the conduct of a young wife without experience, than would ſerve to detach the woman of the world from frivolities ſhe is ſurfeited with, and by fixing her to your intereſts convert what you have thought a diſſi⯑pated character into a domeſtic one.

[308]The ſame remark applies to young men of private education: you keep them in abſolute ſubjection till they marry, and then in a moment make them their own maſters; from mere in⯑fancy you expect them to ſtep at once into per⯑fect manhood: The motives for the experiment may be virtuous, but the effects of it will be fatal.

I am now approaching to the concluſion of this my fifth volume, and according to my pre⯑ſent purpoſe ſhall diſmiſs the Obſervers from any further duty: The reader and I are here to part. A few words therefore on ſuch an occaſion I may be permitted to ſubjoin; I have done my beſt to merit his protection, and as I have been favorably heard whilſt yet talking with him, I hope I ſhall not be unkindly remembered when I can ſpeak no more: I have paſſed a life of many labours, and now being near it's end have little to boaſt but of an inherent good-will to⯑wards mankind, which diſappointments, injuries and age itſelf have not been able to diminiſh. It has been the chief aim of all my attempts to reconcile and endear man to man: I love my [309] country and contemporaries to a degree of en⯑thuſiaſm that I am not ſure is perfectly defenſi⯑ble; though to do them juſtice, each in their turns have taken ſome pains to cure me of my partiality. It is however one of thoſe ſtubborn habits, which people are apt to excuſe in them⯑ſelves by calling it a ſecond nature. There is a certain amiable lady in the world, in whoſe inte⯑reſts I have the tendereſt concern and whoſe virtues I contemplate with paternal pride; to her I have always wiſhed to dedicate theſe vo⯑lumes; but when I conſider that ſuch a tribute cannot add an atom to her reputation, and that no form of words, which I can invent for the oc⯑caſion, would do juſtice to what paſſes in my heart, I drop the undertaking and am ſilent.