NUMB. LXVI. Saturday, May 1.

THERE never has been a period in which greater pretenſions were made to patriotiſm than in the preſent, though perhaps there never was a pe⯑riod in which public ſpirit was ſo utter⯑ly diſregarded. Every man we meet has ſomething to ſay about the ſufferings of his unfortunate country, though at that very moment he is doing every thing in his power to prejudice this unfor⯑nate country himſelf. In the courſe of my ac⯑quaintance I have known a man exclaim againſt luxury, who could not make a dinner without twelve or fourteen diſhes; and have heard a woman of faſhion commiſerating the caſe of our diſtreſſed manufactures, with the very ſame [2] breath that gave orders for the purchaſe of a French ſilk, a ſet of Dreſden diſhes, or an Indian cabinet. Contradiction is the prevailing foible of the preſent age; and in nothing are we more un⯑accountable, than in our eternal pretenſions to conſiſtency.

THE moſt whimſical patriot, however, whom I have met with, is Ned Scamper. This extraor⯑dinary character has ſtudied the celebrated fable of the bees with the cloſeſt attention, and puts down every vice or folly which he commits to the good of his country. If he gets intoxicated, it is from a ſpirit of genuine patriotiſm. The national revenue is benefited in proportioned to the quan⯑tity he conſumes: and if he breaks the head of an unfortunate waiter, that's another inſtance of public ſpirit. The money which he gives to make the affair up, circulates through the community, and is a cauſe of ſatisfaction to a thouſand families. In ſhort, Ned has drank, wenched, fought, and beggared himſelf, through an exalted ſolicitude for the general emolument, and is now cloſe pent up in one of our priſons, out of a pure and diſin⯑tereſted regard for the welfare of ſociety.

YET notwithſtanding the little claim which the generality of this kingdom can really have to the character of patriotiſm, it muſt nevertheleſs be acknowledged, that we have ſome people, who in oppoſition to the torrent of faſhionable folly, conſume ſcarcely any thing but the produce of their own country. To be ſure theſe people cut [3] but a very moderate figure in life; they ſeldom riſe beyond the level of oyſter women, common ſoldiers, hackney coachmen, or bricklayers' labou⯑rers: but what then, both their beer and their gin are manufactured within the weekly bills; and if their tobacco is not the immediate growth of Great Britain, it is at leaſt ſent us from ſome of the Britiſh plantations. Nay their very oaths are en⯑tirely of Engliſh materials — no 'Pon my honours— or let me dies, and ſuch like deſpicable exclamations of foreign contexture; but a ſolid b — t my l — s, like a humming tankard of Calvert's entire butt, ſtrkes us at once with admiration, and gives an equal proof both of their public ſpirit and under⯑ſtanding.

IT is remarkable, that though theſe people are the beſt friends to the real intereſt of their country, they nevertheleſs give themſelves no airs of im⯑portance, nor run into any inſolent ſelf-ſufficiencies about their attachment to the good of the kingdom. On the contrary, they leave every arrogance of this nature to their ſuperiors who act upon prin⯑ciples diametrically oppoſite; from which we may naturally infer, that thoſe are always the trueſt patriots who make the leaſt demands upon our gratitude for praiſe; and who purſue the indeviable path of national welfare, without looking upon themſelves as entitled to any extraordinary merit from the ſteadineſs of their courſe. It is alſo worthy of obſervation that the lower the ſituation of the Britiſh Plebeian, the more inflexibly rivetted [4] we find him to the good of his country; the more we ſee him wedded to his gin and tobacco; while on the contrary, the higher we go among conſe⯑quence and coronets, the higher encouragement we ſhall find given to every thing of a foreign ma⯑nufacture, and the higher we ſhall find the noſtril of contempt turned up at the produce of poor old England.

IT may poſſibly be obſerved on this occaſion, that notwithſtanding this great ſuperiority which I give the loweſt ranks over the very firſt; yet if an enquiry was made into the principles of each, both might appear to bear a nearer ſimilitude at bottom, than at preſent I ſeem inclinable to allow. It may poſſibly be urged, that if the pooreſt orders of the people were able to furniſh themſelves with the luxuries of life, they would run into juſt the ſame exceſſes for which they are continually railing at their betters; and manifeſt as little regard for the welfare of their country, as the moſt faſhiona⯑ble man of quality in the kingdom. Why in fact, I believe they would; but this proves nothing more, than that, with all our patriotic boaſting, we have not a ſingle ſpark of public ſpirit ex⯑iſting amongſt us as a nation; and that with all our ridiculous parade of free-born Engliſhmen, we are the verieſt ſlaves in the univerſe to the worſt of tyrants — vice and affectation.

THE only way to recover our liberty from the oppreſſive fangs of ſuch arbitrary rulers, is to make a proper uſe of our underſtand [...]ng. — [5] We do not want either ſpirit or good-ſenſe; yet through ſome unaccountable impulſe, we act as if utterly deſtitute of both. — We can ridicule our follies, and be aſhamed of our vices, yet never make the leaſt effort to get the better of either; and there is ſcarcely a road to virtue but what we have the juſtice to admire, at the very inſtant we are giving the moſt unbounded looſe to licentiouſ⯑neſs and immorality. With regard, however, to actions of a public kind, there is a patriotiſm of the moſt exalted nature, with which we have hitherto appeared totally unacquainted, notwith⯑ſtanding it is of infinitely greater importance than the encouragement of commerce or manufactures. This patriotiſm is the practice of moral rectitude, and the deſire of ſetting a good example to our neighbours. Now-a-days, if a legislator delivers a popular harangue in either houſe of parliament, we ſet him down as the deliciae humani generis; and upon the mere ſtrength of this ſingle qualification, give him an indubitable privilege to trample upon every law both of reaſon and morality. If he exerts himſelf in a ſtrenuous oppoſition to Go⯑vernment, we are regardleſs how many worthy tradeſmen he breaks by his diſhoneſty, and laugh at a violation of our wife and our daughters, where the ruffian happens to profeſs a real regard for the intereſt of his country. By this means we reconcile the whiteſt virtue with the moſt oppoſite vice; and imagine it poſſible, that a man can have the higheſt veneration imaginable for our rights [6] and liberties, when he is burſting through the moſt ſacred of them all.

LET us, however, be aſſured, that a bad man never made a real patriot. He that is inſenſible of what he owes to his Deity and to himſelf, can never be conſcious of what is due to his country. The foundation of all public excellence is in pri⯑vate virtue; and where we find that wanting, though a combination of ſome peculiar circum⯑ſtances may engage a great perſonage to ſupport the intereſt of his country, we may reſt aſſured, that he is actuated by motives very different to the principles of patriotiſm; and that he only makes uſe of the faſcinating ſound to cloak the purpoſes of diſappointed pride, and ſecret reſentment. Where a man truly loves his country, he is tender of its minuteſt laws, and pays an equal regard to the morals, as he does to the temporal intereſts, of the public.

NUMB. LXVII. Saturday, May 8.

THOUGH I have more than once con⯑demned the practice of toaſting as a cuſtom diametrically oppoſite to every principle both of reaſon and politeneſs, there is, however, one ſpe⯑cies of it which has yet eſcaped my animadverſion, though perhaps none of the leaſt culpable: I in⯑tend therefore to make it the ſubject of my preſent [7] diſcuſſion, and flatter myſelf that it will prove no way diſagreeable to my readers.

WHEN the faſhion of toaſting was firſt of all inſtituted, is by no means a neceſſary object of enquiry; but had it been judiciouſly confined to the limits of a tavern, and kept ſacred for the pur⯑poſes of midnight riot, it would be infinitely leſs entitled to our cenſure and contempt. The wild and giddy headed hour of extravagance might pro⯑bably palliate a caſual guſt of folly and licentiouſ⯑neſs; but when in open violation of all the dicta [...]es of decency, it is carried into private families, the leaſt extenuation becomes utterly impoſſible, and indignation is at a loſs whether moſt to con⯑demn the ignorance or the brutality of the pro⯑ceeding.

IT is a juſt obſervation of a very celebrated author, that in proportion as every country is barbarous, it is addicted to inebriety. Were the people of England to be judged of by this ſtandard, it is much to be feared, that our national cha⯑racter would be none of the moſt amiable. Not⯑withſtanding few people can lay down better rules [...] behaviour than ourſelves, there are none more unaccountably prepoſterous in their conduct: when we viſit at one anothers houſes, and propoſe to paſs a few hours in an agreeable manner, how ab⯑ſurdly do we ſet out: inſtead of endeavouring to enjoy what Mr. Pope finely calls ‘The feaſt of reaſon and the flow of ſoul,’ [8] we think every entertainment inſipid till reaſon is totally baniſhed out of company; and imagine, through ſome monſtrous depravity of inclination, that a ſocial emanation of ſoul is never to be ob⯑tained, but where politeneſs and propriety are ap⯑parently ſacrificed, and the roar of underbred ex⯑ceſs circulated round the room at the expence both of ſenſe and morality.

TO the indelible diſgrace of this country, there is ſcarcely a vice or a folly of our neighbours, but what we ſedulouſly copy, at the very moment we affect to mention the people whoſe manners we thus ridiculouſly imbibe, with the moſt inſupe⯑rable diſregard. Their good qualities are in fact the only things which we ſcorn to adopt, as if it was a derogation either from our ſpirit or our un⯑derſtanding to owe a ſingle inſtance of prudence or virtue to the force of example. France in par⯑ticular has kindly ſupplied us with an abundance of follies; but there is not, to my recollection, any one circumſtance wherein ſhe has given the ſmalleſt improvement to our underſtandings: not that France is deſtitute in ſenſe, or deficient in virtue: it is we who want the wiſdom of imitating her where ſhe is really praiſe-worthy; and are infatuated to the lamentable degree of neglecting thoſe actions which we ought to purſue with our higheſt admiration, to follow thoſe which ought to be the objects of our higheſt averſion and con⯑tempt.

[9]IN the preſent caſe, I mean their convivial en⯑tertainments, the French are particularly ſenſible and well-bred; they are all vivacity without run⯑ning into the leaſt indelicacy; and can keep up the neceſſary life of a ſocial meeting, without bor⯑rowing the ſmalleſt aſſiſtance from immorality. In the moſt elevated flow of ſpirits they never think of ſending the women out of company, merely to give an unbounded looſe to ribaldry and licentiouſ⯑neſs. On the contrary, they eſtimate the pleaſure of the entertainment by the number of the ladies; and look upon an evening to be moſt wretchedly trifled away, where a party of men make an ap⯑pointment for a tavern. Thus their politeneſs prevents them from deviating either into folly or vice; and in the moſt intimate intercourſe of fami⯑lies, nothing ſcarcely ever paſſes but a round of ſenſible freedom and unconſtrained civility.

WITH us, however, the caſe is widely diffe⯑rent; if half a dozen friends meet at the houſe of a valuable acquaintance, inſtead of treating his wife, his ſiſter, or his daughter, with a proper de⯑gree of reſpect; we all manifeſt an abſolute diſ⯑inclination for their company. The inſtant the cloth is taken away we expect, they ſhall retire, and look upon it as a piece of ill-breeding, if they accidentally ſtay a moment longer than ordinary. And for what are we ſo impatient to be left to ourſelves? Why, for the mighty ſatisfaction of drinking an obſcene toaſt, and the pleaſure of in⯑diſcriminately filling a bumper to a woman of ho⯑nour [10] and a ſtrumpet; the friend of our boſom, and a fellow whom we conſider perhaps as the greateſt ſcoundrel in the univerſe.

IN a country where the women are ſo gene⯑rally remarkable for good-ſenſe and delicate viva⯑city; where they alſo enjoy in other reſpects an ample ſhare of liberty, and in a manner regulate the laws of propriety, it is not a little ſurpriſing that in the moments of convivial feſtivity we ſhould treat them with ſo palpable a contempt. The hour in which we ſtrive to be moſt happy, one would naturally imagine ſhould be the time in which we ought moſt earneſtly to ſollicit the favour of their company: but no; it is impoſſible to make an Engliſhman happy without allowing him to run into the groſſeſt illiberalities. The converſation of an amiable woman he thinks by no means equal to the roar of a diſſolute com⯑panion; and it is abſolutely neceſſary to make him gloriouſly drunk, as the faſhionable phraſe is, before he can reach the envied pinnacle of a bon vivant felicity.

THE pleaſanteſt excuſe which all our choice ſpirits give for this extraordinary attachment to toaſting is, that without a toaſt, there would be no poſſibility of finding a ſufficient fund of con⯑verſation for the company. Why then are the ladies excluded, who could add ſo agreeably to the converſation? "O, becauſe their preſence would be an invincible reſtraint; we could not lay what we pleaſe, nor puſh the toaſt about;" that [11] is, in plain Engliſh, "we could not indulge our⯑ſelves in a thouſand ſcandalous exceſſes, which would diſgrace the loweſt plebeian of the commu⯑nity: we could neither deſtroy our conſtitution nor our principles; neither give a looſe to obſce⯑nity, intemperance, and execration; ridicule the laws of our country, nor fly out againſt the or⯑dinances of our God. Alas, civilized as we think ourſelves, is it an impoſſibility for a nation of ſavages to be more barbarous or abſurd? The ge⯑neral conſequence of our convivial meetings is the ſevereſt reflexion which they can undergo, for with, all our boaſted underſtanding, is it not rather an uncommon circumſtance for the moſt intimate ac⯑quaintance to break up without ſome broil highly prejudicial to their friendſhip, if not even dan⯑gerous to their lives?

TO remedy ſo great and ſo univerſal an evil; to reſcue our national character from the imputa⯑tion of barbariſm; and to eſtabliſh ſome little claim to the reputation of a civilized people, there are but two ways left; theſe however are both ſhort and effectual ones: to aboliſh toaſting in all taverns; and at all private houſes, never to make the ladies withdraw from company. By this means, in the firſt place, there will be no emula⯑tion among giddy-headed young fellows to ſwallow another bumper; nor any obligation for a man with a weak conſtitution to drink as hard as a ſeaſoned Fox-hunter: and in the ſecond inſtance, the meetings at private families by being conducted [12] agreeable to the principles of politeneſs, will never ſwerve from the ſentiments either of reaſon or virtue, but be, as they always ought, productive of ſocial mirth and real happineſs.

NUMB. LXVIII. Saturday, May 15.

NUMB. LXIX. Saturday, May 22.

NUMB. LXX. Saturday, May 29.

THOUGH it is univerſally allowed that we are every day arriving to a greater degree of knowledge in our theatrical entertainments, yet a number of ſenſible critics are continually inſiſting that there is a viſible decay in our dramatical pro⯑ductions; not only our performers, but our writers are mentioned in a light of the moſt contemptuous compariſon with their predeceſſors of the laſt half century; and it is conſidered by the generality of people, as an inſtance either of the groſſeſt igno⯑rance, or the ſtrongeſt preſumption, to ſuppoſe any thing like an equal degree of abilities.

THE gentlemen who criticiſe in this accurate manner, ſeem, however, to pay but little attention to the original inſtitution of the ſtage; they ima⯑gine it was entirely calculated for amuſement, without having the leaſt view to the great buſineſs of inſtruction, and ſo it could produce a ridiculous laugh, no matter what became either of our morals or our underſtandings. This whimſical mode of thinking, it is eaſy to diſcover, has taken it's riſe from the comedies of Wycherly, Congreve, and Vanburg, who always with a culpable degree of levity, were endeavouring to ſay brilliant things rather than juſt ones; and injudiciouſly imagined [24] that a lively flaſh of wit was a ſufficient excuſe for the rankeſt indecencies, or the moſt palpable at⯑tack upon the religion of their country.

THAT our dramatic writers, before the laſt half century, might poſſeſs a greater ſhare of wit than their ſucceſſors I ſhall by no means deny; but then it does not follow that this ſuperiority in wit, ſhould entitle them to a ſuperiority of repu⯑tation. Wit, in fact, is but a ſecondary requiſite to a dramatic poet; judgment is the firſt qualifi⯑cation; and he that wiſely attends to the cultivation of the mind, is by much a preferable writer to him, who ſacrifices every thing to an agreeable flip⯑pancy of expreſſion, and aims at nothing more than to excite the riſibility of his auditors. For theſe reaſons, though I admire Wycherly, Congreve, and Vanburg, as men of wit, yet as dramatic au⯑thors, I hold them in no extraordinary eſtimation: on the contrary, I look upon them with the greateſt contempt, for perverting the original end of the ſtage, and proſtituting ſuch abilities as they poſ⯑ſeſſed in the infamous purpoſes of licentiouſneſs and immorality.

I AM well aware that upon this occaſion it will be remarked, that the literary levity of theſe ce⯑lebrated writers was the vice of their age, and that in conformity to the general opinion, they were under a neceſſity of writing to the depravities of the people. — "If, ſay a number of our ſagacious critics, the authors under conſideration, repreſented human nature in a deſolute light, they repreſented [25] human nature as they found it. — Their villains and their ſtrumpets were characters very frequently met with, and they only caught the manners as they roſe to reflect them with an additional energy on the public." This argument is evidently falla⯑cious; and can ſcarce deſerve a ſerious examina⯑tion: to repreſent human nature as they found it, would have giving no room for exception; but their great error was in repreſenting thoſe parts of it, in an amiable light, which were entitled to univerſal abhorrence and contempt. Their villains and their ſtrumpets were ſet up as objects of general admiration; and vice fought under the maſk of an agreeable vivacity, with a ſucceſs that ſhould make every feeling mind tremble, left ſo dangerous a weapon as wit, ſhould at any future period be unhappily lodged in ſuch deſperate hands.

IT has often filled me with aſtoniſhment to hear men of good ſenſe frequently arguing in de⯑fence of Wycherly, Congreve, and Vanburg, by ſaying that their wit ſhould be an excuſe for their licentiouſneſs; and pleading that it was even worth our while to have vicious compoſitions, provided the vice was but decorated with ſuch forcible at⯑tractions as theſe writers have given it. People who talk in this manner may indeed look down upon the corrector productions of later days, with an air of inſuperable diſguſt. They may equally laugh at nature and inſtruction, and affect to ri⯑dicule every argument to which they find them⯑ſelves unable to reply: but the judicious enquirer, [26] will conſider wit when employed in the deſtruction of virtue, as the moſt infamous of all proſtitutions. — It is like a man of genius, who argues againſt the exiſtence of the Deity; and becomes obnoxious to ſociety in proportion as he is curſed with abili⯑ties; inſtead therefore, of being found a juſtifica⯑tion of the writers in diſpute, it becomes, in my opinion, an invincible objection to their works; and the more we are faſcinated with the brilliancy of their productions, the more we ſee a neceſſity for wiſhing thoſe productions had periſhed at their firſt appearance under the hands of the common executioner.

THE writers of the preſent times, however deſpiſed by the bigots of a dramatical hereſy, have, if we may judge by their performances, an in⯑finitely ſtronger claim to our admiration, than any of their celebrated predeceſſors, who actuated by an illiberal thirſt of fame, were led to ſeek it from the depravities of mankind. They ſenſibly recollect that the ſole end of the ſtage is to blend amuſement with inſtruction; and therefore never neglect the heart, through a view of bawding to the imagination; — hence, inſtead of finding them eternally on the ſent for ſnip-ſnap and repartee, we ſee them ſtudious in the diſcovery of manly ſentiments and laudable reflexions; and obſerve a general endeavour, while they labour for our ap⯑probation as writers, to obtain our good opinion as men. This good opinion they will be always ſure of obtaining, as long as they proſecute the [27] exalted principles which have hitherto influenced their conduct; and it is with the greateſt ſatis⯑faction I ſee their pieces frequently repreſented to crouded audiences, while the productions of a Wycherly, a Congreve, and a Vanburg are ſuffered to languiſh in the moſt merited contempt.

NUMB. LXXI. Saturday, June 5.

I KNOW nothing more dangerous than for a man of narrow circumſtances to poſſeſs an agreeable voice, or to be maſter of any other re⯑quiſite which expoſes him to a continual round of company, and renders him particularly enter⯑taining to his acquaintance. In ſuch a caſe, the general applauſe, with which he meets, gives him an eternal diſguſt to induſtry; and fills him with no ambition but that of being called upon for ano⯑ther ſong, or requeſted to relate the laſt frolic within the purlieus of the garden.

I WAS yeſterday taking a ſolitary walk in the Park, when I accidently ſaw a figure ſeated on one of the benches, with the lines of whoſe face I found myſelf ſomewhat familiar, and in the courſe of half a turn recollected that it was a young fellow who had formerly been clerk to my friend Mr. Demur, a counſellor in Lincoln's-inn, and was turned away by his maſter, for a total neglect of buſineſs. I had been often at Mr. Demur's, and had always heard him ſpeak of this young [28] man with a particular eſteem: to me he frequently recommended him on the ſcore of uncommon ho⯑neſty, and extraordinary abilities; nevertheleſs, he at the ſame time obſerved, that he never would be worth a groat. ‘The blockhead, he uſed to ſay, ſings an excellent ſong, and has a fund of humour that renders him infinitely entertaining; on this account he has ſuch a number of en⯑gagements upon his hands, that I cannot keep him a moment at the deſk; and though I love him almoſt as well as my own ſon, I muſt look out for ſome body elſe to ſupply his place.’

WHEN I came down the walk, the young fellow bowed to me, and as his appearance was uncom⯑monly ſhabby, I had either the curioſity, or the good nature to go over to him, and enquire what brought him into ſuch a miſerable plight; with the frankneſs that always accompanies a good heart; he told me it was his own folly; and added, that thoſe who wantonly ſported with their own felicity, ought never to be pitied in the day of diſtreſs. The manner in which theſe laſt words were delivered, ſtruk me very ſenſibly; I therefore ſat down with him on the bench, and requeſted if he could with propriety, that he would favour me with his ſtory, aſſuring him, I always had a tear at the ſervice of the unfortunate, and probably he might experience that I had ſomething elſe. En⯑couraged by this information, he gave a bow of aſſent, and proceeded with the following little narrative:

[29]IT is unneceſſary, Sir, to tell you anything about my education or family; ſuffice it that though the former was not deſpicable, nor the latter ungenteel, yet I had nothing to depend upon but my profeſſion; this indeed afforded me a tol⯑lerable probability of paſſing decently through life, had not an unhappy propenſity to company fatally intervened, and rendered that application to bu⯑ſineſs intollerable, which prudence pointed out as the only means of my ſupport.

THIS propenſity to company was increaſed to a conſiderable degree, from ſome trifling talents which I poſſeſſed to amuſe, ſuch as a paſſable ſong, and a mode of telling a ſtory with tollerable ſuc⯑ceſs. Theſe qualifications procured me ſo much regard among my friends that there never was a merry meeting appointed but Will Hargrave re⯑ceived an invitation, they were ſure he would favour them with a joyous catch; and often theſe applications were made with a ſolicitude which tickled my vanity ſo highly, that I have ſuffered myſelf to be engaged a whole month without in⯑termiſſion, and kept as regular a liſt of my various taverns, as if I had been allowed a very hand⯑ſome ſalary for my attendance. A cuſtom of this nature could not be ſupported without a great deal of expence; a crown or half a guinea every night was rather too much for a man, who with ſalary and perquiſites, ſcarcely made eighty pounds a year; the conſequence of which was, that I ran [30] into debt with every body that would truſt me, and forfeited my reputation through an utter in⯑ability of diſcharging their demands: beſides this, as I was always one of the laſt people who quitted company, I was generally intoxicated before I re⯑tired, and deſtroyed my conſtitution as much as I ruined my circumſtances. A man who conſtantly went to bed in ſuch a condition at four or five o'clock in the morning was but ill qualified for the neceſſary buſineſs of the day. After putting up with a thouſand irregularities, your friend Mr. Demur, at laſt diſmiſſed me, and my character be⯑ing pretty well known to all the gentlemen of the profeſſion, not a ſoul of them would receive me into his employ. In this ſituation a vintner, whoſe houſe I had often filled with company, ar⯑reſted me for a debt of fourteen pounds, threw me into jail, and kept me there till I was ſet at liberty by an act of grace at the end of four years. The hardſhips I underwent during the time of my con⯑finement were unſpeakable; for days together I have ſubſiſted on nothing but the common allowance of the priſon, and have thought myſelf happy if I could get a handful of ſtraw to ſleep on at night; a ſhirt was luxury with which I was utterly unacquainted for eighteen months; and during the laſt year, my intire wardrobe conſiſted of an old plaid night-gown; a pair of decayed Morocco ſlippers of different colours, a worſted night-cap, and a black ſtock. I almoſt forgot the uſe of breeches and ſtockings, and could I dare to ſay have [31] paſſed a winter in Greenland without any appre⯑henſion from the coldneſs of the ſeaſon or the place. Fortunately, a week or two before my re⯑leaſe, an Iriſh author who was juſt put in for libel⯑ling the government, happened to hear of me, and gave me an invitation to his room; I had long learned to diſregard the delicacies of dreſs, and therefore attended him without delay; he was ſenſible and generous in every reſpect, unleſs his compaſſion to me ſhould be reckoned an impeach⯑ment, either of his underſtanding or his munifi⯑cence, for before I took my leave, he made me a preſent of two very handſome ſuits of cloathes, and half a dozen ruffled ſhirts, together with every other neceſſary, ſuch as hat and wig, ſhoes and ſtockings, ſo that when I equipped myſelf, I might have eaſily made my eſcape at the gate, as it was ſcarcely poſſible to know me in ſuch a happy al⯑teration of circumſtances. My benefactor's gene⯑roſity did not ſtop here; for, the morning after I was diſcharged, he ſent me five guineas, and wiſh⯑ing me every happineſs I could wiſh myſelf, ad⯑viſed me to make a good uſe of what inſtruction I had received in the ſchool of adverſity. I in⯑tened to have thanked him the next day; but un⯑happily that evening he had a difference with a brother priſoner, about ſome inconſiderable ſubject of a political nature, in which he received the lye; this being an affront, which an Iriſhman never pardons, he inſiſted upon inſtant ſatisfaction: both parties immediately drew, and my generous friend [32] by ſome accident happening to ſtumble juſt as his antagoniſt was making a lunge, he received a thruſt through the body, and expired on the ſpot; the other gentleman was tried, but as it was proved the challenge was given by the deceaſed, the ſurvivor had a verdict of man ſlaughter brought in againſt him, and ſuffered the puniſhment of being burned with a cold iron, agreeable to the cuſtomary practice.

TO return however to myſelf: being now quite clear with the world, and dreſſed in a man⯑ner tollerably ſmart, I ſallied forth, and was met by ſome of my quondam acquaintance, who when I was periſhing would not ſupply me with a ſix⯑pence; but who now were rejoiced at ſeeing me in ſo happy a ſituation; they inſiſted on my ſpend⯑ing the evening with them at a club, which they [...] every night in the neighbourhood of Temple- [...] and hoped I would not take it a miſs if they inſiſted upon charging my quota to the general account, for the pleaſure of my company. I was not loſt to ſenſibility: in the meridian of my own little affluence I had done kind things to others, but never inſulted their diſtreſſes. The manner of the propoſal affected me, though I was under a ne⯑ceſſity of agreeing to the propoſal itſelf; I there⯑fore went, and was treated with all the uſual diſreſpect which poverty generally feels from un⯑derbred proſperity. I was commanded to ſing by one with a look of authority; a ſecond ordered me to tell a ſtory, and a third cracked an inſolent [33] joke about my want of breeches in priſon, and told me, with a loud laugh, I would have made an excellent highlander. In ſhort, though, every body courted my converſation, yet every body treated me with contempt; and I never ſuffered more ſe⯑verely under the hand of inſolence than when I miniſtered moſt to it's ſatisfaction; though I tore my lungs almoſt to pieces for half a dozen hours, ſtill I was under an obligation for being treated to a two-ſhilling reckoning; and it even now has come to ſuch a paſs, that I am looked upon as an incumbrance to the ſociety; not knowing where to get a bit of bread, I came here to-day, intend⯑ing to liſt myſelf in the guards; but being torn by a thouſand different thoughts, I threw myſelf into this ſeat to ruminate a little further, when the earneſtneſs with which you were pleaſed to eye me, obliged me to pull off my hat, and laid a foundation for all this inſignificant garrulity.

HERE poor Mr. Hargrave ended; I will not comment on this ſtory, — if the relation itſelf is not capable of inſtruction, it is in vain to moralize, and in vain to talk of prudence and oeconomy; all I ſhall therefore mention is, that he ſets out next week in a lucrative employ for one of our plantations: and I doubt not, as he is yet a very young man, but what a few years will ſee him in poſſeſſion of a very ample fortune.

NUMB. LXXII. Saturday, June 12.

I WAS chatting yeſterday evening over a diſh of tea at my ſiſter Rattle's when the amiable Kitty Harold, a diſtant relation of ours, happened to come in with her uſual freedom, but with an ap⯑pearance of mingled concern and reſentment; the moment ſhe ſaw me ſhe cried, ‘O, Mr. Babler, I have an admirable ſubject for your next paper. You muſt know, continued ſhe, that in my way here I accidently called at your old acquaintance Mrs. Acid's, in Pall-Mall, and found her en⯑gaged with an extenſive circle of company. While I ſtaid there, one of the footmen came up and informed his lady that there was a well-dreſſed gentlewoman below enquiring after her health, but that hearing ſhe was ſo much en⯑gaged, ſhe was preparing to go away, and would take ſome other opportunity of paying her reſ⯑pects. Mrs. Acid you know is one of thoſe prodigiouſly important people who pique them⯑ſelves upon their ſuperior underſtandings, and are continually giving an air of conſequence to the minuteſt actions: in hopes therefore of diſ⯑playing her ſagacity before her company, ſhe ſent to deſire the lady would be ſo kind as to walk up; in conſequence of which a mighty genteel woman indeed, was introduced, who came in with a very viſible diffidence, and was [35] with much preſſing prevailed upon to ſit down. Madam, ſays Mrs. Acid, with her cuſtomary dignity of tone and ſolemnity of feature, Pray what has procured me the honour of this viſit? the lady with a reſpectful heſitation, replied, I thought, madam, I ſhould have found you alone, or I would not have preſumed — but I ſuppoſe you have quite forgot a Sally Edwards, who lived with you about ſeven years ago;" What, exclaimed Mrs. Acid, in an air of the greateſt ſurpriſe, are you Sally Edwards who lived with me at Richmond, and had a baſtard by young Mr. Barrington of Twickenham — O I remember you very well — why I hear he has ſince married you — well and come tell me.’ Mrs. Acid would probaby have continued this good-natured ſtrain conſiderably longer, had not the poor woman's confuſion got the better of her ſpirits, and thrown her into a fit from which ſhe was not recovered without much difficulty; as ſoon however as ſhe came to herſelf, ſhe burſt into tears, and making as decent a curteſy as her ſituation could poſſibly admit, went out of the room. Unmoved with her diſtreſs, the obliging Mrs. Acid called after her down ſtairs; ‘Dont be uneaſy Sally, when you come this way again pray bring the little boy with you.’ I really could have ſlapt the unmerciful woman for her barbarity: but ſhe, as if ſhe had performed the moſt meritorious action in the world, turned round [36] to the company, and gave us the following hiſtory of poor Sally Edwards.

"HER father was a Shropſhire Clergyman of very little preferment in the church; but if a large family might be looked upon as a foundation for felicity, there was not a happier man in the coun⯑try, for he had fourteen children. The excellence of his character, however, made ſome proviſion for the moſt of them, and one friend or another gradually took the greateſt number off his hands. This Sally, of all his children, was the greateſt fa⯑vourite; he would never part with her, but brought her up with a remarkable degree of tenderneſs, and even pinched himſelf very frequently to give her an education rather ſuperior to her fortune. His ſolicitude for her improvement, Mrs. Acid de⯑clares was not thrown away: on the contrary, ſhe aſſured us that Sally was very prettily accompliſh⯑ed; and added, in her way, that ſhe was alſo not intolerably tempered, nor much unacquainted with the management of a family.

WHEN Sally had reached her twentieth year, a fever which her father had caught in attending a poor pariſhioner, carried him off, and the amiable orphan was obliged to look out for ſome tolerable family, where her ſervitude might furniſh her with bread. Mrs. Acid at that time happened to be down at her ſiſter's in Shropſhire, near whoſe houſe Mr. Edwards had lived. At her ſiſter's requeſt ſhe took Sally, being then without a maid, and in a few weeks after departed for London. From [37] thence ſhe removed to Richmond, where Sally became by ſome means acquainted with a very genteel young fellow, one Mr. Barrington, the ſon of a gentleman who poſſeſſed two thouſand pounds a year. Mr. Barrington made uſe of num⯑berleſs arts to ſteal her from the paths of virtue, and even offered half the reverſion of his father's eſtate to purchaſe her diſgrace. Theſe overtures Sally treated with a becoming ſcorn, yet ſhe had a latent prepoſſeſſion in his favour, which would not ſuffer her to reſign the dangerous pleaſure of his acquaintance. Every hour ſhe could ſpare was paſſed with him, and he kept himſelf ſo ſecretly concealed, that his rank was never once ſuſpected in the neighbourhood. Young Barrington did not want honour; he ſaw the goodneſs of his miſtreſs's heart, notwithſtanding the humility of her ſtation, and therefore diſregarding what the world might ſay on the occaſion, very frankly propoſed to mar⯑ry her. This propoſal immediately ruined the unfortunate Sally Edwards; what formerly he could not obtain for worlds, now fell an eaſy ſacrifice to his generoſity. She confeſſed ſhe loved him; but abſolutely refuſed the honour of his hand till after the death of his father, declaring ſhe could not ſup⯑port the ſhock of creating a diſturbance in his fami⯑ly. When a woman once owns her love for a man there is ſcarce a toſs up between her and deſtruction. Every hour ſhe is alone with him after ſuch a con⯑feſſion, ſhe totters on the verge of her fate; and even let the man have never ſo much honour, there [38] are times in which the whirlwind of his paſſions will tear up every trace of recollection, and occaſi⯑on more guilt in a ſecond, than can poſſibly be ato⯑ned for in courſe of a whole life. In one of theſe times Mr. Barrington met Sally Edwards; and in about ſix monthsafter the conſequences of this cri⯑minal intercourſe obliged the unhappy girl to take an abrupt leave of her place. The ſequel howe⯑ver is more fortunate than could be expected. Old Mr. Barrington died near a twelvemonth ſince, and his ſon has been married to Sally above half a year. This it ſeems was her firſt coming to town ſince that joyful event, and in hopes to recover the good opinion of her former miſtreſs, ſhe had taken the liberty of calling at Pall Mall. Mrs. Acid nevertheleſs embraced the opportunity to inſult her in the manner I have mentioned; and ſo far from feeling any compunction, ſhe told us at the end of the ſtory, that ſhe was always known to ſpeak her mind, and fancied upon this occaſion that ſhe had given a tolerable hint, as ſhe called it, to Sally Edwards."

HERE Miſs Harold finiſhed her little narrative, but the ſubject being dwelt upon while ſhe ſtaid, I ſhall conclude the preſent paper with one or two of her remarks. "I always obſerve, Mr. Babler, (ſays ſhe) that thoſe people who pique themſelves particularly on the virtue of a rude ſincerity, have ſeldom any other virtue in the compoſition of their characters. A complacency of manners though it does not always conſtitute humanity, nevertheleſs [39] gives an embelliſhment to human nature, and often, from the very appearance of goodneſs, we are apt to fall in love with the reality. It would therefore be well, that people who are fond of ſpeaking in⯑delicate truths to others, would reverſe ſituations a little, and only imagine what effect it would have upon their own feelings, was an indelicate truth to be mentioned to themſelves. Whenever we change ſituations with mankind, we are moſt like⯑ly to judge with propriety; and we may be certain of never cenſuring the errors of our neighbours with too great a degree of ſeverity, if we make but a candid examination into our own."

NUMB. LXXIII. Saturday, June 19.

NUMB. LXXIV. Saturday, June 26.

THEODOSIA was the daughter of Gen⯑tleman in Oxfordſhire, who poſſeſſed an eſ⯑tate of ſeven hundred pounds a year. Her edu⯑cation was remarkably elegant, and her perſon was ſuch as procured her a croud of admirers before ſhe was quite eighteen. Among the num⯑ber who declared themſelves openly her lovers, a young Baronet of great fortune made his addreſſes, and offered ſettlements ſo extremely advantageous, that old Mr. Leſtock, her father, immediately gave his concurrence, and a day was ſet apart for ce⯑lebrating their nuptials with the greateſt magnifi⯑cence.

IT has been very judiciouſly obſerved by an able writer, that there is no time of a woman's [45] life ſo dangerous as the interval between her con⯑feſſion of an affection for a lover, and the day of her marriage. The conſciouſneſs of being ten⯑derly beloved, emboldens an admirer to take liber⯑ties; and the man who but the moment before would have knelt down with all the reſpect of the profoundeſt veneration to requeſt the favour of kiſſing her hand, will think himſelf ſufficiently warranted, when ſhe acknowledges that he has a ſhare in her heart, to dwell upon her lips for an hour, and to loll upon her boſom with the moſt intimate fullneſs of familiarity. Beſides this, the freedom of acceſs which is always allowed to a man in ſuch a ſituation, furniſhes him with numberleſs opportunities of repeating his liberties; and even if he goes to indelicate lengths, he knows he can eaſily obtain an excuſe from a fond and believing woman, who attributes his very licentiouſneſs to the extravagance of his love.

THE truth of this obſervation was never more fully verified than in the unhappy ſubject of the preſent little narrative. She doated upon Sir Ed⯑ward Elliſon with the moſt paſſionate fondneſs, and could ſcarcely be ſaid to exiſt, but when he was in her company. Naturally ſuſceptible of the ſofteſt impreſſions, ſhe would even burſt into a flood of tears, with an exceſs of tenderneſs when ſhe only looked at him attentively, and more than once did ſhe ac⯑tually ſink under the weight of her own tranſports, when he ſqueezed her hand with any great de⯑great of vehemence, or gave a looſe to the language [46] of his love with more than an ordinary ſhare of fervour and extaſy. The miſguided father of the unfortunate young Lady, ſo far from being con⯑tinually on his guard againſt the dangerous ten⯑dency of his daughter's affection, rejoiced that he had found a huſband ſo very much to her taſte; and ſo far from ſeeing the abſolute neceſſity of ne⯑ver truſting her any time alone with her lover, left them frequently together after he went to bed, and permitted them to paſs whole hours in the moſt uninterrupted exchange of mutual vows and feli⯑citations. One fatal Monday night however, about eleven o'clock, the two lovers were by themſelves in the back parlour, making up a little quarrel which had happened between them in the begin⯑ning of the evening. The reciprocal conceſſions which this circumſtance occaſioned, inſenſibly ſof⯑tened the boſoms of both, and as inſenſibly led the one to offer, and the other to permit, a ſtill en⯑croaching freedom of careſs; at ſuch a criſis neither reaſon nor pride can preſcribe a limit to the paſſi⯑ons, nor take upon them to ſay, "thus far will I go and no farther;" in proportion as the tide of tenderneſs ariſes, both reaſon and pride are ab⯑ſorbed; and it is no wonder when we ſuffer ſuch a ſacrifice to be made of our underſtanding, that we become equally regardleſs of our peace and our reputation.

THE morning after this guilty intercourſe, when Sir Edward came a little to his recollection, he was diſtracted with a variety of different opinions [47] relative to Miſs Leſtock's behaviour; but though he really loved her as he did his own ſoul, he at laſt concluded with a degree of meanneſs pretty com⯑mon with the generality of his ſex, that her weak⯑neſs was more the effect of a natural incontinence, than the reſult of an exceſſive tenderneſs for him; and therefore he determined to break off all cor⯑reſpondence with her at once, as a woman utterly unworthy the honour of being his wife.

THIS reſolution he had no ſooner formed than he carried into execution, by diſpatching a letter to the wretched Miſs Leſtock and her father, with the common place aukward apoligies for his be⯑haviour, and a repeated wiſh for the happineſs of the lady, though he himſelf was taking the only ſtep which could rob her of happineſs for ever: it is as needleſs as it is difficult, to paint the diſ⯑traction which this unexpected information created in Mr. Leſtock's family. Poor Theodoſia now loved the ungenerous baronet with an encreaſed affection. The guilty commerce which had paſſed between them, ſo far from diminiſhing her regard, had given a ſharper edge than ever to her love, and mingled a ſort of phrenzy with her affection, that rendered it impoſſible to live in a ſtate of ſepa⯑ration from Sir Edward Elliſon; ſuffice it therefore that, when ſhe heard the purport of his epiſtle, ſhe fell ſenſeleſs on the floor, and was conveyed by her father and ſome of the ſervants to bed, where ſhe continued delirious for four days, in⯑ceſſantly raving on her perfidious lover, and rela⯑ting [48] the indiſcretion into which he had ſo unhap⯑pily drawn her on the preceding Monday evening. In this exigence the unhappy father wrote up to his ſon, who was a lieutenant in the guards, de⯑ſiring to ſee him immediately, as an affair had un⯑expectedly happened, which greatly concerned both the honour and happineſs of the family. On the receipt of this letter, captain Leſtock inſtantly ſet out, and reached his father's ſeat in a few hours after.

CAPTAIN Leſtock was about Sir Edward El⯑liſon's age, juſt twenty-four, but poſſeſſed of a certain elevation of ſentiment to which the baronet was a ſtranger; he was beſides, a young fellow of a temper naturally impetuous and daring, had reduced the various points of honour into an ab⯑ſolute ſyſtem; and among the various points of polite education in which he excelled, he was univerſally allowed by his acquaintance to be one of the beſt ſwordſmen in this kingdom. A man of this caſt therefore, was the moſt improper perſon in the world to be conſulted in an exigence where the honour of his family and the happineſs of his ſiſter were at ſtake. Mr. Leſtock however, was in too diſtracted a ſituation of mind to give a ſerious conſideration to conſequences: on the contrary, he rather aggravated matters than ſoftened them; and deſired his ſon the inſtant he came down, to take a ride over to Sir Edward's, to talk to him about his barbarity to Theodoſia; and to perſuade him, if poſſible, into a performance of thoſe en⯑gagements, [49] which formerly ſubſiſted between him and his unfortunate daughter.

CAPTAIN LESTOCK ſcarcely heard his father out, than flying to his horſe, he inſtantly ſet off for Sir Edward's, boiling with rage, and deter⯑mined to call the perfidious baronet to the ſevereſt account, unleſs he made the moſt ample ſatisfaction to his ſiſter and the whole family. Fraught with ſentiments of this nature he arrived at Sir Edward's houſe, and found him unluckily at home. At the firſt mention of his name, captain Leſtock was ad⯑mitted; a few minutes however were waſted in that idle parade of an affected good-breeding, which the cuſtom of this country has rendered abſolutely neceſſary to be obſerved between the greateſt ene⯑mies. Sir Edward was rejoiced to ſee captain Leſtock, though he was the only man exiſting whom he would wiſh to avoid; and captain Leſtock with the moſt obliging ſolicitude enquired after Sir Edward's health, though he could that moment have taken him by the throat, and ſacrificed him to the manes of his ſiſter's murdered reputation.

AT laſt buſineſs was proceeded upon; and the captain expreſſed his utmoſt indignation at the treatment which Theodoſia had received; and hoped the man of honour which Sir Edward had always proved himſelf, would immediately repair the injury he had committed, and prevent the diſ⯑agreeable neceſſity of forcing that perſon to be an enemy, who was moſt in the world inclined to be his friend. Captain Leſtock pronounced this with a [50] tone and manner which were rather a little of the moſt peremptory. No-body could love a ſiſter with more tenderneſs than the captain; his affec⯑tion therefore mingled with his pride, and his re⯑ſentment poſſeſſed a kind of dignity, which the baronet who was to the full as proud a man as him⯑ſelf, could by no means allow; the ſuperiority which young Leſtock ſeemed to claim upon this occaſion, he therefore anſwered with a determined air, that, though he could not pretend to juſtify the part he had acted to miſs Leſtock, he never⯑theleſs could not bear to be bullied into any con⯑ceſſions; and would by no means do that at the requeſt of her relations, which he did not think proper to perform at her own. An anſwer of this nature ſoon produced very deſperate conſequences; the captain gave Sir Edward but one alternative, an immediate marriage, or an immediate duel; the baronet accepted of the latter, and in leſs than three minutes was left dead on his own floor.

THE news of this affair reached the unfortu⯑nate Theodoſia, even before the captain himſelf returned to his father's; but though that wretched young lady exclaimed againſt her perfidious lover in the moſt violent terms, before any meaſure was taken for puniſhing him, ſhe was now utterly un⯑able to bear the news of his death; the remem⯑brance of his crime, was totally abſorbed in the recollection of his misfortune; the elegance of his perſon, the ſoftneſs of his addreſs, and the vehe⯑mence of his paſſion, alone roſe up to her imagi⯑nation, [51] and filled her once more with tenderneſs and deſpair. In the confuſion therefore which the whole family were in about her brother's ſafety, ſhe took an opportunity of ſtabbing herſelf with a penknife, and died pronouncing the name of her adored Sir Edward Elliſon. The affair however did not terminate here: Captain Leſtock was tried for the murder of the baronet, and with much diffi⯑culty acquitted, while his unhappy father had the gout thrown into his ſtomach, in conſequence of the agitation which he ſuffered, and was carried off lamenting that he ever had a paſſionate ſon, or an infatuated daughter.

THE moral which I would deduce from this little ſtory ſhall be contained in the following ob⯑ſervations: The generality of people, when the reputaion of a ſiſter ſuſtains an injury, always look upon themſelves as obliged to call the ſpoiler to an account who has thus infamouſly violated her, hon⯑our without recollecting that the very means which he ſeeks to redreſs her, is the ſureſt method of rendering her miſerable; and that ſhe would a thouſand times ſooner ſee a dagger plunged into the heart of the man who ſtands up in her defence, than ſee the leaſt accident whatſoever happen to the perſon who has ſo cruelly deſtroyed the tran⯑quility of her own. Highly ſoever as the women rail againſt a perfidious lover in the whirlwind of their fury, nevertheleſs they experience a multi⯑tude of moments in which the dear deceiver be⯑comes, if poſſible more exquiſitely beloved on [52] account of his very perfidy, and gains an additional empire over the heart of his injured miſtreſs, from the only circumſtance in nature which ſhould en⯑title him to her everlaſting abhorrence and con⯑tempt. For theſe reaſons therefore, I would never adviſe a parent or a brother to take a manual re⯑venge on the man who injures his daughter or his ſiſter with her own conſent: if ſhe has been weak enough to ſacrifice her honour, ſhe will be baſe enough to ſacrifice her family; and therefore no⯑thing can be more abſurd than to hazard a life in vindication of a woman, who all the time wiſhes the perſon may be murdered, who generouſly riſes in her behalf, and labours for her redreſs.

NUMB. LXXV. Saturday, July 3.

THE following letter is the production of a young lady, and carries ſo much juſtice and good ſenſe, that we inſert it with pleaſure, and take the liberty of ſoliciting her future correſpondence.

NUMB. LXXVI. Saturday, July 10.

IT is a fine obſervation of the very learned and ingenious doctor Goldſmith, in the Vicar of Wakefield, an excellent Novel, with which he has lately obliged the public, that though the [56] poorer part of mankind may in this world ſuffer more inconveniencies than the rich, ſtill upon their entrance into another life, the joys of here⯑after will be enhanced by contraſt, in proportion to their afflictions here; and that conſequently there can be no room to ſuppoſe the leaſt partiality in providence, ſince ſooner or later thoſe who are entitled to it's benignity are certain of meeting with an equal degree of favour from it's hand.

THIS reflexion muſt undoubtedly be conſidered as a maſterly vindication of that exterior diſparity in the diſpenſations of providence, at which our modern infidels ſeem to triumph with ſo unceaſ⯑ing a ſatisfaction; and it muſt as undoubtedly yield a ſublime conſolation to the boſom of wretchedneſs to think, that if the opulent are bleſſed with a con⯑tinual round of temporal felicity, they ſhall at leaſt experience ſome moments of ſo ſuperior a rapture in the immediate preſence of their God, as will fully compenſate for the ſeeming ſeverity of their former ſituations.

YET though there are a variety of calamitous circumſtances in which this reflexion muſt admi⯑niſter the moſt lively conſolation, nevertheles if we make a proper enquiry into the ſtate of human nature we ſhall find, that in general the juſtice of providence can be fully vindicated without going to this remote and delicate conſideration. It does not by any means follow, that becauſe people are contracted in their fortunes, they ſhould be wretched in their minds; nor does it by any means [57] follow, that the greatneſs of their opulence ſhould be put up as a criterion of their content.

THE principal number of thoſe hydraheaded evils with which we perpeutally torment our⯑ſelves, are the mere effect of a ridiculous pride, or a narrow underſtanding. Actuated by one or the other of theſe unfortunate cauſes, we are buſy in creating an endleſs round of imaginary difficulties, as if the numberleſs accidents to which we are naturally expoſed were not in themſelves abun⯑dantly ſufficient to imbitter the little ſpan of our ſublunary durations, and to daſh the ſhort-lived moments of ſatisfaction, with anxiety and diſtreſs.

THE generality of mankind when they take a ſurvey of the world, are apt to eſtimate by the gradations of rank the gradations of happineſs; hence next to a man with a coach and ſix, we think he muſt neceſſarily be the greateſt object of envy who keeps a coach and four; after this we rank a chariot and pair, and think that perſon in⯑deed poſſeſſes but a little ſhare of felicity who can⯑not afford an hour or two's excurſion in an hum⯑ble hack, or take an eighteen-penny fare in occa⯑ſional ſedan.

LOOK on the other ſide the ſcene, and ſee how amazingly the picture is altered. The pride of coronetted pomp continually languiſhes for the peaceful cottage of ruſtic obſcurity; and the man who has a hundred downy pillows at his command, imagines that repoſe is only to be [58] met with in the peaſant's ſolitary ſhed. Thus all of us diſcontented with the lot which we really poſſeſs, and languiſhing for the ſtate with which we are utterly unacquainted, it is no wonder that many inconſiderate people endeavour by an act of ſuicide to throw off the ſeverity of their own yoke, and to get free from a weight of oppreſſions which is conſtantly becoming more and more inſupport⯑able through the folly of themſelves.

YET as in the extenſive round of the moſt elaborate inveſtigation, we generally find the rich as diſcontented with their lot as the poor; we muſt naturally conclude, that the great author of all things has even in this world deſigned a pretty equal degree of happineſs for his creatures, not⯑withſtanding the evident diſparity of their ſitua⯑tions. Indeed if we ſaw felicity in proportion to opulence, or could meaſure the real enjoyments of life by the ſtandard of rank, we might reaſonably imagine that the poor were not to receive their ſhare of the divine benignity till they were going to poſſeſs it in a glorious eternity; but when we ſee that the meaneſt labourer in the ſtreet reaps as much pleaſure over his underbred amuſement as the firſt nobleman in the kingdom can poſſibly boaſt from the politeſt entertainment; and when we ſee the firſt make as hearty a dinner on a ſingle ſhin of beef, as the latter ever enjoys at a table of fifty covers, we cannot but ſuppoſe that the com⯑mon lot of mankind is nearly alike; and that all the impious accuſations which have ariſen from [59] an imaginary partiality in providence, are the mere reſult of an ignorant pride, or the conſequence of an affectation, no leſs deſtructive to our reputation in this world, than injurious to our felicity in the next.

UPON the whole, however, if we conſider that let our lot in this life be never ſo ſevere, it is ſtill infinitely better than what we are entitled to from our own deſerts; if we reflect that every bleſſing which is ſhowered upon us by the hand of heaven, is a bleſſing which proceeds from the exceſs of it's own goodneſs, and does not ariſe from any im⯑mediate merit in us: I ſay, if we conſider theſe things with a proper degree of weight, and follow the dictates of that conviction which they muſt inſtantly ſtrike upon our minds, we ſhall ſoon ſee that till we deſerve the favour of exiſting at all, we cannot deſerve to have our lives rendered com⯑fortable in this probationary ſtate; and that of courſe we ought to be thankful to the Deity for ſuch inſtances of his benignity, as he may think proper to diſtinguiſh us with, inſtead of blaſphe⯑mouſly murmuring that he does not honour us with more.

NUMB. LXXVII. Saturday, July 17.

THE term world is a word which every body uſes to ſignify the circle of his own acquaint⯑ance; and which the meaneſt plebeian of the [60] community has as frequently in his mouth as the greateſt perſonage in the kingdom. The man of faſhion confines the world entirely to the elegant card-tables, and well-bred aſſemblies which he frequents. The ſoldier to the cuſtomary licenti⯑ouſneſs in which the gentlemen of the army are indulged; the lawyer to the clamour of Weſt⯑miniſter-hall; and the merchant to the moſt dex⯑trous method of driving a bargain. Thus in fact the world is not the general ſtate of nature, but the narrow little circle of our own connections; and thus, inſtead of judiciouſly endeavouring to extend the ſcanty limits of our knowledge, we miſlead ourſelves into an opinion that we already know every thing; and ſink into an abſolute ig⯑norance of the moſt eſſential points, from an abſurd ſuppoſition of being perfectly acquainted with them all.

I REMEMBER about thirty years ago, when my old acquaintance Tom Welbank firſt came from the univerſity, that there was ſcarcely a company which he went into for ſix months, but what con⯑ſidered him as a fool or a madman. Tom lodged at an uncle's near the Hay-market, who lived in a very genteel manner, and frequently ſaw the beſt company. This uncle having no children himſelf, had adopted Mr. Welbank as his ſon; and con⯑ceiving from the reports which the univerſity of Oxford gave of his nephew's erudition, a very high opinion of the young gentleman's abilities, he made a party on purpoſe to diſplay the talents [61] of his boy, who was previouſly adviſed to exert himſelf on the occaſion. The company conſiſted of two noblemen in the miniſtry, an eminent di⯑vine, a celebrated phyſician, a dramatic writer of reputation, the late Mr. Pope, and lady Mary Wortley Montague.

THE time before dinner was paſſed in one of thoſe unmeaning random ſorts of converſation with which people generally fill up the tedious in⯑terval to an entertainment; but after the cloth was taken away poor Tom was ſingled out by lady Mary, who aſked him with the elegant in⯑trepidity of diſtinction, if he did not think London a much finer place than Oxford. Tom replied, that if her ladyſhip meant the difference in ſize or magnificence of building, there could be no poſſibility of a compariſon; but if ſhe confined herſelf to the fund of knowledge which was to be acquired at either of the places, the advantage lay entirely in favour of Oxford; this reply he deli⯑vered in a tone confident enough, but rather ele⯑vated with the dignity of academical declamation; however, it would have paſſed tollerably, had he not endeavoured to blaze out all at once with one of thoſe common-place eulogiums on claſſical lite⯑rature, which we are ſo apt to meet with in a mere ſcholar quite raw from an univerſity. In this harangue upon the benefits of education, he ran back to all the celebrated authorities of antiquity, as if the company required any proof of that nature to ſupport the juſtice of his argument; and did [62] not conclude without repeated quotations from the Greek and Latin writers, which he recited with an air of viſible ſatisfaction. Lady Mary could not forbear a ſmile at his earneſtneſs, and turning about to Mr. Pope, ‘I think, Sir, (ſays ſhe in a half ſuppreſſed whiſper) Mr. Welbank is a pretty ſcholar, but he ſeems a little unacquainted with the world.’ Tom who overheard this whiſper was about to make ſome anſwer, when Mr. Pope aſked him, if there were any new poetical geniuſes riſing at Oxford. Tom upon this ſeemed to gain new ſpirits, and mentioned Dick Townly who had wrote an epigram on Chloe; Ned Frodſham who had publiſhed an ode to ſpring; and Harry Knowles who had actually inſerted a ſmart copy of verſes on his bedmaker's ſiſter, in one of the weekly chronicles. Mr. Pope wheeled about with a ſignificant look to lady Mary, and returned the whiſper by ſaying, ‘I think indeed, madam, that Mr. Welbank does not ſeem to know a great deal of the world.’

ONE of the ſtatemen ſeeing Tom rather diſ⯑concerted, kindly attempted to relieve him by ex⯑preſſing a ſurpriſe that ſo many learned men as compoſed the univerſity of Oxford ſhould ſeem ſo generally diſaffected to the government. He ob⯑ſerved, it was ſtrange that learning ſhould ever lean to the ſide of tyranny; and hinted, that they could never fall into ſo groſs an error, if inſtead of poring perpetually over the works of the an⯑tients, they now and then took a curſory dip into [63] the hiſtory of England. There was a juſtice in this remark which poor Tom being unable anſwer, was at a conſiderable loſs to withſtand; however, thinking himſelf obliged to ſay ſomething, he ran out in praiſe of all the antient hiſtorians, and con⯑cluded with a compliment to the good ſenſe of the univerſity in giving them ſo proper a preference to the flimſey productions of the moderns. The nobleman turned away with diſguſt, and it was the general opinion of the table, that Tom would make a pretty fellow when he knew a little more of the world.

THE deduction which I would make from the foregoing little narrative is, that people before they think themſelves acquainted with the world ſhould endeavour to obtain a general knowledge of men and things, inſtead of narrowly drawing their no⯑tions from any one profeſſion, or any particular circle of acquaintance; they may perhaps laugh at all the world, but all the world will be ſure of laughing at them; and the general ridicule of every body is much more alarming than the private de⯑riſion of any one.

NUMB. LXXVIII. Saturday, July 24.

NOTHING is more commonly met with in the world than an affectation of liberality where people are notoriouſly narrow in diſpoſition; and where captivated with the charms of a ge⯑nerous [64] behaviour, they even force the natural lit⯑tleneſs of their tempers into ſome aukward act of reluctant benevolence.

I SUPPED laſt night, in conſequence of a preſ⯑ſing invitation, at the houſe of a gentleman near Pall-mall, who is always endeavouring to eſtabliſh a character for generoſity, though there is ſcarcely a circumſtance in which he does not manifeſtly betray the avaricious caſt of his temper, and ex⯑poſe himſelf to the contempt of the very perſon upon whom he endeavours to confer an obliga⯑tion.

THERE were eighteen of us at ſupper, but not the ſign of a petticoat in company: our eatables were remarkably elegant: the table was covered with every expenſive rarity of the ſeaſon, and I do not ſuppoſe the expence could be leſs from the variety and coſt of the diſhes, that ten or a dozen pounds. Yet notwithſtanding ſo much magnificence on one ſide of the queſtion, our liquor conſiſted of no more than two bottles of ſour port, a little jar of Welch ale, and a ſmall bowl of brandy and water: as for lights, though the room was very ſpacious, we had no more than an humble pair of tallow eights to the pound, which were almoſt loſt in a couple of ſuperb candleſticks, which the maſter of the houſe with an air of negligence informed us, were a great bargain, and had coſt him no more than a hundred guineas at Mr. Grimſtead's, the great toyſhop near St. Paul's.

[65]FOR my own part, there are few people who drink leſs claret and burgundy than myſelf, or who indeed indulge themſelves leſs in any extraor⯑dinary freedoms with the glaſs. When a young man I never conſidered intoxication as an ap⯑pendage to gentility; and now that I have ad⯑vanced pretty far into the vale of years, I ſhould look upon the ſmalleſt exceſs to be unpardonable. A grey-headed drunkard is to me a character no leſs of abhorrence than contempt: ſince he muſt indeed be the worſt of all profligates, who jeſts with the mandates of his maker, while he ſtands tottering on the very verge of eternity. Notwith⯑ſtanding this declaration, I muſt acknowledge my⯑ſelf extremely diſpleaſed with the mixture of pa⯑rade and parſimony, which was conſpicuous in our entertainment. I expected at leaſt that matters would have been of a piece; and really wiſhed, that a little part of the profuſion which appeared at ſupper, had been ſpared to furniſh a tollerable bottle of wine for the concluſion of the evening.

NEXT to great art of regulating our appear⯑ance either at home or abroad by the ſtandard of our circumſtances, nothing is ſo ſure of maintain⯑ing us on a reſpectable footing with the world, as a conſtant uniformity in our dreſs and enter⯑tainments. Should we ſee a knight of the garter with his ribband acroſs a livery coat, or perceive a man in an embroidered ſuit of velvet with a dirty pair of worſted ſtockings, our ridicule would be very naturally excited, and half the boys in [66] town would probably hoot after the firſt as a fool, or the latter as a madman. In like manner thoſe who give fifty covers at an entertainment, ſhould make a proportionable figure in the choice of their wines; and thoſe for ever avoid burgundy and champaign, who treat with nothing more than a ſimple veal cutlet, or an humble beef ſtake.

ONE of the moſt extraordinary mixtures of parſimony and parade, whom I ever remember to have known, was poor Jack Greedy; Jack made it a conſtant point to take four box tickets in public company, for the late Mr. Ryan's benefit, declaring his high regard for the character of that worthy man, but always demanding the odd ſhilling out of the guinea. If any of his friends wanted a ſum of money, he never ſcrupled to lend it with⯑out intereſt, though at the ſame time he teized them everlaſtingly with what it would produce in the funds. No gold did he ever give in charity, but what was conſiderably deficient in weight: and once when he made his borough a preſent of a town clock, he charged the corporation with the carriage from London. Thus doing things continually by halves, and deſtroying, with a per⯑petual attention to the mereſt trifles, all the merit which he gained from the diſtribution of large ſums, he ſunk into univerſal contempt, and ſquan⯑dered away the principal part of his fortune to procure the character of a miſer.

HIS neighbour, honeſt Will Frankly, was a man of quite a contrary temper, though poſſeſſed [67] of ſcarcely half his fortune by doing things with a good grace, he obtained more applauſe from the diſpoſal of a ſhilling, than the other did from a gift of fifty pounds. There was ſome⯑thing generouſly unoſtentatious about him, that gave the ſmalleſt act of benevolence an air of dig⯑nity; and by never ſeeming to demand the ad⯑miration of his friends, he was always certain of enjoying it. To Mr. Greedy the village gave no⯑thing more than a diſtant bow of unwilling re⯑ſpect; but to Mr. Frankly they were officiouſly forward to pull off their hats, and gazed at him till he was out of ſight, with an air of viſible ſatis⯑faction. Upon the whole, they were two ſtriking proofs of the wiſe man's obſervation, that he who does a good action merely for the ſake of virtue is always ſure of that applauſe from the world, which the oſtentatious man conſtantly loſes, by aiming to raiſe his own reputation.

NUMB. LXXIX. Saturday, July 31.

THERE is a ſentiment in Mr. Coleman's comedy of the Jealous Wife, with which I am not a little pleaſed, as it is no leſs an indication of a benevolent heart than a ſound underſtanding. Harriet reproaching young Oakley on account of his extraordinary attachment to the bottle; the lover ſenſibly ſtruck with the juſtice of the reproof, [68] exclaims that were all ladies alike attentive to the morals of their admirers, a libertine would be an uncommon character.

INDEED if we take but ever ſo ſlight a view of the ſexes, we ſhall find the behaviour of the one to depend ſo entirely upon the opinion of the other, that was either to ſet about a reformation, the amendment of both would be eaſily affected, and thoſe virtues would be immediately cultivated through the prevalence of faſhion, which neither the force of conviction, the dread of temporary misfortune, nor the terrors of everlaſting miſery, are now ſufficient to ſteal upon our practice, even while they engage our veneration.

AS the ladies in general are more affected by the prevalence of immorality than the men; it often ſurpriſes me, that they do not endeavour to look thoſe vices out of countenance among our ſex, which are ſo frequently fatal to their own tranquility. A man, through the eſtabliſhment of cuſtom, conſiders it as infamous to marry a pro⯑ſtitute, to connect himſelf with a drunkard, or to pay his addreſſes to a woman whoſe lips are con⯑tinually fraught with indecency or execration; though accuſtomed himſelf to the midnight exceſſes of the ſtew, yet when he fixes for life, he enquires into the character of his miſtreſs, and proſecutes his ſuit in proportion as ſhe is eminent for her virtues. Her follies he readily laughs at, but over⯑looks by no means the ſmalleſt want of reputation. Whereas the lady, though bred up all her life in [69] the ſtricteſt delicacy, expreſſes no repugnance what⯑ſoever to venture with the moſt public betrayer of innocence, the moſt open enemy of mankind, and the moſt daring defier of his God. Nay, unleſs he has been in ſome meaſure remarkable for the number and blackneſs of his vices, ſhe holds him in contempt, and ſets him down as an abſolute ideot, if he is not intimately converſant with every thing that can either leſſen him as a chriſtian, or degrade him as a man.

WHAT, however, is moſt extraordinary on theſe occaſions, is the facility with which a father uſually contracts his daughter to a libertine; as if becauſe cuſtom did not involve her in the infamy of his character, his habitual propenſity to vice muſt not neceſſarily endanger her happineſs. For my own part, I am ſhocked when I ſaw a parent leſs regardful of a daughter's felicity, than atten⯑tive to the welfare of a ſon. Is there a father who would perſuade his ſon into a marriage with a proſtitute profeſſed? I hope not; why then is his daughter ſo relentleſsly ſacrificed to a libertine? Is there not as much danger for the one to be miſerable with her huſband, as the other to be wretched with his wife? And ſince the natural claim to paternal indulgence is equal between each, muſt it not be highly inequitable to treat the firſt with ſuch an exceſs of unmerited partiality?

I AM inſenſibly led into this ſubject from a peruſal of ſome ſermons, addreſſed to young women, which have lately made their appearance, and were [70] yeſterday put into my hands by my bookſeller. Who the author is I know not, but he deſerves the greateſt encomiums, for the perſpicuity of his ſtile, and the energy of his arguments; he is elegant without levity, and pious without affectation. In one of his diſcourſes, where famale virtue is the object of conſideration, he gives ſo admirable a leſſon to the ſex on account of this unhappy approbation with which the very beſt women ſo frequently honour a profligate lover, that I cannot but tran⯑ſcribe it for the benefit of my amiable readers.

‘HOW common is it to ſee young ladies, who paſs for women of reputation, admitting into their company in public places, and that with viſible tokens of civility and pleaſure, men, whom the moment before they ſaw herding with creatures of infamous name! — Gracious God, what a defiance to the laws of piety, prudence, character, decorum! what an inſult, in effect, to every man and woman of virtue in the world! what a palpable encouragement to vice and diſhonour! what a deſperate pulling down, in appearance, and with their own hands, of the only partition that divides them from the moſt profligate of their ſex! between the bold and the abandoned woman there may ſtill remain, notwithſtanding ſuch behaviour, a diſtinction in the world's eye; but we ſcruple not to declare, that religion, purity, delicacy, make none.’

‘TO return from this digreſſion, if it be one, we will allow it poſſible to put caſes wherein no [71] particular rules of diſcovery, no determinate modes of judgment, will enable a young woman, by her own unaſſiſted ſkill, to diſcern the dangers that lie in her way. But can a young woman be juſtly excuſed, or can ſhe fairly excuſe her⯑ſelf, if, where all is at ſtake, ſhe calls not in the joint aid of wiſe ſuſpicion, friendly counſel, and grave experience, together with prayers for God's protection more than ordinarily ſervent?’

‘BUT, methinks, I heard ſome of you aſk with an air of earneſt curioſity, Do not reformed rakes then make the beſt of huſbands? I am ſorry for the queſtion, I am doubly ſorry, whenever it is ſtarted by a virtuous woman. I will not wound the ear of modeſty by drawing minutely the cha⯑racter of a rake: but give me leave to anſwer your enquiry, by aſking a queſtion or two in my turn. In the firſt place, we will ſuppoſe a man of this character actually reformed, ſo far as to treat the woman he marries with every mark of tenderneſs, eſteem, fidelity; and that he gives up for ever his old companions, at leaſt as to any choſen intimacy, or preference of their company to hers. We grant it poſſible; we rejoice when it happens. It is certainly the beſt atonement that can be made for his former conduct. But now let me aſk you, or rather let me deſire you to aſk your own hearts, without any regard to the opinions of the world, which is moſt deſira⯑ble on the ſcore of ſentiment, on the ſcore of that reſpect which you owe to yourſelves, to your [72] friends, to your ſex, to order, rectitude, and honour; the pure unexhauſted, affection of a man who has not by intemperance and debauch⯑ery corrupted his principles, impaired his conſti⯑tution, enſlaved himſelf to appetite, ſubmitted to ſhare with the vileſt and meaneſt of mankind the mercenary embraces of harlots, contributed to embolden guilt, to harden vice, to render the retreat from a life of ſcandal and miſery more hopeleſs; who never laid ſnares for beauty, ne⯑ver betrayed the innocence that truſted him, ne⯑ver abandoned any fond creature to want and deſpair, never hurt the reputation of a woman, never diſturbed the peace of families, or defied the laws of his country, or ſet at nought the pro⯑hibition of his God; — which, I ſay, is moſt de⯑ſirable, the affection of ſuch a man, or that of him who has probably done all this, who has cer⯑tainly done a great part of it, and who has no⯑thing now to offer you, but the ſhattered remains of his health, and of his heart? How any of you may feel on this ſubject, I cannot ſay. But if, judging as a man, I believed, what I have often heard, that the generality of women would pre⯑fer the latter, I know not any thing that could ſink them ſo low in my eſteem.’

‘THAT he who has been formerly a rake may after all prove a tolerable good huſband, as the world goes, I have ſaid already that I do not diſ⯑pute. But I would aſk, in the next place, is this commonly to be expected? Is there no dan⯑ger [73] that ſuch a man will be tempted by the power of long habit to return to his old ways; or that the inſatible love of variety, which he has in⯑dulged ſo freely, will ſome time or other lead him aſtray from the fineſt woman in the world▪ Will not the very idea of reſtraint, which he could never brook while ſingle, make him only the more impatient of it when married? Will he have the better opinion of his wife's virtue, that he has converſed chiefly with women who had none, and with men amongſt whom it was a favourite ſyſtem, that the ſex are all alike? — But it is a painful topic. Let the women who are ſo connected make the beſt of their condition; and let us go on to ſomething elſe.’

THE ſcanty limits of my paper will not allow me to make as large an extract from this benevo⯑lent writer as I could wiſh. But I am the more eaſy on that account, as I dare ſay the generality of my readers, from the foregoing little ſpecimen, will look upon his works as a very valuable addi⯑tion to their libraries.

NUMB. LXXX. Saturday, August 7.

THOUGH I have more than once in the courſe of my little animadverſions, endea⯑voured to explode the prepoſterous cuſtom of toaſt⯑ing, yet I have within this week met a circum⯑ſtance which has, if poſſible, encreaſed my averſion [74] to the practice, and in a manner compelled me to reſume the ſubject, however tedious the repetition may appear to ſome of my bon-vivant readers.

I DINED accidently a few days ago at a well-known coffee-houſe in the Strand, at the preſſing requeſt of my nephew Harry, who aſſured me that the company would be highly to my taſte, for though the moſt of them were young fellows, yet there were very few by whom they were ſurpaſſed either in politeneſs or underſtanding. This aſſu⯑rance, joined to the regard which I always enter⯑tain for my boy's converſation, induced me to give a very ready acquieſcence, and it is no more than juſtice to acknowledge, that Harry had not over rated the merit of his friends, notwithſtanding the latitude of the foregoing character.

UNHAPPILY, however, juſt as we were circu⯑lating our jokes with the utmoſt good-humour, two or three gentlemen belonging to the army, who were intimately acquainted with ſome of our company, and overheard us from an adjoining room, ſent in their compliments, and begged per⯑miſſion to join us, if we were not engaged about any particular buſineſs. This requeſt was urged in too polite a manner to be refuſed, and we ac⯑cordingly ſent word how much we thought our⯑ſelves obliged by ſo friendly a propoſition. The addition to our company ſcarcely took place, when one of the moſt manly and ſenſible characters I ever converſed with, made his appearance purſuant to a promiſe which he had given to my Harry, [75] attended by two young gentlemen, his ſons, the eldeſt of whom did not ſeem to be quite eighteen. As the ſtranger carried a conſiderable degree of conſequence in his very looks, he was received with a ſuitable reſpect, and converſation began to circulate even with an additional ſhare of life, when our harmony was illiberally interrupted by a toaſt from one of the gentlemen in red, no leſs offenſive to good-ſenſe, than repugnant to good manners. I ſtarted with an equal mixture of ſur⯑priſe and indignation; but there was no deſcribing the ſituation of Harry's friend, or the diſtreſs of the modeſt youths who accompanied him. The father ſeemed totally abaſhed at the company into which he introduced his ſons; and the ſons utterly unaccuſtomed to ſo lice [...]ious an example, were quite unable to hold up their heads; they ſunk with confuſion as if they had actually given an offence, inſtead of having received one; till entirely at a loſs how to recover themſelves they ſenſibly with⯑drew, and left the grown gentlemen to indulge themſelves with ill-breeding and obſcenity.

AMONG the numberleſs abſurdities which, in this happy country, are kept up among our men of ſenſe, the cuſtom of confining vice to the ages of diſcretion is one of the moſt extraordinary. A perſon now-a-days is not allowed to be a pro⯑fligate till he arrives at one and twenty; as if, in proportion to the encreaſe of his underſtanding, he was to act diametrically repugnant to the prin⯑ciples of decency and virtue. An uninformed [76] ſtripling muſt by no means, either preſume to ſwear, or talk ſmuttily; his father will correct him ſeverely for the licentiouſneſs, and he will be looked upon with contempt or abhorrence by all his acquaint⯑ance. The father himſelf however may utter the moſt ſhocking blaſphemies, and ranſack the ſtews for the reddeſt obſcenities of a brutal imagination. He is old enough to know the profligacy of the practice; and is ſenſible how offenſive it is both to politeneſs and religion, to the laws of his country, and the ordinances of his God.

I HAVE been often ſurpriſed that in a nation which values itſelf ſo juſtly upon the character of it's good ſenſe, there ſhould be ſtill ſuch palpable remains of barbarity; what can be a greater re⯑flexion either on our morals or our breeding, than the cuſtom of driving our wives and children out of the room immediately after dinner, and telling them we are going to begin a converſation which is utterly improper for their ears. Shall men, who pretend either to manners or to virtue, enter upon ſuch diſcourſes as are dangerous to their children, or ſhocking to their wives! ſhall it be ſaid that a child is not to be truſted with his own father, for fear of being corrupted; nor a woman permitted to enjoy a ſocial hour with her own huſband, for fear of ſome palpable affront. — Yes it muſt be ſaid — yes it muſt be mentioned to the everlaſting diſgrace of the civilized people of Eng⯑land, that they are utterly unable to paſs an even⯑ing without the moſt infamous indulgence of ob⯑ſenity [77] and execration; and that the happineſs of their convivial entertainments is always eſtimated in proportion, as they debaſe the dignity of their underſtandings, and violate the mandates of their God.

A VERY laudable aſſociation has been lately ſet on foot in ſeveral places of this kingdom, to raiſe the wages of our honeſt ſervants, and to aboliſh the inhoſpitable cuſtom of making our friends continually pay for their entertainment. Infinitely would it be to the honour of thoſe gentlemen who ſo generouſly exert themſelves in the cauſe of hoſ⯑pitality, if they alſo ſtood up in defence of true politeneſs and real virtue. Diſſipated as the pre⯑ſent age is, a few examples would produce an uni⯑verſal reformation; and I dare be bold enough to affirm, that the purpoſes of rational feſtivity would be much better anſwered, ſhould ſuch a regulation happily take place; when men begin to throw off decency, they ſoon throw off all eſteem for one another; and few retain any regard for their friends, when they wantonly ſacrifice every con⯑ſideration for themſelves. Whereas by an ob⯑servance of good-breeding we ſhould always main⯑tain our friendſhips, and enjoy what Pope finely calls ‘The feaſt of reaſon and the flow of ſoul,’ Where we are now filled with diſguſt, or ſunk into all the exceſſes of brutality.

NUMB. LXXXI. Saturday, August 14.

NUMB. LXXXIII. Saturday, Auguſt 28.

NUMB. LXXXIV. Saturday, September 4.

IT is a privilege with the greateſt number of thoſe people who entertain a high notion of their own wit, to rail for-ever at the only inſtitu⯑tion upon which the happineſs of all Society is founded; and to pour out an inceſſant torrent of ridicule upon poor matrimony, though they owe their own exiſtence to the eſtabliſhment of that [100] ſacred ordinance. The motive indeed which the generality of our Libertines aſſign for this averſion to marriage is, that the rite is a reſtraint upon all their other enjoyments, and that the moment a man devotes himſelf to one woman, that moment he is obliged not only to alter the former tenor of his conduct, but to put up with every petulance of the lady's temper, however unreaſonable ſhe may be in her requeſts, or however arbritary ſhe may be in the exerciſe of her authority.

FOR my own part, though I have hitherto continued an old batchelor, I have yet ſeen but few women who rule with an improper authority over their huſbands; nor can I entertain any high notions of the man's underſtanding, who once makes it a doubt whether or no he ſhould be able to maintain that connubial pre-eminence in his own family, which he receives from the hand of reaſon and the cuſtom of his country. If he poſ⯑ſeſſes but a dawn of ſenſe, the object of his choice will be ſuch as can give him no cauſe to appre⯑hend any turbulence of diſpoſition; and if he poſ⯑ſeſſes but a dawn of ſpirit, he will always have it in his power to prevent any diſagreeable exertion of it, even in caſe he ſhould be unhappily deceived.

THE pleaſanteſt argument of all, however, is the neceſſity which a married man is under of forſaking all thoſe enjoyments, which while he was a batchelor created the principal part of his felicity. Yet ſurely if thoſe enjoyments are repugnant to reaſon, the ſooner he forſakes them [101] the better, ſince it never can be too early a period to regain the paths of diſcretion and virtue; and if they are not oppoſite to the dictates of prudence, he muſt be a very puſillanimous fellow indeed, who could once dream of giving them up. In fact, thoſe men are always for finding fault with the poor women, who are conſcious of imperfec⯑tions in themſelves; whereas men of ſenſe being determined to proceed on a rational plan, are con⯑ſtantly deſirous of doing juſtice to the merit of the ladies, and never prepoſterouſly ſuppoſe that they are deſtitute either of benevolence or underſtanding.

THE general run of our Libertines, though they are much too ſenſible and much too ſpirited to put up with any impropriety in the behaviour of a worthy woman, nevertheless ſubmit with the greateſt chearfulneſs imaginable to any treatment which a woman of the Town thinks proper to give them, and bleſs their ſtars with a kind of rapture that they are not huſbands: — This is in plain Engliſh, they rejoice that they are not obliged by the laws of their country to bear a merited reproach from the lips of a deſerving wife, though the narrowneſs of their minds and the baſeneſs of their ſpirits, can induce them ſo readily to put up with the moſt impudent airs of a deſpicable ſtrum⯑pet, and to crouch with an infamous ſervility at her feet.

SAM. SQUANDER is a melancholy proof of this aſſertion: Sam at the age of twenty came into an affluent fortune, and launched into all the [102] licentious diſſipations which generally captivate young men of opulent circumſtances. Fearful that his pleaſures, if folly and vice may be called pleaſures, would be manacled by the ſilken bands of wedlock, he declared himſelf an early enemy to marriage, and has continued to this hour, when he is near as old a fellow as myſelf, without even wiſhing to taſte the ſweets of a domeſtic felicity. Yet though averſe to an honourable connection with the ſex, he could not exiſt without ſome fe⯑minine attachment; attentive therefore to the mere gratifications of ſenſe, he ſingled out a fa⯑vourite nymph from the purlieus of Drury-lane, took her publicly to his houſe, and has cohabited with her now above thirty years. A more un⯑governable termagant probably never lived; yet Sam is quite happy he is not married. She has more than once been detected in an amour with his footmen; but what of that, Sam put it up, ſhe was not his wife. If ſhe throws a glaſs at his head, which is ſometimes the caſe, or confines him within doors for a fortnight, it is no matter, Sam is ſtill happy, and laughs at any of his ac⯑quaintance who go home at twelve o'clock, for fear of making their wives uneaſy, by a longer abſence from their families. One thing indeed makes him miſerable, he has two ſons by this in⯑famous woman, of whom he is paſſionately fond, and the reflexion that his eſtate muſt go into ano⯑ther line for want of a ligitimate offspring, is a circumſtance which renders him conſtantly unhap⯑py, [103] even in his fortunate ſtate of batchelorſhip: ſo that I believe if the truth were known, Sam is ſecretly of opinion with me, that a good wife is the firſt of all the human felicities; and that the greateſt of all fools is he who puts up with the numberleſs vices of a profligate woman, through a fear of meeting ſome natural imperfections in a woman of intrinsic merit and character.

NUMB. LXXXV. Saturday, September 11.

NUMB. LXXXVI. Saturday, September 18.

IT has been juſtly obſerved by a very ſenſible writer, that there is nothing in the world which poſſeſſes more humility than pride; and no⯑thing [108] which induces us to make more unneceſſary conceſſions to other people, than a deſire of en⯑hancing the importance of ourſelves. This vanity leads us into a thouſand abſurdities, and not ſel⯑dom into a number of vices; to expoſe it therefore ſhall be the buſineſs of the preſent paper, and if I can make but one reader a little aſhamed of his low-minded exaltation, I ſhall do more eſſential ſervice than if I had employed half a century in the more elegant purpoſes of that delicate amuſement, where ſober inſtruction is ſacrificed to a prettineſs of ſtile, and the imagination kept perpetually alive at the total expence of the underſtanding.

MY nephew, Harry Rattle, called upon me yeſterday, and told me, if I would paſs the even⯑ing with him at the Cardigan Head, he did not doubt but what I ſhould meet with a ſufficient ſubject for a paper or two, as he was engaged in a party where there were to be ſome extraordinary characters. Having nothing very material on my hands, I aſſented to his propoſal, and calling upon him about ſeven o'clock in a hackney coach, we went together to the tavern, where all his friends were already aſſembled, and good naturedly la⯑menting the want of his company.

THE firſt perſon who attracted my obſervation was a young fellow of about thirty, dreſt in regi⯑mentals, whom I found to he a Captain of Dra⯑goons, and who, it ſeems, had raiſed himſelf from the humble ſtation of a quarter maſter to the command of a troop, merely by the bravery of his [109] behaviour in the celebrated battle of Minden. I had not been in company many minutes before I ſaw this gentleman entertained the higheſt notions imaginable of his own importance: when he ſpoke it was with an air of viſible ſuperiority; he aſ⯑ſumed a dignity of look, and an indifference of accent, as if he conferred a prodigious favour in in every ſyllable he uttered; and took care to looſe no opportunity of informing us what a num⯑ber of the firſt nobility he had the honour of ranking amongſt his moſt intimate acquaintance. If any body differed from his opinion, he had canvaſſed the point with lord ſuch a thing, but the day before; and as to ſecrets of a political nature, no man in the kingdom knew more of the moſt private tranſactions of government. He had called upon a certain Earl in the morning, who let him into ſome matters of the firſt conſequence; and dined with a noble Duke, who aſſured him, that there would be no change whatſoever in the miniſtry. In ſhort, let the converſation turn upon what it would, he bore down all oppoſition with, ſome right honourable friend of his; and thought it an unaccountable preſumption, in any perſon who did not allow a nobleman's name to have more weight than an abſolute matter of fact in an argument.

WHEN Harry and I were returning home, he gave me the Captain's hiſtory in nearly the fol⯑lowing words. ‘The Captain, ſays he, though an honeſt and a brave man at bottom, is never⯑theleſs [110] ſuch a compound of arrogance and ſer⯑vility, that I am often at a loſs to know which he moſt deſerves, our reſentment or our contempt. Originally bred in obſcurity, he conceives a ſort of adoration for every man with a title; and to be admitted into the company of a Lord, is mean enough to put up with all the inſolence of corona [...]ed pride, and even ſtoops to run on the moſt pitiful errands, for the ſatisfaction of being reckoned among the number of it's acquain⯑tance. Yet this aſſiduity to oblige the great is not ſufficient to preſerve him even from their ridicule; they ſee from what trivial motive his attachment ariſes, and treat him with more diſ⯑reſpect than the loweſt of their footmen, becauſe they know his pride will not ſuffer him, on any account, to diſcontinue his attendance. Thus his vanity defeats it's own purpoſes— Inſtead of encreaſing his conſequence, it renders him ut⯑terly deſpicable, and makes him no leſs a jeſt to his ſuperiors, than to thoſe who are merely on a footing with himſelf.’

‘THAT little man of whom you took notice of in black (continued Harry) is alſo a dupeto his own vanity, but that vanity is intirely of a dif⯑ferent ſort; he wants to paſs upon the world as a man of prodigious underſtanding; and to gain this important end, he is continually com⯑mencing an acquaintance with every author of reputation to whom he can get introduced, from a ſtrange ſuppoſition that his friends will [111] encreaſe their eſtimation of his abilities, in proportion to the intimacy of ſuch a con⯑nection. It is incredible to think with what a humility of deference he courts a man of let⯑ters on this account. He praiſes him to the ſkies in all companies, and repeats a poem with the moſt fulſome adulation, even before the face of the very author. An opinion of his own he never pretends to; nor does he once preſume to have a will in the moſt trifling tranſaction — Pinning his faith entirely on the ſleeves of his literary directors, he ſquares his religious principles by the writings of his theological friends; and regulates what con⯑cerns his health, by the productions of his phy⯑ſical acquaintance. His taſte he conforms to the ſtandard which is ſet up by the profeſſors of Belle Lettres — And let that ſtandard be ne⯑ver ſo abſurd, he adopts it for fear of being diſcarded for the inſolence of a diſſent. Indeed this complaiſance often involves him in no trifling difficulties; for if two of the literati ſhould happen to diſagree, he is puzzled how to act; if he takes part with one, he is ſure of deſtroying himſelf in the eſtimation of the other, and it is no eaſy circumſtance in ſuch a caſe to conciliate the good opinion of both. I once knew (proceeded Harry) when two doctors of his acquaintance were called in to attend him in a fit of the gout — Each propoſed a different method of treating, his caſe, and [112] neither would ſubmit to the arguments of his competitor. In this dilemma he reſolved to comply with the preſciptions of both; therefore, lapping up his feet in a rye poultice, according to the advice of one, he took an elixer which was recommended to him by the other, and was very near being carried off by the injudi⯑cious application of ſuch oppoſite medicines. This, however, is not all—His conſcience, like his health, is ſacrificed to the mandate of the theologiſt in company. Hence he is by turns a Proteſtant and a Diſſenter; if there happens to be more than one ſect, he is a jumble of each; and ſometimes, with a party of Free⯑thinkers, he has no religion at all.’ From theſe little anecdotes (concluded Harry) we may eaſily ſee that nothing is ſo ſure of rendering us contemptible, as a ridiculous vanity of ſtealing a reputation from the conſequence of others, eſpeci⯑ally wherea goodneſs of heart, and an attention to the ſentiments of modeſt plain ſenſe, are ſo certain of building up the nobleſt character for ourſelves.

NUMB. LXXXVII. Saturday, September 25.

AS there are none of my readers for whoſe happineſs I am more ſolicitous than the younger part of my female purchaſers, I muſt now and then be excuſed, if I ſhould write a pa⯑per wholly for their inſtruction; cut off from [113] that general intercourſe with the world, which the other ſex to univerſally enjoy, they ſtand in⯑finitely more in need of advice, and endued with an infinitely greater ſhare of ſenſibility, they are more likely to retain it than the men, who look upon the finer feelings as a kind of diſgrace to their ſpirit, and imagine that the leaſt regard to the ſentiments of any body elſe is the greateſt inſult that can poſſibly be offered to their own underſtandings.

IT is with no little indignation, that I fre⯑quently hear the capacity of the ladies ridiculed by the wits of the other ſex; and even find that the graveſt of our modern writers look upon an enlarged education, rather as a prejudice than benefit to the moſt beautiful part of the human creation; for my own part, I can by no means ſee how cultivating the mind can be in the leaſt prejudicial to the morals; nor diſcover how a woman can be rendered more unfit for the man⯑agement of a family, by acquiring an additional ſhare of knowledge and diſcretion. I readily grant, that a famale pedant is of all pedants the moſt intolerable, and that nothing is ſo likely to diſ⯑turb the judgment as a ſuperficial acquaintance, either with the languages or the ſciences; but a progreſſive and well grounded inſtruction in the uſeful parts of literature muſt always be produc⯑tive of benefit, and muſt always give an equal encreaſe of underſtanding to either of the ſexes.

[114]NOTWITHSTANDING this declaration how⯑ever, there is one branch of education, which even the wits themſelves think the ladies cannot attain too early, that I wiſh with all my heart was delayed till they arrive at years of diſcre⯑tion, and began to form notions of the world with ſome little degree of propriety. I the more readily expreſs this wiſh, becauſe the protraction of the branch I allude to, can by no means be prejudicial, either to their intereſt, their morals, or their capacities. The part of education which I am here ſo deſirous of keeping a con⯑ſiderable time from the ladies, is nothing more than the knowledge of writing: I do not know that a young woman has a greater enemy in the world than an ink-ſtand, and many a parent who boaſts of the rapidity with which his daughter now improves in the art of writing, may in a year or two have a very lamentable motive for wiſhing that ſhe never learned to write at all.

A YOUNG woman now-a-days, let her be never ſo homely, ſcarcely reaches her fifteenth or ſixteenth year, but what ſome body takes an opportunity of pouring the faſcinating lan⯑guage of adulation into her ear; and it rarely happens that this ſomebody is the perſon, who if a treaty of marriage was propoſed, would meet with the approbation of her family: naturally credulous at ſo early a period, the moſt diſtant compliment is actually ſet down as a poſitive declaration, and the man is exalted into a firſt [115] love, as it is called, for behaving with little more perhaps than an ordinary ſhare of civility: the conſequence therefore generally is that an amour enſues, and the place of perſonal interviews is ſupplied by a literary correſpondence; Miſs, while her doating relations ſuppoſe that ſhe is reading ſome pious meditation, is moſt devoutly em⯑ployed in the compoſition of darts and daggers to her Strephon: and ſetting her imagination on fire with the thoughts of a huſband, when her infatuated father believes that her very motion to uſe the language of the poet, bluſhes at itſelf, and is certain, that ſhe would ſink into the earth, if a man was to look her in the face with any extraordinary degree of ſteadineſs. A girl at ſix⯑teen is moſt commonly as deſirous of being thought a woman, as when a woman of forty, wiſhes to be a girl of ſixteen. Attentive to nothing but the impulſe either of her paſſion or her vanity, the dear creature of a man probably receives half a dozen letters a day, till his vanity blazes the matter about, and her deluded parents find their lovely little innocent has very vehement deſires under all that ſpecious veil of ſimplicity; and burns for the poſſeſſion of a bed-fellow, notwith⯑ſtanding all her terrors, if a man but accidently comes into her company.

IN reality a woman of this country has very few occaſions for the art of writing, but to carry on a literary correſpondence; and this correſpon⯑dence is always begun ſo very early, and directed [116] ſo very injudiciouſly, that it is generally unhappy in the end. A woman can have no occaſion to correſpondend with a lover, who meets the appro⯑bation of her family, and nothing can be more imprudent or dangerous than to correſpond with a man who does not; but beſides the imprudence and the danger of writing to young fellows, there is a diſgrace always attending ſuch a circumſtance, which I am ſurprized does not more frequently deter a lady from committing the indiſcretion. The men, however, juſt in their engagements with one another, are moſt commonly unjuſt in their connection with the other ſex; the glory of being eſteemed by an amiable woman is too much to be concealed; a boſom friend muſt be truſted with the important ſecret; and this bo⯑ſom friend has his confidant, with whom it muſt of courſe be depoſited; ſo that while the unſuſ⯑pecting fair one believes her reputation is care⯑fully locked up in the boſom of her adorer, ſhe is the general ſubject of converſation with fifty other fellows, and is profligately jeſted with per⯑haps in half the taverns of the kingdom. Many a ſenſible woman when ſhe has reached two or three and twenty, has bluſhed for her epiſtles of ſixteen; and ſickened when ſhe has married a man of intrinſic worth, at the bare recollection of the power which ſome raſcal may poſſibly poſſeſs of expoſing the weakneſs of her earlier years. For theſe reaſons therefore, I cannot but think that a haſty introduction of a girl to paper and [117] pens, is as injudicious a meaſure as a parent can fall into. She can at any time get a meſſenger to carry a letter, when fear or ſhame will prevent her from applying to any perſon to write one; if therefore parents would be a little more attentive in teaching their daughters to read and ſpell with propriety, than anxious about the goodneſs of their hand-writing, they would improve their minds conſiderably more, and keep them from a number of temptations which often prove too powerful both for their pride and their virtue.

NUMB. LXXXVIII. Saturday, October 2.

THERE is no ſuppoſition more abſurd, than that which is generally made by the world in ſavour of learned men; a profound ſcholar, we imagine, muſt of courſe be a perſon of [...]ncommon wiſdom; and the more his head is fraught with unneceſſary knowledge, the mo [...]e we encreaſe in our veneration of his abilities. Learning however is a thing widely different from wiſdom; a man may be deeply verſed in all the myſteries of a claſſical erudition, and yet at the ſame time ſcarcely poſſeſs a grain of common underſtanding; whereas on the contrary, he may be maſter of an excel⯑lent judgment without knowing a ſingle ſyllable of Greek or Hebrew; and be able to manage the moſt intricate concern, though he has never ſeen ſo much as the eight humble parts of ſpeech in [118] Lilly or Whettenal. That knowledge in fact is moſt uſeful, which is beſt calculated to carry us through the world with eaſe and reputation; and as learning itſelf was inſtituted for no other pur⯑poſes, we muſt allow that it fails of attaining it's moſt ſalutary views where it is merely em⯑ployed in the vain purſuits of a ridiculous parade, or an idle ſpeculation.

INDEED if there was no commerce whatſo⯑ever to be carried on between mankind, and if there was no neceſſity for the ſcholars of an academy ever to make an eſſay on the great ſtage of life in the parts of men, it might be right enough to breed our children up in a total ignorance of all worldly affairs; but when, as I have juſt hinted, it is with the profeſſed intention of enabling them to appear with a tollerable grace in this important theatre, that we give them an education, nothing ſurely can be more prepoſterous, than to employ them entirely in thoſe ſtudies which render ſuch an appearance additionally difficult, and give them rather a diſguſt than an inclination to put on their reſpective characters.

THESE reflexions I have been inſenſibly led into by recollecting ſome anecdotes of my poor friend Dick Thornhill, of St. John's in the Uni⯑verſity of Cambridge. Dick being in poſſeſſion of a very pretty fortune, uſed to conſole himſelf prodigiouſly whenever he heard any body talk about the ſtocks, that none of his money was employed in the buſineſs of Government▪ He [119] imagined, that in proportion to the encreaſe of theſe political barometers, the burden of the ſub⯑jects were encreaſed; and believed, that inſtead of receiving ſo much per cent for the uſe of his pro⯑perty, he actually paid ſo much for having it pro⯑tected. In this ſenſible manner he ſtill continues to go on, and laughs very heartily at the fools, as he calls them, who wantonly throw away ſuch prodigious ſums of money, merely that others may take care of thoſe affairs, which he ſays, they can manage ſo very eaſily themſelves.

I WAS ſtanding a few days ago at the ſhop of a ſecond-hand bookſeller in a populous part of this metropolis, where I often meet with an odd volume of ſome antiquated author, and have ſometimes the pleaſure of ſeeing my own works ruſting in all the peaceable dulneſs of the moſt perfect obſcurity: The bookſeller, agreeable to the practice of his trade, has his various old vo⯑lumes claſſed into different arrangements, and at the head of each the price is affixed, to avoid being peſtered with the queſtions of occaſional purchaſers. My old friend Dick happening acci⯑dentally to come up—he made a full ſtand, and be⯑ing ſtruck with the appearance of a thick actavo which lay under the fourpenny catalogue, he aſked the man if he would take a ſhilling for that book, to which the conſcientious ſhopkeeper anſwering in the affirmative, he marched off with an air of viſible ſatisfaction, and I ſuppoſe thought he had met with a very tolerable bargain.

[120]THE pleaſanteſt ſtory however, which I have heard for a long time of my old friend, was one which was mentioned to me yeſterday evening at the coffee-houſe; Dick it ſeems the day before was going through Clare-market, where, acciden⯑tally ſtruck with the ſight of a nice ſhoulder of lamb, a joint of which he is particularly fond, he aſked a good woman to whom it belonged, what was the price of it, ſhe anſwered ſix groats; ‘ſix groats (returned Dick a little peeviſhly,) do you imagine, miſtreſs, that people pick up their money in the ſtreets? ſix groats indeed! at one word I will give you half a crown for it;’ well, Sir, (replied the woman) I will not haggle with a cuſtomer; ſo taking the half crown, ſhe toſſed the lamb into a baſket, and ſent it to Dick's lodgings, who plumed himſelf not a little upon his addreſs as a market-man. Mr. Thornhill, notwithſtanding all this, is a very excellent ſcholar, few young fellows ever left the Univerſity with greater credit than himſelf. But unhappily poring over the cuſtoms of Greece and Rome, when he ought to have made ſome little acquaintance with the manners of his own country, he is as much a ſtranger to the common tranſactions of life, as if he had been bred up to the preſent moment in a wilderneſs! and was now let looſe upon the world for the mere entertainment of ſociety. Unable to converſe with any company but thoſe who, like himſelf, are elevated on the aukward ſtilts of a merely claſſical education, he deſpiſes every body [121] who is not a proficient in the dead languages; and in return, meets with nothing but the general averſion of the people whom he treats with this general contempt. Upon the whole, his very beſt friends pity his total ignorance of the world, and lament that ſo honeſt a fellow as he is in the main, ſhould be ſuch a torment to himſelf, ſuch a trouble to every body elſe, and ſuch a uſeleſs member of ſociety. In ſhort, if it were poſſible for him to change all his learning for the experi⯑ence of the barber's boy who attends him, they think he would be a conſiderable gainer by the bargain; though this poor fellow is the conſtant object of his ridicule, and one of the people whom he inceſſantly bandies about with ſignificant ſen⯑tences of Greek and Latin from ſome of his fa⯑vourite authors.

NUMB. LXXXIX. Saturday, October 9.

WALKING in the park a few mornings ago with my nephew Harry, a gentleman of a very prepoſſeſſing appearance came up, and ſhaking Harry with the utmoſt cordiality by the hand, in⯑ſiſted upon his going to dine with him, with a friendly ſort of peremptorineſs; and in a manner extremely polite, begged the favour of my company. As I found Harry accepted the invitation readily, I bowed my aſſent to it likewiſe, and after taking a turn or two more, we ſet out for the gentle⯑man's [122] houſe, in the neighbourhood of Great George-ſtreet, and amuſed ourſelves in his library, which was judiciouſly furniſhed, till the ſummons arrived for dinner, about four o'clock. We were then conducted to an elegant dining room, where we found an excellent family dinner, and where I had the honour of being introduced to a moſt ami⯑able young lady, whom I took to be the ſiſter of our hoſt, but who, upon an enquiry, I found to be unhappily no leſs than his daughter.

I SAY unhappily no leſs than his daughter, becauſe I am pefectly of opinion with the late excellent Mr. Richardſon, that a gay young fel⯑low of eight or nine and thirty, is a very impro⯑per perſon to be the father of a young woman of eighteen or nineteen. Full of life and levity him⯑ſelf, he is unable to pay a proper attention to the felicity of his child; and if he chances to be a man of the town, like my nephew's friend, he treats her in a manner that muſt either excite her conti⯑nual deteſtation, or deſtroy that purity of principle, which only can lay a ſolid foundation for the eſtab⯑liſhment of her future happineſs and reputation.

Mr. MEDLICOAT, the gentleman with whom we dined, piques himſelf, as he is ſo juvenile a father to ſo grown a young lady, upon behaving to her as if ſhe was no relation whatſoever, and is never ſo happy as when a ſtranger at any pub⯑lic place, ſeems to take him for one of her admir⯑ers: during the time of dinner, he enjoyed my miſ⯑conception exceſſively, and heard me once or [123] twice ſay his ſiſter, without offering to rectify my miſtake. This however I could have chearfully over-looked, had not his converſation, even before the ſervants, been of a nature ſo extremely inde⯑licate, that there was ſcarce a poſſibility of ſitting at table. An odious round of the moſt palpa⯑ble double [...]entendre was frequently offered to our attention; the nocturnal exceſſes of which he had been guilty the laſt week, were related with an air of triumph; and he even went ſo far as to mention the name of ſome celebrated courtezans, with whom he had the honour of an acquaintance.

ALL this time the poor young lady ſat in the moſt mortifying ſtate of diſtreſs; cut to the very ſoul of her ſenſibility, yet unable either to retire, or to mention how greatly ſhe was affected with this intollerable behaviour of her father. My Harry, however, took the very firſt opportunity of relieving her; for, the moment the cloth was removed, he begged Mr. Medlicoat would ſhew us the fine hunter which he had purchaſed a few days before, from a noted dealer in Yorkſhire. Mr. Medlicoat, as proud of ſhewing his horſe, as deſirous of parading his daughter, immediately complied with the requeſt; and the young lady retired with a look of complacency at Harry, which ſufficiently teſtified how much he had oblig⯑ed her, by procuring her ſo fortunate a releaſe from her father's company.

HARRY ſupping with me in the evening, I could not help expreſſing my wonder, that a young [124] fellow of his good ſenſe and delicacy, ſhould con⯑tinue the leaſt correſpondence with ſo ſhameleſs a profligate as this Mr. Medlicoat. ‘An indecency of converſation in any man, ſays I, is always as ſure a ſign of a little underſtanding, as of a vulgar education: and nothing ought to give a generous mind more offence, than where we ſee the modeſty of a virtuous moman inſulted, by any of thoſe infamous obſcenities, which your bucks, and ſuch like deſpicable fellows, imagine to be the criterion of ſpirit and viva⯑city; but when a libertine is ſo dead to all ſenſibility as to wound the ear of his own daughter with a groſſneſs of this nature, we are filled with horror as well as with indigna⯑tion, and cannot help conſidering him as a monſter, who would even violate her honour himſelf, did not a latent fear of the world re⯑ſtrain the licentiouſneſs of his ſhocking imagi⯑nation, and happily confine him to mere innu⯑endoes, and ſimple geſticulations.’

‘YOUR obſervation, my dear Sir, (returned Harry) is perfectly juſt, and I ought to bluſh at ever viſiting ſuch a man as Mr. Medlicoat, unleſs I had ſome other deſign than merely to poſſeſs his company. But you muſt know, that this fellow, unleſs he is particularly en⯑gaged abroad, always makes it a rule to en⯑gage a friend or two to dine with him every day; and if by any accident he ſhould happen to be diſappointed, he traverſes the park, as [125] he did this morning, to pick up an acquaint⯑ance for the credit of his table. By this means it often happens that poor Hortenſia his daugh⯑ter, is expoſed to the heavieſt torrent of licen⯑tious ribaldry; and obliged to ſit out many a converſation, which would appear ſcandalous in a Covent Garden tavern. Medlicoat piques himſelf upon a knowledge of the world, and treats every appearance of female delicacy; as a monſtrous affectation. He has found many fools among the ſex, and this has given him a prepoſterous opinion of the whole; therefore, to maintain his character as a knowing one, he uſes his own daughter with the ſame diſre⯑ſpect that he uſes every other woman, and thinks it adds to the reputation of his underſtanding, to put of all appearance of neceſſary decorum and parental partiality. It is for common fa⯑thers he thinks to behave with common diſ⯑cretion; but young fellows like him, who are acquainted with life, ſhould be above ſuch a weakneſs; as the only way he thinks to pre⯑ſerve the obedience of a daughter, is to ſhew your ſenſibility of her ſex's imperfections. Hor⯑tenſia, who has an amiable mind, and a fine underſtanding, is unſpeakbly afflicted at this behaviour; and always rejoices when I take a dinner with them, as I conſtantly invent ſome excuſe or other to ſet her at liberty. This is the only reaſon of my acting with com⯑mon civility to Medlicoat, as he is a man for [126] whom I entertain the moſt ſovereign contempt. Would you believe it, he keeps two women in the very ſame houſe with his daughter; and theſe worthy ladies often take it in their heads to find fault with Hortenſia, and even complain to him that ſhe will not treat them with a ſufficient ſhare of reſpect. Matters, however, if I have any penetration, cannot long go on in this manner, for Hortenſia has been ſome time courted by a very worthy baronet of for⯑tune; but Medlicoat having an averſion to become a grandfather yet a while, has abſolutely refuſed his conſent; and in the moſt illiberal terms, accuſed the young lady of amorous incli⯑nations. Notwithſtanding this, they carry on a private correſpondence, as I have good grounds to believe, and perhaps the next moon-light night may ſee the young couple on their journey to Edinburgh. May this I ſay, be the caſe; and may every father who follow the ſteps of Medlicoat, be rendered equally contemptible, and become equally diſappointed in his expec⯑tations.’

NUMB. XC. Saturday, October 16.

NUMB. XCI. Saturday, October 23.

AS happineſs is the purſuit of every body, it is not a little ſurpriſing that ſo few of us arrive at this univerſal goal of human deſire, and ſtill more ſurpriſing that when we ſee the various quickſands upon which the expectations of others have been ſhipwrecked in ſteering to this favourite point, that we are not a little more cautious in the direction of our own courſe, eſpecially as ſome⯑thing more than a temporary felicity reſts upon our attention, and the tranſports of a future life immediately depend upon the rectitude of our con⯑duct in this.

THE principal reaſon why the generality of the world are diſappointed in their ſearch after happi⯑neſs, ſeems to me to be that ſtrange infatuation, of placing our higheſt felicity in objects which are either weak or vicious in themſelves, and which conſequently our reaſon upon a ſober conſideration muſt either deſpiſe or deteſt. — A man whoſe ut⯑moſt [132] wiſhes are centered in the luxuries of a faſhi⯑onable table, muſt be miſerable the moment he is incapable of emptying another plate: he who has no other comfort in life than his bottle, muſt be robbed of his ſummum bonum the inſtant he is ſtretched upon the floor; and he whoſe deſires are abſorbed in ſtill greater ſenſualities, muſt be equally unfortunate the moment thoſe deſires have been in⯑dulged: in fact, every purſuit of this nature is ren⯑dered lifeleſs and inſipid by it's very gratification, till continual repetitions ſo deaden the appetite; (to ſay not a ſyllable of conſequences,) that experience makes us exclaim with the wiſeſt fool that ever exiſted, ‘All is vanity under the ſun.’

WERE we however to make reaſon the guide of our actions, inſtead of being eternally directed by inclination, our enjoyments would always be cer⯑tain; and recollection would afford us the moſt perfect ſatisfaction, inſtead of filling us inceſſantly with mortification and diſguſt; for in reality, if we think but ever ſo haſtily on the affair, we ſhall find that no object can promiſe us the ſmalleſt glimmer of real felicity which is repugnant to the ſentiments of virtue; it is from the rectitude of our conduct only that we are to look for any hap⯑pineſs at all; and ſurely when we give an un⯑bounded looſe to every depravity of inclination, it is a degree of abſolute madneſs to expect the ſelf-approving teſtimony of our own conſcience to the [133] very actions which that conſcience cannot but highly diſcountenance and condemn.

THE glittering noiſe, and pompous buſtle of the world, may for a time perhaps lull the ſenti⯑ments of reaſon, or cry "huſh" to the pleadings of conſcience, but can never entirely ſubdue either: in the moments of retirement the moſt hardened of us all are dragged up in turn before the bar of our own minds, and the deity which preſides there pronounces a juſt though a ſevere ſentence on every breach of morality and virtue. — Callous as we endeavour to make ourſelves, that ſentence ſcrews itſelf in the memory; clouds the eye amidſt all the ſplendor of the drawing room; and harrows up the very ſoul in the warmeſt ſunſhine of a court. Where is the man who can ſay he has never ac⯑knowledged the omnipotence of conſcience? Where is he who can affirm he has not, in the ſtricteſt ſenſe of the expreſſion, been condemned by the deity of his own boſom, and doomed to a tempo⯑rary perdition in his mind? Stand out ye faſhion⯑able denyers of another exiſtence; come forth ye daring blaſphemers of your God — from the irre⯑ſiſtable ſomething, which acquits or condemns during this life in your breaſts, learn to believe that there is a ſovereign diſpoſer of all things in the next, who will decide with an equal ſeverity and juſtice; and that the power of the divinity which you experience ſo frequently below, is no⯑thing but a faint reſemblance of that authority, [134] which at the dreadful day of account you muſt meet with above.

I AM very frequently amazed (abſtracted from every conſideration of future happineſs) that the mere dictates of ſelf concern for the felicity of the preſent, does not generally induce us to follow ſuch purſuits as are certain to give us a real ſatis⯑faction while they engage us; and ſure in their conſequences of eſtabliſhing not only an encreaſe of honeſt reputation, but a ſource of inconceivable content. — Was the libertine, inſtead of ſquan⯑dering thouſands to deſtroy ſome unſuſpecting in⯑nocent, to employ a fiftieth part of the ſum in her protection — what a foundation would he lay for arriving at that goal, which his very gredineſs after happineſs deſtroys in the contrary courſe? — Was the miſer, inſtead of hoarding up uſeleſs mil⯑lions, to expend a little of his wealth in wiping away the ſorrows from affliction and diſtreſs; the action would be it's own reward, and he would own that if he went to the proper market, happi⯑neſs was to be purchaſed at a very reaſonable price: In ſhort, if mankind would conſider that virtue and vice create their own heaven and hell even on this ſide the grave, the principal part of us would endeavour to act in ſuch a manner as would enable them to look with confidence beyond it, and experience in this world ſome tollerable idea of that felicity which is prepared to await the righteous in the next.

NUMB. XCII. Saturday, October 30.

I HAVE often remarked that one half of the pleaſures ſo eagerly proſecuted by the gene⯑rality of mankind, if changed in their appellations, and ranked under the denomination of labour, would be ſhunned with as much aſſiduity as they are now followed, and rendered every whit as diſ⯑guſtful to the fancy as they are now flattering and agreeable. Through ſome unaccountable infatu⯑ation we are raviſhed in the literary ſenſe of the expreſſion, with the whiſtling of a name, and infinitely fatigue ourſelves more in the bare purſuit of our ſeveral amuſements, than in the cloſeſt atten⯑tion to the duties of our reſpective vocations, though theſe evocations are the only means which we have of raiſing a neceſſary proviſion for our families.

THE truth of this poſition was never more evidently aſcertained than in the character of poor Bob Beetle. Bob is engaged in a very extenſive way of buſineſs; and is, at once, the moſt lazy and the moſt induſtrious fellow alive: he is fa⯑tigued to death if he writes a few lines to a cor⯑reſpondent, but he will ride after a pack of dogs for a dozen hours together, and call it glorious ſport, when he has ventured his neck over a ſcore or two of gates, and come home as dirty as a ducked pick-pocket, from a forty miles chace in the middle of winter. When he is in town [136] he complains of it as a prodigious hardſhip if he riſes at ten o'clock in the morning, though in the country he makes no ſcruple whatſoever to get up at three or four to drag a fiſh-pond; and will ſcarcely walk a ſtreet's length to receive a hundred pounds in the way of his buſineſs, though he would trudge eight or ten miles with the greateſt ſatis⯑faction after a brace of partridges. I met Bob a few days ago in the city, and ſtopping him on the privilege of an old acquaintance, demanded what was the reaſon of his ſeeming out of temper: — ‘Seeming, (repeated he) Mr. Babler, it is more than ſeeming; I am half inclined to hang my⯑ſelf: here in ſuch a roaſting day as this muſt I trundle to Change, and broil for two whole hours under the intenſe heat of a perpendicular ſun. Damn it, Sir, I lead the life of a galley ſlave, and it is better not to live at all than be liable to ſuch continual anxieties.’ I was ill-natured enough to ſmile at his diſtreſs; but giving him a cordial ſhake by the hand, I wiſhed him a good morning and ſo we parted. Next day about twelve o'clock going to dine at a relations near Hammerſmith, who ſhou [...]d I ſee ſtripped and playing at cricket in a field near Kenſington, but Bob: though the weather was rather warmer than when I met him the preceding day, he was engaged in that violent exerciſe with all the ap⯑pearance of a moſt exquiſite ſatisfaction, and ſcoured after the ball with as much agility as he could poſſibly uſe to get himſelf into heat on a froſty morning.

[137]IF we take but ever ſo ſlight a ſurvey of mankind, we ſhall find that moſt people are actu⯑ated pretty much in the ſame manner with my friend Bob Beetle. Looking upon that as an in⯑ſupportable toil which is moſt conducive to their intereſt, they abſolutely find a pleaſure in fatigue, and run into downright labour in hopes of enjoy⯑ing a little recreation. I would by no means be underſtood as an arguer againſt a moderate ſhare of manly exerciſe or rational amuſement: on the contrary, I look upon ſuch relaxations to be eſ⯑ſentially neceſſary, both becauſe they add conſi⯑derably to our health, and give us a freſh incli⯑nation of returning to the buſineſs of our various employments. What I am offended at is, to ſee men of excellent underſtandings in total oppo⯑ſition to the dictates of their good ſenſe, apply⯑ing themſelves wholly to the proſecution of their pleaſures, and creating a number af imaginary difficulties, to imbitter every moment which they ſet apart for the management of their moſt ne⯑ceſſary employments.

WERE temporal concerns, however, the only ones which we ſacrifice to our idleſt, nay to our moſt culpable, amuſements, ſomething ſtill might be ſaid in our defence; but our happineſs here⯑after, as well as our intereſts here, is obliged to give way to the meaneſt diſſipations; and a fox chaſe or a cricket ball; a hunting-match or a dice-box, are not only able to ſtifle every impulſe of regard which we ought to entertain for our [138] families, but every ſentiment of adoration which we ought to entertain for our God. The duties of religion, like our domeſtic concerns, are utterly neglected; and even the awful buſineſs of eternity is thrown aſide, for a contemptible game at whiſt, or a deſpicable pack of hounds.

THE parallel between the neglect of our tem⯑poral and ſpiritual concerns, will be found con⯑ſiderable ſtronger, when we recollect that where unavoidable neceſſity compels a momentary at⯑tention to either, we enter upon them with an equal degree of reluctance and ill-will. But in the conſequence, however, there is the wideſt difference: our diſinclination does not often in⯑terrupt the buſineſs of our callings, while we continue in oppoſition to the natural bent of our tempers to carry it on; many a man though he hates his profeſſion, nevertheleſs by ſubduing his antipathy to it, and managing his affairs with diſcretion, makes a good fortune: but let us be never ſo diligent in the diſcharge of our religious obligations, yet if our hearts are not actually en⯑gaged in the ſervice of our Creator, all our per⯑ſonal attendance on his worſhip, will be ſo far from availing us, that it will rather encreaſe the enormity of our guilt, and expoſe us more ine⯑vitably to the thunders of his hand. Reluctance is an aggravation of our crime, and we become leſs and leſs excuſable, the more we appear in his temple, unleſs we approach it with the moſt exalted fervency of inclination. Let us be care⯑ful, [139] therefore, whenever we ſteal an hour from the elyſium of our amuſements, and condeſcend to enter a church, that we do not ſuffer ſo pre⯑cious a part of our time to be loſt. Let us take the greateſt pains we are able to prevent that hour from being an evidence againſt us at the dreadful day of judgment; and conſider in the language of the Poet;

NUMB. XCIII. Saturday, November 6.

CONVERSING yeſterday with an old acquaintance on the vanity of human wiſhes, we fell inſenſibly into a long diſcourſe about the abſurdities of mankind, even in their beſt actions; and particularly dwelt upon the in⯑ſolence of their very devotion, when, though they affect to ſubmit themſelves entirely to the reſignation of providence, they nevertheleſs pre⯑ſume to point out immediate objects for the ex⯑erciſe of the Divine Benignity, without once re⯑collecting that the nature of their requeſt may be totally oppoſite both to the greatneſs of it's wiſdom, and the juſtice of it's laws.

THE ſubject of converſation poſſeſſed me ſo very much upon my going to bed, that it con⯑tinued to employ my imagination, and I dreamt how Jupiter took me up to the ſkies, as he was [140] ſaid to have formerly done by Menippus the phi⯑loſopher, in order that I might be convinced the accuſations ſo generally brought againſt the equity of providence, were totally without foun⯑dation; and that the great author of the univerſe, notwithſtanding the impious murmurs of his crea⯑tures, was perfectly juſt, and conſiſtent in the mi⯑nuteſt of his decrees.

HAVING taken my ſtation, as I fancied, at the feet of the Deity, the chryſtal gates of the celeſtial region were thrown wide open, and by a particular order of Jupiter, the ſofteſt whiſper addreſſed to him from earth was ſo diſtinctly heard, that during the continuance of the various ſup⯑plications, I never miſſed a ſingle ſyllable.

THE firſt who offered up his prayers to Olym⯑pus, was a man who had been ruined by being a ſecurity in a large ſum of money for a very intimate friend. ‘This, (ſays Jupiter, turning to me) is a fellow of unqueſtionable worth and integrity; through the whole courſe of his life he has paid ſo inflexible an attention to the dic⯑tates of virtue, that I do not believe I have any thing to charge him with, beſides a human infirmity. He thinks it hard, therefore, that I ſhould ſuffer him to be plunged into diſtreſs, though this diſtreſs is nothing more than the natural conſequence of his own indiſcretion; for inſtead of building his eſteem upon the ho⯑neſty of the man by whoſe means he is thus unhappily ſtripped of his all, he founded his regard [141] entirely upon the length of their acquaintance; and aſſiſted him, not becauſe he was a perſon of probity and honour, but becauſe he was a perſon with whom he generally cracked a bottle in an evening, and took a ſociable pipe. On this account he is juſtly puniſhed for his folly; and though I intend to reward his virtues very amply in this world, yet I muſt permit him to be chaſtized below, that o [...]her worthy men may take warning by his example, and learn to ſhower their favours upon thoſe only whom they know to be truly deſerving.’

THE next perſon who offered up his petition, was a merchant in the City, who prayed devoutly for a fair wind, for a ſhip which he had richly laden in the river, and intended for a very valu⯑able market on the coaſt of Africa. ‘Now here (reſumed Jupiter) is another very honeſt fellow, who will think himſelf particularly aggrieved if I decline to comply with his requeſt; and yet if I was to grant it, a thouſand others would inevitably be ruined, who are bound upon voyages that require quite a contrary wind. Your people of virtue imagine that they ſhould in the minuteſt circumſtance be the particular care of providence, and abſurdly fancy that the attention of a Being, who has the whole univerſe to govern and ſupport, ſhould be entirely engroſſed by themſelves. The ſepeo⯑ple muſt however, be informed, that I am the God of an extenſive world, and not the im⯑mediate patron of any one man. Of courſe, [142] therefore, I ſhall never invert the order of things to oblige a private perſon, though that perſon ſhould be the very beſt of all my votaries; more particularly too when let his merits be what they will, my favour ſhall ſo incredibly exceed them in the end.’

AFTER the departure of the Merchant, I thought a whole kingdom came at once, and begged of Jupiter to deſtroy a neighbouring na⯑tion with whom they happened to be at war. ‘Here are precious fellows for you; (cried Ju⯑piter) and ſo I muſt ſacrifice a country of ten or twelve millions, merely becauſe their conſci⯑entious votaries think proper to make the re⯑queſt; that is in plain Engliſh, I muſt be their bully, and arm myſelf in paſſions, that would diſgrace the meaneſt of themſelves, for the mighty honour of executing the purpoſes of their revenge.’ Jupiter upon this turned his head aſide with indignation, and bid me obſerve another body of people, rather larger than the former, who were ſinging hymns to his praiſe, and invoking his favour with all the energy of the moſt ſolemn adoration. ‘This (ſays he) is the nation with whom my late ſet of worthies are at war; and you hear they are juſt praying in the ſame manner that I would be graciouſly pleaſed to cut the throats of all their enemies. Now which of theſe muſt I oblige? Their pretenſions to my regard are alike inſignificant; and they are quarreling for a tract of country [143] in America, to which neither of them have the ſmalleſt right. To puniſh therefore, both their in⯑juſtice to the poor Americans, and their inſolence in thinking to make me an abettor of their in⯑famous contention, I ſhall leave them entirely to themſelves, and make each by that means the ſcourge of the others crimes.’ Jupiter de⯑livered theſe laſt words in a tone ſo tremendous, that I awoke with affright; but recollecting the various circumſtances of my dream, I thought it would make no indifferent paper, as it taught ſo abſolute a reſignation to the awful diſpenſations of God.

NUMB. XCIV. Saturday, November 13.

HYPOCRISY for the honour of the pre⯑ſent age, is a crime ſo very little practiſed, that people are not at the trouble of concealing their follies or their vices, but generouſly run into the moſt palpable miſtakes, or the moſt culpable errors in the full face of day; and even expect that we ſhould look upon this exalted diſregard of ſhame, as a mark of the higheſt candour and ſincerity.

FOR my own part however, I ſhould be glad if the generality of mankind were leſs ingenuous in this reſpect, ſince ſo open a commiſſion of our faults muſt neceſſarily raiſe vice into a ſort of re⯑putation, and eſtabliſh an example to the laſt de⯑gree [144] prejudicial to poſterity. Hypocriſy therefore ſo far as it regarded a concealment of our faults, I ſhould look upon as a ſort of negative virtue, becauſe though it did not extenuate our own errors, it nevertheleſs prevented us from debauching the principles of other people.

THE great misfortune of the preſent age is, that the univerſal force of example has rendered a number of the moſt atrocious crimes abſolutely faſhionable; formerly it was looked upon as in⯑famous to the laſt degree, if a man alienated the affection of an acquaintance's wife, or plunged a dagger into the boſom of a friend. Now-a-days it is impoſſible for a young fellow to be allowed a dawn of ſpirit, unleſs he has deſtroyed his woman, or killed his man, and trampled upon every in⯑ſtitute which ought to be ſacred to ſociety. Nay, to ſuch a height are matters at preſent carried; that we often boaſt of our crimes as if they were ſo many virtues, and recount with an air of the moſt exquiſite ſatisfaction, how many times we have been drunk within the courſe of the week; how many ſtrumpets we have viſited, or how many times we have endangered our lives in the mid⯑night diſputes of a common brothel. If any body is ſenſible enough to decline accompanying us on theſe pretty expeditions, we ſet him down as a ſpiritleſs ignorant milkſop, equally deſtitute of-ambition and underſtanding. What is more, in proportion as he manifeſts a repugnance to join [145] in our extravagances, in proportion we turn him into a ridicule, and load him with the moſt in⯑ſuperable contempt, where we ought to honour him with the greateſt ſhare of our admiration.

BUT what in the courſe of general obſerva⯑tion aſtoniſhes me moſt is, that a man ſhall claim a right to be profligate, in proportion as we allow him to be ſenſible; and think himſelf entitled to be vicious, according to the eſtimate which we make of his underſtanding. Nothing is more common now-a-days, than to praiſe our intimate friends in ſomething like the following manner; Why to be ſure Tom or Jack ſuch a one is a very wicked dog, but then he's no fool; thus that very good ſenſe which ſhould be conſidered as an aggravation of his conduct, is looked upon as an extenuation at leaſt, and we think him entirely juſtified in the moſt criminal undertakings, in proportion as he is really without the ſhadow of excuſe.

SOME people indeed who affect to poſſeſs an extraordinary ſhare of principle, propoſe a limi⯑tation to ther vices, and make a ſort of agree⯑ment with their own conſciences, not to be wicked above ſuch a certain number of years. The pe⯑riod which they fix for the date of their reforma⯑tion, is generally the day of marriage; without ever reflecting on the poſſibility of never living to this period, they go on in an uninterrupted courſe of licentiouſneſs, and imagine they may with propriety diſturb the peace of every other perſon's family, till they have actually got a family of [146] their own; nor does a parent or a guardian once ſuppoſe any of theſe worthy gentlemen an im⯑proper match for their daughters or their wards, on account of their profeſſed profligacy; on the contrary, it is a received opinion, that a reformed rake makes the beſt huſband, and that he is the propereſt companion in life for a woman of virtue and honour, who never before had an acquaint⯑ance with a woman of virtue or honour at all.

FROM theſe conſiderations on the prodigious encouragement which vice ſo inceſſantly receives from the force of example, I am led to be an ad⯑vocate for hypocriſy, and induced to wiſh, that thoſe who are too wiſe or too ſpirited to be rea⯑ſoned out of their errors, would at leaſt be humane enough to practice them with ſome ſhare of cau⯑tion, that they may not ſeduce others from the ſentiments of virtue, nor be inſtrumental in the deſtruction of any body but themſelves.

I AM very ſenſible how extremely unfaſhionable it is for a writer to preſs any conſiderations of a future ſtate upon the mind of an elegant reader. Now-a-days, it is indelicate to talk of eternity with any kind of weight, and repugnant to every ſentiment of politeneſs, for a man to ſpeak with the ſmalleſt veneration of his God. Yet ſurely, as long as we are ſenſible upon how precarious a tenure our exiſtence depends, we ſhould now and then think that a day of account will come; and where we are ſo certain of our mortality, we ought to recollect that we are ſometime to die. [147] It was an excellent remark of Julius Caeſar's, the morning of his aſſaſſination, when Antony aſked him why he talked ſo much on death; ‘That what might each moment happen, ſhould em⯑ploy every moment of a wiſe man's thoughts.’ Certain indeed it is, that a frequent conſideration on this awful period, is the beſt means of enabling us to ſuſtain it; and as certain it is, that thoſe are only fit to live who are always in a condition to die.

NUMB. XCV. Saturday, November 22.

NUMB. XCVI. Saturday, November 27.

NOTHING is ſo general a topic with all the old fellows of my acquaintance, as the de⯑pravity of the preſent times, and the viſible de⯑generacy of manners ſince they themſelves were at the blooming age of five and twenty, and ſhone away in a ſplendid round of the various faſhion⯑able amuſements. For my own part, though pretty far advanced in the vale of years, I am not altoge⯑ther ſo paſſionately attached to my juvenile days, as not to be ſenſible that we had as many follies and vices among us then, as the ſevereſt ſatiriſt now exiſting can poſſibly point out; nor am I ſo complaiſant to the preſent period as not to ſee that there is the greateſt room, as well as the greateſt neceſſity, both to be aſhamed and to amend. In ſhort, the world, with regard to vice and virtue, is pretty much the ſame as it was five hundred years ago; and probably for five hundred years to come, it will ſtill continue to be actuated by the ſame motives, however it may differ in the man⯑ner or the means.

GREATLY ſoever as we may imagine human nature to be degenerated, yet if we take but a flight ſurvey of mankind, we ſhall find the principal number of our vices and follies to be rather the conſequence of our inconſideration, than the effect of an abſolute badneſs of heart. We are weak and [152] vicious more through the levity of temper and the prevalence of example, than either a narrowneſs of underſtanding or a depravity of inclination; and it is by denying ourſelves time to examine either the abſurdity of our moſt favourite purſuits, or the danger of a ſlaviſh obedience to faſhion, that we ſo generally become the objects of our own deteſtation or contempt. Inſtead of making reaſon the guide of our actions, we are directed by ex⯑ample; and inſtead of enquiring how far ſuch and ſuch a behaviour may be agreeable to the ſentiments of virtue, we never aſk any queſtion, but how far it is conſiſtent with the cuſtom of the times; hence we drink, fight, ſwear, and run through the whole catalogues of vices and follies, not ſo much becauſe we like drinking, fighting or ſwearing, as to avoid the appearance of ſingularity; and riſque not only our happineſs in this world, but our ever⯑laſting ſalvation in the next, for no other reaſon but to join in with the croud, and ſeem of the ſame ſtamp with the general run of people.

KITT HAIRBRAIN is a young fellow of many good qualities, and has a heart as ready to relieve the diſtreſſes of his fellow creatures as any man of my acquaintance; yet Kitt would look upon it as the greateſt inſult imaginable, if you ſuppoſed he was not at any time willing to cut the throat of his moſt intimate companion, and to debauch the wife or ſiſter of his neareſt friend; not but he would feel the utmoſt reluctance in the perpetration of either, and be ſenſible, that it was a very un⯑pardonable [153] crime; but the force of example gets the better of his humanity, and he is leſs afraid of a laugh from a fool or a villain, than the eternal diſpleaſure of his God.

ASK Kitt how he reconciles this behaviour, and he will anſwer by the force of example too — ‘Damn it, (will he reply) I am ſure I am no worſe than Bob Brazen, Dick Dare, Will Wildfire, and a thouſand others of my acquaint⯑ance;’ and thus as long as he finds any body as bad or worſe than himſelf, cries huſh to every argument of his reaſon, and goes on in the com⯑miſſion of new follies, or the perpetration of new crimes. Sometimes he compounds matters, and opens a ſort of debtor and creditor account be⯑tween his conſcience and himſelf, with which he is not a little ſatisfied; as for inſtance: becauſe he pays his debts punctually, he imagines he has no occaſion ever to appear at the public worſhip of his creator: becauſe he frequently relieves one poor family, he looks upon himſelf as juſtified in plunging another into the worſt of diſtreſs and diſgrace; and becauſe he ſometimes fulfils the du⯑ties of chriſtianity, he fancies that in the general he has a right to make a jeſt of them all.

ALAS, how many Kitt Hairbrains might be found on an accurate inſpection through the king⯑dom? — If the preſent paper ſhould fall into any ſuch hands, let me, if I cannot make an appeal to their reaſon, at leaſt addreſs an admonition to their pride, and adviſe them, if they muſt follow the [154] example of their neighbours, to copy thoſe actions only which are worthy of imitation and regard; ſince nothing but wiſdom or virtue can vindicate the credit of our underſtandings in an imitation of any nature; and ſince he muſt be an ideot or mad⯑man, who treads in no other footſteps than thoſe which are marked by the raſcal or the fool.

NUMB. XCVII. Saturday, December 4.

THOUGH nothing is ſo common as to find every man diſſatisfied with the lot in which providence has thought proper to place him, yet nothing is ſo certain, as that no man, take his ſituation all in all, would be his neighbour in⯑ſtead of being himſelf. The great father of the univerſe has graciouſly planted an inherent ſort of pride in the breaſt of all his creatures, which exalts them in their own opinion, and gives them an advantage over the reſt of the world in ſome particular point that compenſates for a thouſand inconveniencies, and reconciles them to the ſeve⯑rity of real or imaginary evils upon the whole.

IF we examine the frame of the human mind, we ſhall immediately ſee, that every man holds much the ſame opinion of himſelf which he en⯑tertains of his country; he readily acknowledges, that in ſome particular circumſtances ſuch and ſuch a perſon has an advantage of him, but in the main he nevertheleſs thinks himſelf the ſuperior, and [155] looks down with an air of diſdain on all who are hardy enough to diſpute his opinion: a modern author has not deſcribed this ſort of vanity un⯑happily.

I WAS converſing with my nephew Harry laſt night upon this ſubject, and the young rogue made an obſervation or two that gave me much ſatis⯑faction. I don't know how it is, Sir, ſays he, but though my acquaintance are everlaſtingly wrang⯑ling with themſelves, I can find none of them, upon a fair examination, willing to be any body elſe. There's Ned Grovely, for inſtance, who is perpetually curſing his ſtars for not giving him a good eſtate like Dick Bumper; yet at the ſame time, the univerſe would not bribe him to make an exchange with Dick for legs. In the ſame manner Dick is very miſerable at the clumſineſs of his calves, but nevertheleſs hugs himſelf up in the recollection that he can drink as much as any man in England at a ſitting, and play an ad⯑mirable game at all-fours.

[156]YOU know Sally Bromley in Pall-Mall who viſits at my mother's, and is ſo terribly pitted with the ſmall pox; Sally is to the laſt degree unhappy on that account, and envies every woman with a tolerable face; yet I have heard her frequently declare, that a fine ſet of teeth was the firſt of all the beauties; and then obſerved how ſhe turned round to receive the univerſal admiration with as much confidence as if ſhe was an abſolute dutcheſs of Hamilton. In ſhort, let me go where I will, I can find nobody but what is the rara avis of ſelf-imagination: neither poverty nor diſeaſe can eradicate the conſequential ſomething of the boſom that lifts us to the pinnacle of diſtinction, and gives us ſo great a pre-eminence above our neigh⯑bours. I have known a man with a tollerable voice refuſe the acquaintance of a very deſerving young fellow becauſe he could not ſing; and heard of an Oxford ſcholar, who when he was aſked his opinion of Shakeſpear, came out with a pſhaw of diſguſt, and replied, the fellow did not under⯑ſtand Greek.

WHEN we conſider theſe various foundations for happineſs, which providence has planted in the minds of all its creatures, we cannot help ad⯑miring the goodneſs of the divine Being, in mak⯑ing our very foibles a ſource of felicity, and creat⯑ing ſuch fountains of ſatisfaction from ſuch in⯑conſiderable means. What gratitude is there not then due to ſo all-ſufficiently wiſe and beneficent a hand! Devotion itſelf is loſt in admiration at ſo [157] ſtupenduous a bounty, and ſcarcely knows which moſt to wonder or adore.

BUT notwithſtanding we derive ſo much plea⯑ſure from the indulgence of particular foibles, we ought always to be uncommonly careful how we take any ſatisfaction in the indulgence of our faults; theſe, though for a moment they may afford us ſome degree of felicity, are always pro⯑ductive of anxiety and wretchedneſs in the end. Unfaſhionable as the doctrine of virtue and mo⯑rality may appear, experience however fully con⯑vinces us, that nothing elſe can lay a ſolid foun⯑dation for happineſs, and that every other baſis is, literally ſpeaking, building on the ſand, and graſp⯑ing alone at emptineſs and air.

NUMB. XCVIII. Saturday, December 11.

IT was a very ſenſible obſervation of Sir Richard Steel's, that in order to make a good fortune, it was neceſſary to carry the appearance of an eaſy one. — The generality of mankind are always ready to reſpect us in proportion as they think us opulent; and pay a veneration to our circum⯑ſtances which they frequently refuſe to ourſelves: neither the moſt excellent underſtanding, nor the moſt benevolent heart are ever treated with half the deference which the arrogant ſwell of fortune receives at our hands; and we even pauſe with a degree of reverence at the mention of ten thouſand [158] pounds, when we ſpeak with the greateſt fami⯑liarity of omnipotence, and jeſt with the awful majeſty of our God.

THE moſt whimſical fellow of this caſt with whom I ever have been acquainted, was poor Ralph Harper; Ralph had an unaccountable reſ⯑pect for rich men, though he never expected to reap a ſingle ſixpence from the happineſs of their circumſtances; and, though utterly out of buſineſs he would not be a day abſent from change for the univerſe; it did him good, he affirmed, to ſee ſuch a number of rich people aſſembled to⯑gether, and the ſureſt way in the world of gain⯑ing his heart was, to introduce him to any body poſſeſſed of a large fortune. Whenever he met with a ſtrange face in company, inſtead of aſking about character, the conſtant queſtion was, what is he worth? and inſtead of an enquiry about good ſenſe, he never troubled himſelf about any thing but what his name would bring at the bottom of a piece of paper. For a man with twenty thou⯑ſand pounds he had always a low bow; for one of fifty, a profound reverence; but if he found a perſon in poſſeſſion of a plumb, he was ready to pay him an implicit adoration. This unaccount⯑able peculiarity he frequently carried to very ridi⯑culous extremes. One day, in particular, he met me in the city, and upon the ſcore of an old friend⯑ſhip, inſiſted I ſhould go home with him and eat a bit of mutton; I conſented, but unhappily, as we came down Cheapſide, he ſaw a ſober quaker [159] on the oppoſite ſide of the ſtreet, who kept a tal⯑low chandler's ſhop ſomewhere in the neighbour⯑hood of Barbican; on this gentleman he had no ſooner fixed his eye, than totally forgetting that I was his gueſt, he broke from me with all poſſible haſte, ſaying, ‘My dear Mr. Babler, you muſt excuſe me; yonder is a perſon worth thirty thouſand pounds, whom I would not miſs ſpeak⯑ing to for the world; he has aſked me repeat⯑edly to dine with him, and I think now is as good a time as can be — God bleſs you, I ſup⯑poſe we ſhall ſee you at the club in the evening.’

I COULD not help laughing very heartily at Ralph's manner of behaving; and having nothing particular to do, I took it into my head to follow him as cloſe as I conveniently could without being obſerved. I had not, however, gone above a hun⯑dred yards, before he gave an inſtant ſpring acroſs the kennel, to a freſh face, and calling out to his little friend the Quaker, deſired him to go on, for it was out of his power to dine with him that day, having ſome very preſſing buſineſs to tranſact, which till then had entirely eſcaped his memory. I ſhrewdly ſuſpected that this new acquaintance was a man of rather greater fortune than the perſon for whom I had been ſo ſtrangely diſcarded; I was not deceived in my conjecture; he ſtoped to ſpeak to ſomebody and Ralph likewiſe making a halt to wait for him, happened to meet my eye, and gave me a glance of no little ſignificance. As I was paſſing him by, he caught hold of my hand, [160] and aſſured me, that, that tall gentleman in black, who was ſtanding at ſuch a door, was one of the worthieſt fellows in the kingdom; for ſays Ralph, ‘there is not a day he riſes, but what he is maſter of ſixty thouſand pounds.’

IN a few minutes Ralph and his friend paſſed me by, and the odd mortal was acquieſcing to every thing he ſaid, with ſuch a humility of reſ⯑pect, that I thought it was wholly improbable he ſhould find any freſh opportunity of ſhifting his company; notwithſtanding the plauſibility of ap⯑pearances, however, in leſs than five minutes, he was in full chace after a chariot that drove through St. Paul's Church-yard with the greateſt rapidity, and was ſaid to belong to a Jewiſh merchant, of the firſt eminence, well known at that time for his intimate connexion with Sir Robert Walpole.

IF the poſſeſſion of a large fortune could beſtow either worth or good ſenſe, I ſhould never be ſur⯑priſed to ſee the rich treated with the utmoſt reſ⯑pect; or had people even but a diſtant expectation of gaining any advantage from the opulence of their purſe-proud acquaintance, ſomething might be ſaid in their defence; but where without a ſhadow of merit, or a hope of his conferring a favour, a man is next to be idolized, merely becauſe he is maſter of ten or twenty thouſand pounds, I own I cannot help being hurt at the little-mind⯑edneſs of his worſhippers, and muſt inevitably tax [161] them with a palpable poverty of ſpirit, if not a total want of underſtanding.

IN the diſſolute reign of Charles the ſecond, the celebrated Killigrew was one night at ſupper with the Duke of Buckingham, Lord Dorſet, Lord Rocheſter, and ſome other noblemen of the moſt eminent abilities; the latter, by ſome means, hap⯑pened to turn the converſation on the great honour which Killigrew received, from the dignity of his company. The wag, who, notwithſtanding the in⯑feriority of his rank, poſſeſſed more real ſenſe than the whole groupe put together, took all in good part for ſome time; till, at laſt, finding matters grow a little ſerious, he ſtood up and delivered himſelf to the following effect. ‘And, pray my lord, whence proceeds all this mighty honour which I am thought to receive? From your dig⯑nity, I ſuppoſe, and your fortune? As to the firſt you find, by ſad experience, that where there is a want of worth, this gew-gaw of title won't keep a man from contempt; a fool, or a raſcal, is equally a fool and a raſcal, whether he is a plain Killigrew, or a great earl of Rocheſter: as to the ſecond point, your fortune; when you make me the better for it, why then it will teach me to eſteem you, till then don't mention it as a matter of the leaſt importance to me; for as long as I pay my reckoning, and receive no obliga⯑tions, in regard to circumſtances, I am company for a Creſus, and would not ſuffer an emperor to treat me with the ſhadow of a diſreſpect within the walls of a tavern.’

NUMB. XCIX. Saturday, December 18.

I HAVE often delivered it as my opinion, that one of the principal indiſcretions which any woman can poſſibly be guilty of, is to receive the addreſſes of a lover, whom ſhe does not mean to en⯑courage. If he happens to be a worthy man, it is ungenerous as well as cruel to keep him in ſuſpenſe; and he is too poor a ſacrifice even for her vanity, if he happens to be a fool; but if a juſt conſidera⯑tion for the lover does not more commonly excite an exalted ſhare of benevolence in the female bo⯑ſom, it is ſurpriſing that the ladies are not more generally actuated by a ſenſible regard for them⯑ſelves, ſince this indiſcriminate permiſſion which they grant to the addreſſes of an indifferent admirer, may very fatally injure them with the real object of their eſteem; and give the man who has indeed the poſſeſſion of their hearts, but too much reaſon for imagining that the ſame vanity might induce them after marriage to encourage that faſcinating voice of admiration, which was found ſo exqui⯑ſitely raviſhing to their ears before.

IT is a mighty pleaſant notion which prevails among the greateſt number of our young ladies, that there is a ſort of deſtiny in love; and that it is utterly impoſſible to reſiſt the orders of their fate in the diſpoſition of their hearts. Perhaps neither the army nor the play-houſe has deſtroyed the quiet of ſo many boſoms as the belief of this [163] delightful predeſtination; for a girl now-a-days, no ſooner has a hankering after a fellow, but ſhe imagines the ſtars have been at work about her, and looks upon it as obeying the will of heaven to follow — the bent of her own inclinations.

ONE thing inded very remarkable in the de⯑ciſion of the ſtars, is, that it never lays any dis⯑agreeable reſtraints upon the mind of a young woman; on the contrary, with an unparallelled degree of good-nature, the ſtars always give thoſe orders which are moſt certain of meeting with her own approbation, and are as tender of her repoſe and ſatisfaction, as ſhe can poſſibly be herſelf. This exceſſive complaiſance in the ſtars furniſhes the deſigning and illiberal part of our ſex with many op⯑portunities of gaining the moſt mercenary or moſt infamous ends; it enables us to rob a woman not only of all filial affection, but to ſtrip her of her fortune and her honour, and puts it in our power not only to deſtroy all her happineſs in this world, but to endanger her everlaſting felicity too.

THAT my fair readers may know with cer⯑tainty, at what time the ſtars begin to influence their conduct, I ſhall ſet down ſome infallible rules which will ſerve them upon all occaſions, and which, if rightly attended to, may poſſibly prevent a thouſand inconveniencies to many indi⯑viduals, and a thouſand anxieties to many families.

FIRST then — Whenever a young woman be⯑gins to make ſecret appointments with a man, for the mere ſake of chatting with him, and taking an [164] agreeable walk, ſhe may be pretty confident that the ſtars are then debating about the future diſpo⯑ſition of her life, and that ſhe is in a fair way of loſing her reputation.

SECONDLY — Whenever ſhe receives a letter upon the ſubject of love, and declines either pe⯑remptorily to forbid the addreſſes of the ſender, or to diſcloſe the affair to her friends, ſhe may be ſatisfied that her ſtars are very deceitful, and that they are only tempting her to wretchedneſs and diſgrace. The reaſon is obvious. A lover has no occaſion to be concealed, who would make an un⯑exceptionable huſband; and few ever require the ſecrecy of a miſtreſs on this head, but thoſe who have a deſign againſt her honour or her fortune.

THIRDLY — Whenever ſhe is uneaſy about the abſence of any particular man, nettled at ſeeing him with any other woman, or angry at hearing any part of his conduct condemned; the ſymptoms ſtrongly indicate that the ſtars are going to deprive her of her heart; and it behoves her to be un⯑commonly attentive to the principles, and merit of the perſon for whom ſhe feels this partiality.

AND fourthly — But if inſtead of real worth, and fine underſtanding, the object of this partiality ſhould be faſhionable only by his vices, and eminent only for his knowledge in the ſuperficials of behaviour, let her then if ſhe would counteract the malignity of her deſtiny, and ſoar ſuperior to the ſtars them⯑ſelves; let her exert her reaſon to tear the grow⯑ing tenderneſs from her heart; and above every [165] thing, if her favourite has once in his life betrayed the confidence of any other woman, let her baniſh him inſtantly from her ſight, and recollect, that a man who has once violated the vows of love, is too deſpicable ever to be loved at all.

NUMB. C. Saturday, December 25.

NUMB. CI. Saturday, January 2.

NUMB. CII. Saturday, January 8.

NUMB. CIII. Saturday, January 15.

THE high and mighty lords of the creation are for ever valuing themſelves upon the ſu⯑perior dignity of their ſex, and not only deny the poor women any thing like an equal ſhare of un⯑derſtanding with themſelves, but even refuſe to ratify their claim to an equal degree of principle; as if it was not ſufficient to entertain a contemp⯑tible idea of their intellects, without eſtabliſhing as mean an opinion of their hearts. Hence has the notion of female friendſhip particularly, been an object of conſtant ridicule to every faſhionable writer; hence have we been a thouſand times aſſured, that a laced cap, or an elegant pair of ruffles, was a matter conſequential enough to break the ſtrongeſt bonds of eſteem that ever ſubſiſted between two of the moſt ſenſible women in the univerſe; and hence it has been aſſerted, that there is no poſſibilily for their intercourſe to ſub⯑ſiſt a ſingle moment after each of them had en⯑tertained a favourable ſentiment about the ſame man.

[180]WITHOUT once ſtriving to refute any of theſe poſitions, I ſhall only lament that the gentlemen have not endeavoured to give ſome teſtimonies in ſupport of their own conduct, before they at⯑tempted in this good-natured manner to caſt the firſt ſtone; becauſe it is rather unfortunate that the charge ſo ſtrongly urged againſt the ladies, ſhould, at the ſame time, exiſt with infinitely more juſtice againſt themſelves: let us, however, for argu⯑ment, ſuppoſe, that the friendſhip of two women, extremely worthy in every other reſpect, is capable of being entirely broken, by the minuteſt circum⯑ſtance which we can poſſibly conceive; ſtill, will not a moment's examination of the other ſex con⯑vince us, that their boaſted friendſhips are equally liable to the ſtrongeſt interruptions from cauſes equally trivial; and that men of the beſt under⯑ſtanding frequently run into the moſt dangerous exceſſes, from circumſtances generally more deſ⯑picable, and always as abſurd.

I READILY grant that it is very ridiculous in a woman to break off all manner of connexion with an intimate acquaintance, merely becauſe this ac⯑quaintance may unfortunately happen to be better dreſſed; but is it not to the full as ridiculous for a couple of fellows, who perhaps poſſeſs the moſt exalted underſtandings, and are beſides in all pro⯑bability, entruſted with a part of the national wel⯑fare, to fall out about the niceties of a horſe-match, or to diſagree about the ſuperior excellence of a game cock? Undoubtedly yes; and though I [181] ſhall not even pretend to exculpate the ladies where they chance to be rivals, and ſuffer their reſent⯑ment to tranſport them beyond the bounds of diſ⯑cretion; ſtill I think it much more excuſable when they have a little ſcene of altercation about a worthy man, than when the lords of the creation proceed to cut one another's throats about ſome infamous ſtrumpet whom they both look upon with an equal degree of contempt.

THIS being the caſe then; in the name of won⯑der whence comes it that the poor women are eternally condemned for the inſtability of their friendſhips, when this very inſtability is carried to exceſſes infinitely more criminal as well as ridicu⯑lous among ourſelves? Are the lords of the human kind, with all the mighty ſuperiority of their wiſ⯑dom, to be continually indulged in the commiſſion of errors, of which the meaneſt driveller among the ignorant wretches of the other ſex would be to the laſt degree aſhamed? Alas! the ladies may cry out with the lion in the fable, it is well that the men are the only painters on this occaſion, or the tables would be inſtantly reverſed!

WE may blame the caprices of the women as we pleaſe, and cenſure their abſurdities as we think proper; but our partiality will never be able to change the poſitive nature of things: few of their follies are ever more than ridiculous; few of our own are ever leſs than criminal; how heartily do we laugh, when a couple of ignorant girls, as we call them, have the leaſt diſagreement and break [182] out into altercation; yet, which of ourſelves would not imagine he was bound in honour to reſent the moſt unguarded expreſſion of vehemence in a friend, even at the hazard of his life in this world, and the riſque of his eternal happineſs in the next?

THE quarrels of the women, as they are ge⯑nerally leſs abſurd in their beginnings, ſo their re⯑ſentments are generally more ſenſible too: Where a lady has received an offence, ſhe ſeldom does any thing more than withdraw her acquaintance, and treat the perſon who offers it with a proper degree of contempt. The regard ſhe entertains for the dignity of her ſex, renders it unpardonable to go further: but the lord of the creation is, by the ſu⯑perior degree of his ſpecies, allowed a right of plunging into the deadlieſt crimes; and by his ex⯑alted underſtanding, a privilege of committing the groſſeſt abſurdities: if he happens to meet with a ſlight injury, he inſiſts upon giving his enemy an opportunity of doing him an irreparable one; and muſt waſh away the imaginary diſhonour, either with the blood of his antagoniſt or his own. To be ſure, it is rather hard to take away the life of a friend for a caſual vehemence of temper; and ra⯑ther ſtrange to reduce one's ſelf to a level with a perſon from whom we have received an offence. But what of that; the glorious inconſiſtency of manhood obliges us to act in contradiction to our reaſon; and the fear of a laugh from a blockhead, is infinitely more terrible than the vengeance of our God! We all of us, in ſhort, are ready to run a [183] man through the body, who calls us either a ſcoun⯑drel or a fool; though the invariable tenor of our conduct indicates the ſtrongeſt ambition for both of theſe reſpectable characters; and we are infinite⯑ly more offended at being ſuppoſed either a raſcal or an idiot, than at being abſolutely the very thing itſelf.

NUMB. CIV. Saturday, January 22.

NUMB. CV. Saturday, January 29.

AMONG the ſeveral branches of oratory which have been lately taught by the cele⯑brated Mr. Sheridan, I am not a little ſurpriſed that he has ſtruck out no ſpecies of this valuable ſcience for the uſe of the bar, nor thought of the proper method of inſtructing a pupil how to become a ſhining ornament to the long robe, notwith⯑ſtanding the variety of examples which he might find in this kingdom. Perhaps Mr. Sheridan may ſuppoſe a good education, a fortunate memory, and a florid delivery, the principal requiſites to form an orator for the bar. If he does, he is very much miſtaken; for, to the honour of the preſent era be it ſpoken, we are bleſt with an infinite num⯑ber of eminent lawyers who have become a credit to the profeſſion without either education or me⯑mory, and indeed almoſt without any delivery at all.

NOR are the gentlemen in queſtion more gene⯑rally diſtinguiſhed for their genius and abilities, than remarkable for their learning and elocution; on the contrary, they are univerſally acknowledged to be incumbered with no great load of intellectual faculties: a happineſs which they themſelves ſeem ſo ſenſible of, that they ſcorn to lay a claim to any qualification beſides an inflexible kind of impu⯑dence [190] which is known under the faſhionable title of the Bonfront.

AS I have paid ſome attention to the cuſtomary practice of theſe gentlemen, eſpecially in the moſt material of all points, the examination of witneſſes upon life and death, I ſhall take the liberty of lay⯑ing down ſome invariable rules for the benefit of ſtudents, a tollerable adherence to which is more likely to render them conſpicuous at the Bar, than the elocution of a Cicero or the Equity of a Yorke.

IN the firſt place, let it be a fundamental maxim, with every ſtudent, that a lawyer (who ſhould be a gentleman and a chriſtian) ought upon all oc⯑caſions, to ſhew a perfect contempt for decency and good manners, and maintain a laudable inſenſibi⯑lity to every tender feeling which is a credit to the human breaſt. — It is beyond the poſſibility of a doubt, if he lays this principle for the foundation of his conduct, but he muſt, in a little time, riſe to the dignity of a ſilk gown, and pave a ready way to an ermin'd robe, and a title-giving perriwig.

UPON no account, let a love of juſtice imperti⯑nently intrude itſelf into his thoughts, or make him imagine a moment, that whatever ſide of the queſtion he engages to ſupport is not infalliably the beſt: —Let the robber confeſſed be ſuppoſed an unfortunate ſufferer from malice or miſtake; the catamite on record a perſon ſcandalouſly accuſed; and the hand yet reeking with the blood of inno⯑cence, the inſtrument of a juſtice too precipitate, or [191] at moſt the inflicter, though of an illegal, yet an equitable revenge.

IF an evidence compelled to appear againſt his client gives a teſtimony fair and unſullied as the ſoul of truth, every means muſt be made uſe of to confound and perplex him; every expedient of inſolence and chicanery practiſed to make him prevaricate; and if by ſome maſterly ſtroke there ſhould be a poſſibily of making him ſeem perjured, this violation of all law, this murder of all juſtice ſhall ſave the villain from the gibbet, and render the lawyer immortal.

WITH regard to evidence there are two methods of examination which muſt never be forgot: if the perſon to be examined is a poor ignorant ruſtic, or ſome aukward artizan, he muſt be conſtantly reminded that he is on his oath, and frightened into an acquieſcence with ſome neceſſary circumſtance, which the council ſhall good-naturedly make for him, to render the former part of his teſtimony inconſiſtent, and occaſion the whole to be ſet aſide; if this ſhould not be ſufficient to anſwer the lauda⯑ble purpoſe in view, a number of hard and diffi⯑cult expreſſions may be ſeaſonably introduced, the lawyer may alſo tell him "You ſaid ſo or ſo, Sir," (the confeſſions which he wanth imto make) till the poor fellow, terrified at the thoughts of his oath, and almoſt ignorant of what he ſays, either in his fear or confuſion ſhall acknowledge that he did.

ON the contrary, when a gentleman converſant with the principles, though unacquainted with the [192] infamous arts of the law, is to be called as a witneſs, he muſt be treated with ſcurrility and abuſe; he muſt be called "you fellow," and aſked the meanlng of every obvious word in order to rouſe his indig⯑nation and throw him off his guard.—The mo⯑ment h [...]s anger appears, the council in examina⯑tion, muſt be ſure to keep it up, and by convenient repetitions of the moſt provoking and derogatory expreſſions he can think of, render him incapable of giving a clear teſtimony, and ſo invalidate every thing he ſays.

IF it is his fortune to be on the ſide of the Crown, let him follow the method already laid down of examining a witneſs, and though the priſoner's in⯑nocence be apparent as the ſun, take every poſſible means of convicting him, as it will be highly to his reputation if he can get him caſt. His abilities re⯑ceive an additional luſtre from his dexterity in the ſuppreſſion of Juſtice, and his character will be eſtabliſhed for life, if the guiltleſs unfortunate ſhould be hanged.—Let him moreover ſport with the hopes and fears of the unhappy wretch thus tottering on the verge of life, and humanely try every expedient to aggravate his miſery, by occaſio⯑nal puns and wittiſciſms on ſuch circumſtances in the courſe of the trial, as may give him the ſmalleſt opportunity for a ſtroke.

THERE are no ill conſequences to be apprehended by any ſtudent, and no reſentment to be dreaded from the court, from this method of going on; for, now-a-days, lawyers talk before a Bench of Judges, [193] the immediate repreſentatives of GOD and the KING, with the ſame illiberal freedom as the reſ⯑pectable Orators of Billingſgate; and uſe every ar⯑tifice for the ſuppreſſion of truth, as if it was cri⯑minal for juſtice to be ſatiſfied, and abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary for Robbers and Murderers to make a tri⯑umphant eſcape. — In ſlaviſh countries indeed, uninſpired by a ſentiment of liberty and honour, the man who would take upon him to brow beat an evidence, would ſtand a chance of loſing his head, and a Judge who would ſuffer it, might feel ſomething more than a public diſgrace.—But in theſe happy regions the perſon inſulted in the cauſe of juſtice, is the only one expoſed to pu⯑niſhment, which he has more than a probability of undergoing, ſhould he have the inſolence to com⯑plain of being ſcandalouſly treated, to the court.

NUMB. CVI. Saturday, January 5.

THERE is an unaccountable ambition among the generality of people, to enhance the con⯑ſequence of their poſterity, though at their own expence; and there is ſcarcely a father within the weekly bills, but what, if we are to judge by the mode of his behaviour, thinks his ſon a conſiderably better man than himſelf. I am naturally led into this conſideration by a viſit which I made to my landlord, an honeſt carpenter, at the weſt end of the town, a day or two ago, to talk with him about [194] repairing my houſe, and to pay him a twelvemonth's rent.

AS it was paſt one o'clock before I ſet out, I arrived at Mr. Roof's juſt about dinner time, and without much ceremony ſat down with the family to a leg of pork and a peaſe-pudding, and a couple of fine fowls with egg ſauce. The company con⯑ſiſted of Mr. and Mrs. Roof, his two ſons, and a young lady of about nineteen, very elegantly dreſ⯑ſed, whom I took for ſome perſon that boarded in the houſe, but who, to my great ſurprize, I found was no more than my honeſt landlord's daughter. Mr. Roof and his wife were very plainly decorated, but the two ſons had their hair done up in the ala⯑mode à Paris taſte, and wore each a plain blue coat, and a ſcarlet waiſtcoat very richly laced with gold: Upon enquiry into the profeſſions to which they were brought up, I found that the eldeſt was a ſort of ſuperintendant to his father, and that the other had, by the recommendation of a nobleman in the neighbourhood, been lately advanced to a fifty pound place in the Exciſe. The young gentle⯑men I perceived, by their converſation, looked upon themſelves in a very conſequential light, and ſo did their ſiſter; they talked of nothing but earls and dukes, and frequently ſwore upon their honours; whereas their father ſcarcely mentioned any thing higher than the bricklayer or timber merchant, and never preſumed to ſwear by any thing more elegant than his God.

[195]DINNER was ſcarcely over, when the young lady and the two gentlemen got up in a careleſs manner, and took their leaves with a polite ele⯑gance, taking care to let me know, however, that they were to drink tea at a gentleman's in New Bond-ſtreet, and from thence to adjourn to Covent-Garden Houſe to ſee the Maid of the Mill, having ſent a perſon for that purpoſe to keep places: "Ay," ſays the father after their departure, ‘Suke has been teizing us a long time to ſee this Opera, and ſo Bob and Alick being diſengaged this evening, they agreed to go with her, and have ſent Ralph Jenkins, our youngeſt apprentice to keep a row for them in one of the green boxes: For my own part, my dame and I ſeldom go above once a year, and that is to Dick Yate's benefit; we even then ſit in the two ſhilling gallery, and go at half after two, for the ſake of getting a good place.’

‘BUT why, Mr. Roof, (ſays I) do not you ſend Ralph Jenkins to keep a place for your⯑ſelf and your good woman in the boxes at the ſame time; it would be much more com⯑fortable than going ſo very early, and running the chance of being ſqueezed to death, by crouding into the two ſhilling gallery?’

‘WHY, Lord, Sir, (returned my honeſt land⯑lord) you do not think it would become a poor carpenter to be elbowing it among people of faſhion in the boxes: No, no, I am ſure you [196] know a great deal better than that, and have only a mind to be a little merry with me.’

‘YOU bring your eldeſt ſon I think, Mr. Roof, up to your own buſineſs?’ ‘Yes, Sir; and a cleverer lad never ſtepped in ſhoe-leather; he ſhall draw a plan, or make an eſtimate with any carpenter in the kingdom: Nay, with Phil⯑lips himſelf, though every body muſt allow him to be an honour to the buſineſs: And then if he was put to it to-morrow, he could get his bread as a journeyman; why, Sir, I had him the matter of four years at the bench.’

‘WELL then, Mr. Roof, is not your ſon a carpenter too?’ Undoubtedly, Sir." Then ‘if it be improper for you as a carpenter, to ſit in the boxes among the perſons of quality, muſt it not of courſe be equally as improper for him?’

‘AY, Sir, conſider he dreſſes in a very diffe⯑rent manner from me, and that you know will make it overlooked.’

‘TRUE, Mr. Roof, but do not you look upon yourſelf to be as good a man as your ſon?’

"TO be ſure I do Sir."

‘WHY then, Mr. Roof, do not you dreſs as well as your ſon?’

‘WHY, becauſe I do not think it would be⯑come my ſtation.’

‘THEN give me leave to aſk you Mr. Roof, why you ſuffer your ſon to run into an error which you are ſo ſenſible as to avoid it your⯑ſelf? [197] Young men, you know, are naturally inclined to be vain; and indulgences of this nature, where a young man is obliged to live by his induſtry, very often diſqualify him for trade; as he dreſſes like a gentleman, he is ambitious of appearing like a gentleman in every reſpect; and will conſequently aim at being equally idle and extravagant: — This is one great error which I think many tradeſmen (ex⯑cuſe me my worthy friend, for it is my friendſhip makes me ſpeak) run into: As if their ſons were better men than themſelves, they dreſs them a thouſand times better; and not only add by this means to their conſtitutional vanity, but give them an early turn to idleneſs and ex⯑pence: The circumſtance of youth can be no extenuation of the conduct; becauſe, if there be a degree of diſtinction any where due, it is to age, which is entitled to a much greater ſhare of veneration and reſpect.’

FINDING the converſation rather aukward to my landlord, I changed the ſubject; but have the pleaſure of informing my readers that Mr. Roof has ſince, with his own hands, ripped the lace off the young gentlemens' waiſtcoats, and has poſitively ordered his daughter never to appear in his ſight with a ſack.

NUMB. CVII. Saturday, February 12.

NUMB. CVIII. Saturday, February 19.

IF we take an accurate view of the world, and make a juſt obſervation upon the various cha⯑racters it abounds with, we ſhall find thoſe which in general attract our greateſt admiration, ſeldom if ever entitled to out eſteem; and thoſe which work the ſtrongeſt upon our wonder, the leaſt en⯑titled to our love. The glare of heroiſm or dig⯑nity only dazzles our imagination, whereas the milder virtues of domeſtic life never fatigue upon the ſight, but on the contrary, like a beautiful landſcape, ſupply us with everlaſting charms, and encreaſe upon the fancy the more they are enjoyed. The reader will eaſily ſee from the following letter, which my nephew Harry (who conſtantly acquaints me with every thing) lately received from Charles Haſtings, a young fellow of his acquaintance, how I have been led into the foregoing reflexion.

WHEN I ſee the immenſe ſum which people of fortune daily ſquander in ſcearch of felicity, I am aſtoniſhed to think how any man with a glimmer of underſtanding can think of recurring to the cuſtomary methods of obtaining it, when the ſecret conviction of his own heart, points out the moſt eligible means: What is the winning of a [206] thouſand battles? What is the poſſeſſion of a thou⯑ſand thrones, to the performance of a ſingle action like this? If univerſal applauſe is our ambition, virtue leads on to the immediate poſſeſſion of our wiſh; and while the trappings of pomp and prece⯑dence gain a curſory plaudit from our follies, ſhe with the milder luſtre of one meritorious circum⯑ſtance, commands an everlaſting admiration from our hearts! It is in every man's power to throw the conquerors of the world at a diſtance in honeſt reputation; a humanity of temper outweighs a univerſe in value; and an immortality is to be purchaſed by a proper application of the ſmalleſt ſum, which the giddy profuſion of our nobility daily riſque upon a ſingle card.

NUMB. CIX. Saturday, February 26.

THOUGH no body is better pleaſed to ſee a huſband place a proper degree of confidence in his wife than myſelf, nor wiſhes more ardently to have the married ladies treated with delicacy and affection; yet there is one ſituation in which I am frequently ſorry to find them diſtinguiſhed with extraordinary marks of regard, and in which I think it would be much more for the credit of our underſtandings rather to doubt of their diſcretion, than to ſuppoſe it im⯑poſſible for them to run into capital miſtakes.— The ſituation which I here mean, is, where [207] at our deaths, though we have a number of chil⯑dren, we rely implicitly on the tenderneſs of our wives, and leave our whole fortunes entirely in their power, from a prepoſterous opinion, that they will faithfully employ every ſhilling for the benefit of theſe children, and be actuated by no other view, than a maternal concern for their hap⯑pineſs.

IT is true when we conſider the natural ſoftneſs of the female character and recollect with what an aching intenſeneſs of ſenſiblity, a mother general⯑ly beholds her own offspring; when we ſee a woman's life apparently depending on a child, and have beſide for a long ſeries of years experien⯑ced in her fidelity, every poſſible proof of a worthy heart, and a clear underſtanding; it appears unac⯑countable that we ſhould entertain any doubts of her tenderneſs, in thoſe laſt important moments, where all her feelings muſt be tremblingly alive for the loſs of a worthy huſband, and where the unprotected ſituation of her little orphans, demands a double ſhare of her affection.—Experience, how⯑ever, fatally convinces us, that we cannot rely with any tolerable certainty upon the conduct of the ladies in general:—Neither their eſteem for the memory of a man whom they once idolized; nor their fondneſs for the very children in whom they ſeemed only to exiſt, are ſufficient to preſerve them from ſacrificing every thing which ought to be dear to a woman of ſenſe and humanity; the mo⯑ment their tears are a little dried up, their hearts [208] become ſuſceptible of ſecond impreſſions; and their unfortunate poor innocents are infamouſly plun⯑dered, to obtain the poſſeſſion of ſome inſidious ad⯑mirer whom they have not known perhaps a week and whoſe principal adoration was excited by their fortunes,

I am inſenſibly led into this ſubject by an ap⯑plication which was made to me for charity yeſ⯑terday morning, from a woman once the wife of my old acquaintance Tom Eaſy Tom was bred at Oxford, in the neighbourhood of which city, he fell accidentally in company with this lady, the daughter of an obſcure clergyman, and being ſmit⯑ten with her perſon married her at once, not re⯑garding in the leaſt her utter want of fortune;— happily for Tom, his father, who was a merchant in London, died before this marriage was diſ⯑covered, otherwiſe it might have greatly endan⯑gered his inheritance; however on taking poſſeſſion of the old gentleman's eſtate, which conſiſted of money in the funds to a very large amount, he brought Mrs. Eaſy to town, ſet up an elegant equi⯑page, and lived away in a manner entirely ſuitable to the affluence of his circumſtances. I have dined more than once at his houſe, and never beheld a more affectionate huſband.—His whole ſtudy was to guard his wife from the uneaſineſs even of a wiſh, and three charming little prattlers, with which ſhe bleſt him, ſo abſolutely rivetted her em⯑pire over his heart, that he often broke out into tears of exquiſite tenderneſs, if he gazed at her [209] with any extraordinary ſhare of attention.—Un⯑common as theſe marks of regard might be con⯑ſidered, Mrs. Eaſy, nevertheleſs ſeemed to merit them all; during the whole ſeventeen years of her marriage, ſhe never knew a will but her huſband's, nor ever paſſed a moment in the moſt faſhionable places of pleaſure, with a fiftieth part of that ſatis⯑faction, which ſhe received at home from her little family.—During Tom's laſt illneſs ſhe ſat up with him for ſeven weeks, and when, through the in⯑credible diſtreſſes of her mind and the exceſſive fa⯑tigues of her perſon, ſhe was at laſt rendered una⯑ble to move acroſs the room, ſhe had a mattraſs brought to her huſband's bedſide, where ſhe con⯑ſtantly echoed to his groans, and anſwered in a perpetual uniſon to theſe ſorrows which ſhe could no longer attend upon, with the medicines of relief.

SUCH unexampled proofs of conjugal attachment deſerved every mark of the moſt grateful acknow⯑ledgment, and Mr. Eaſy accordingly rewarded it with every ſhilling he was worth in the world, and died perfectly ſatisfied that ſo excellent a woman could never deviate in the leaſt from the juſt regard which was due to her children.—But alas, poor Tom was not buried ten weeks before this very woman gave her perſon and fortune to an Iriſh gambler; and threw both herſelf and her children entirely upon the capricious bounty of a raſcal who was as totally loſt to ſhame, as he was deſtitute of humanity; the conſequence of this unpardonable ſtep will be eaſily conceived by the reader of ima⯑gination; [210] in leſs than ſix months Mr. Eaſy's three children were turned out of doors by the merci⯑leſs ſtep-father.—A ſubſcription was however raiſed among ſome friends for their ſupport, and they were all put out to profeſſions, in which they have a genteel expectation of earning their own bread.— But as to the wreched mother, ſhe was marked out for a fate of much greater ſeverity; after the barbarous expulſion of her children, her hopeful huſband, gave her the modeſt alternative, either of going about her buſineſs alſo, or of waiting upon a ſtrumpet in her own houſe, with whom he had been many years connected.—The latter part of this propoſal, incredible as it may ſeem, ſhe rather choſe to accept, than to part entirely with the com⯑pany of a villain, who had brought ſuch deſtruction on her family:—Though he was deteſtable to her juſtice, he was nevertheleſs dear to her heart, and ſhe thought it better to undergo every ſhame and every mortification, than to be totally baniſhed from his ſight.—A woman who could act as ſhe did, de⯑ſerv'd to be treated as ſhe was; for three whole years ſhe lived the moſt miſerable of all ſlaves to her huſband's miſtreſs; underwent all the various rounds of inſult, which could poſſibly be thrown upon her by the brutality of his profligate com⯑panions—till at laſt the Hibernian's death, in a duel, which was occaſioned by a reflexion upon his honour, at the moment he was detected in cog⯑ging a die ſet her free; but left her wholly with⯑out ſuport; for her fortunate rival, the moment [211] ſhe heard of his death, ſeized upon all his money and papers, ſold off the houſe and furniture by vir⯑tue of a will, which ſhe had for ſome time in her poſſeſſion, and ran away with another Iriſh gambler, before the unfortunate wretch who was beſt enti⯑tled to every thing, could take any ſteps in her own defence, or even recover from that extrava⯑gance of grief in which ſhe was plunged, by the loſs of a villain, ſo utterly unworthy of her affection.

IS it neceſſary to argue with a ſenſible man, about truſting his fortune entirely to a wife, after I have told him the foregoing ſtory? If it is, I muſt pity the weakneſs of his underſtanding, or he muſt tax me with a total want of abilities.

NUMB. CX. Saturday, March 5.

THE ſubject of my laſt number has brought me the following letter from a reader, who ſeems a young fellow of ſo much merit and good ſenſe, that I am doubly ſenſible of his misfortunes.

NUMB. CXI. Saturday, March 12.

NUMB. CXII. Saturday, March 19.

NUMB. CXIII. Saturday, March 26.

LOOKING over Dodſley's collection of poems a day or two ago, I met with the fol⯑lowing little ode, which, though there is nothing more than a prettineſs in the verſification, never⯑theleſs contains ſuch an uncommon degree of be⯑nignity in the ſentiment, as muſt fill every reader with the higheſt admiration for the excellence of the writer's heart; if he ſhould even conceive but a ſlender idea of his poetical abilities.

NOTHING is more cuſtomary with moſt people, than when they themſelves have made an injudi⯑cious choice either in friendſhip or in love, to ex⯑claim at once againſt the world; and to declare that no conſideration ſhall ever induce them to honour any body with their good opinion, a ſecond time; in purſuance of this ſtrange reſolution, they act as if every body was unworthy of a place in their eſteem; and make the behaviour of a ſingle individual an invariable ſtandard for the integrity of the whole univerſe. Hence they are continually tortured with the ſevereſt pangs of anxiety and ſuſpicion: wear away their exiſtence in an open warfare with ſociety; and die as unlamented as they have lived unbeloved.

A SENSIBLE mind ſhould, however, conſider that the tempers of mankind are not leſs oppoſite than their various complexions; and that nothing can be a greater act of injuſtice, than to entertain an ungenerous apprehenſion of our whole acquaint⯑ance, merely becauſe we have been deceived by any particular one. If we examine into the ge⯑neral courſe of our connexions, whether they are founded upon friendſhip or eſtabliſhed upon love, [227] we ſhall find that ſo far from having any right to quarrel with the world, the world will upon the whole appear not a little entitled to our regard, ſince in the general, we meet with a much greater ſhare of ſincerity both in friendſhip and in love, than what from the ridiculous nature of our at⯑tachments, we have any probable reaſon to expect.

NOW a days what is it which forms the foun⯑dation of our friendſhips or conſtitutes the baſis of our loves? Is it a ſimilarity in our manners or an agreement in our purſuits; a conformity in our virtues, or a reſemblance in our crimes? Alas theſe queſtions if candidly anſwered, muſt load us with confuſion and reproach. In the choice of our friends it is not an excellence of underſtanding or a benignity of heart, which produces our intimacy, or attracts our eſteem. It is not the ſuggeſtion of our virtues which is conſulted in the choice of our friends, but the depravity of our inclinations: does a man drink a bottle more than the generality of our companions — good — that man is a very honeſt fellow — and very proper to be ſet down as a friend: does another tell a ſtory, ſing a ſong — or ſpend the ſubſtance of other people with an un⯑common degree of ſpirit? Better and better, — there can be no doubt of his worth; and we clap him in our hearts core, as Hamlet has it, In our heart of hearts: or has a third butchered his neighbour in ſome ſcandalous quarrel, ariſing from the outragious exceſs of midnight profligacy? Beſt of all — Such a friend is ineſtimable — An intimacy with him is [228] not more flattering to our pride than agreeable to our wiſhes; we mention his heroiſm upon every occaſion and in proportion to the cloſeneſs of our acquaintance, we conſtantly claim a ſhare in the luſtre of his reputation.

IN like manner where we form a ſtill nearer connexion than friendſhip is capable of admitting; when we abſolutely look about for wives; by what ſalutary ſtandard do we regulate our inclina⯑tions? Will not a tolerable face have more weight with us than the moſt exalted underſtanding; and will not a tollerable fortune appear of more con⯑ſequence than the united recommendation of all the mental accompliſhments? When theſe things are notoriouſly ſo, what are we to expect but ſhame and diſappointment; but mortification and regret? At a ſituation like this, who are we to find fault with but ourſelves? If we truſt our property to the hands of a robber, can we expect it to be ſafe? And if we lodge our confidence or our felicity in the boſoms of the worthleſs, what greater ſecurity can we poſſibly hope to find, either for the prodigal depoſit of our friendſhips, or the frantic repoſe of our affections? Inſtead therefore of quarrelling with the world for deceiving us ſo often, we ſhould acknowledge ourſelves obliged that we are not deceived ſtill oftener; our connexions for the moſt part are injudicious, and conſequently ſhould be for the moſt part unfortunate; yet, for the ho⯑nour of human nature, be it mentioned, the world is not ſo ready to deceive as we are to let it; nor [229] are our acquaintance half ſo much diſpoſed to be villains as we are diſpoſed to be fools. Let us not therefore, becauſe we ourſelves are profligate or ridiculous, impeach the integrity of other people; if we have a mind to be fortunate in our friend⯑ſhips, or happy in our loves; let us not form at⯑tachments according to the advice of our paſſions, but according to the direction of our reaſon; the wiſe and the virtuous are thoſe which will ſtand the teſt of the cloſeſt examination; and theſe are the only people whom reaſon will ever point out as entitled in the leaſt to our eſteem or our affection.

NUMB. CXIV. Saturday, April 2.

NUMB. CXV. Saturday, April 9.

THE character of an author is what ſuch numbers are ambitious of obtaining, that every day produces ſome addition to the republic of letters, and ſhews us a great many honeſt gen⯑tlemen who imagine, that the publication of a book, let it be never ſo uſeleſs or deſpicable, muſt raiſe them in the eſtimation of the world, as if the ſureſt way to eſtabliſh an idea of the underſtandings, was to prove themſelves triflers or fools. For my own part, great a partiality as I may feel for the productions of the preſs, I ſet but a very ſmall value on thoſe works which are not likely to be of ſervice to ſociety. The moſt ingenious treatiſe on the wing of a butter-fly, has but very little merit in my opinion; and my ridicule is much more eaſily moved where a man of real talents takes an infinite deal of pains to prove ſome hypotheſis, which, when it is proved, does not ſignify a ſixpence to the world, than where I ſee a writer ſetting out to gain ſome point which will be really advantageous to mankind, but failing through an obvious want of abilities, in the attainment of his end.

THERE is, however, no part of literature in which men of genius are ſo apt to trifle, or in which blockheads are ſo apt to be inſufferable, as in poetry. Who, for inſtance, that reads Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, can forbear lamenting to find [234] ſo much ſterling fancy and exquiſite verſification thrown away upon a ſubject which cannot poſſibly be of the ſmalleſt benefit to the reader. Perhaps of all the pieces which this great man ever pub⯑liſhed the Rape of the Lock is the moſt finiſhed and poetical; yet muſt it not grieve a conſiderate mind to recollect, that the Rape of the Lock is at beſt but a glittering toy; an elevated gewgaw, merely capable of amuſing the fancy, but no way calcu⯑lated to enlarge the underſtanding. Muſt it not grieve a conſiderate mind to ſee thoſe aſtoniſhing abilities prodigally ſquandered on ſuch deſpicable objects, when the choice of ſubjects ſuited to their natural dignity would have afforded the world a ſtill greater degree of entertainment, and given it beſides the moſt ample and ſalutary ſources of in⯑ſtruction.

IT is a very abſurd opinion which a great many people adopt in regard to the end of poetry. So it amuſes the fancy, they imagine it may neglect the heart; and ſo it tickles the ear in an agreeable manner, they never once trouble themſelves about the effect which it is likely to have upon the un⯑derſtanding: thus they conclude, that the moſt exalted walk of all literature is to be the leaſt uſe⯑ful to the world, and ſet down men of inferior ta⯑lents only as the proper inſtructors of ſociety. Ab⯑ſurd as this opinion is, it has nevertheleſs a prodi⯑gious number of advocates; and the generality of our modern poets ſeem to be ſo perfectly ſatisfied of it's juſtice, that one half of our compoſitions [235] are nothing more than elegies on linnets or black-birds—Deſcriptions of a river or a meadow—verſes to the ſpring — and ballads about milliners girls and mantua-makers apprentices.

DID theſe worthy gentlemen, however, conſider, that poetry is to the full as capable of improving the mind, as of amuſing the imagination, perhaps they would endeavour to give us ſome gleams of common ſenſe in their productions—Did they con⯑ſider, that the principal number of our celebrated poets, while they entertained us with the fineſt ebullitions of genius, have given us alſo the ſound⯑eſt leſſons of morality; and did they conſider, that the harmony of numbers is almoſt entirely calcu⯑lated to enforce the ſentiments of virtue more ſtrongly on our boſoms, they might be kindly led to mix a little reaſon now and then with their rhyme, and induced to believe, that the moſt poliſhed ver⯑ſification is but a poor apology for dullneſs and in⯑ſipidity.

THE herd of modern verſifiers unfortunately copy nothing but the defects of our celebrated writers. Inſtead of endeavouring to imitate the exalted flights of a Pope, they only follow him where he evidently deſcends; and becauſe he, or becauſe other great men like Scipio and Laelius, have employed themſelves in ſkimming ſome little poe⯑tical pebbles on the ſurface of genius, they claim an everlaſting privilege to trifle alſo, and run con⯑tinually into their faults without once ſpiritedly at⯑tempting to reach the leaſt of their perfections.

[236]IT is in reality ſurpriſing, when the main end of literature is to make mankind wiſer and better, that the preſs is unceaſingly teeming with produc⯑tions which often want even the negative merit, of having no harm to countenance the groſſneſs of their ſtupidity. Whoever is deſirous of being an author ſhould always carefully attend to this mate⯑rial circumance, the inſtruction of his reader; he ſhould judiciouſly conſider with himſelf, whether the publication, which he is about to make, is ſuch as can either be ſerviceable to the judgment or the heart; advantageous to the cauſe of good ſenſe, or beneficial to the intereſts of morality: unleſs it an⯑ſwers one of theſe ends, he never can promiſe him⯑ſelf either profit or reputation, and it will be much more for his credit to continue in his uſual ſtate of obſcurity, than to call for the attention of the world to ſhew himſelf a weak or a worthleſs member of the community.

NUMB. CXVI. Saturday, April 16.

IT ſometimes happens that men, who make the moſt dangerous deviations from the laws of ſo⯑ciety, and the principles of virtue, in a great mea⯑ſure, owe their crimes to the very benevolence of their hearts; and that in the midſt of all their guilt we find a dignity of ſoul which commands our higheſt admiration.

[237]FRANK LEESON, was the ſon of a country gentleman in Ireland, who poſſeſſed a little eſtate of about 300 pounds a year, but who, with that liberality of ſentiment, ſo particularly the charac⯑tereſtic of his nation, gave into an hoſpitality ra⯑ther beyond the power of his circumſtances, and in promoting the happineſs of his friends, too frequently forgot a neceſſary attention to his own; the conſequence may be eaſily foreſeen by the intelligent reader; old Mr. Leeſon was involved in perpetual difficulties, and was upon the eve of being thrown into priſon, when he was ſaved from a diſgrace of that nature by the extraordinary piety of his ſon; Frank to a very excellent underſtand⯑ing, joined a very amiable perſon; on which ac⯑count, a young lady with an independent fortune of 8000l. had long beheld him with a favourable eye; but Frank being attached to another whoſe beau⯑ty and merit were her only recommendations, had hitherto declined to profit by this lady's partiality; however, when he ſaw there was no other method of ſaving an infirm father and mother from po⯑verty and bondage, the force of his filial affection got the better of his love; he tore himſelf from the woman of his ſoul, and married the eight thouſand pounds: with this money, he paid off all the old gentleman's debts, and entered the world with a degree of reputation, conſiderably ſuperior to the generality of his acquaintance.

AS nothing could ſeperate Frank and his fa⯑ther, the old couple and the young lived for ſome [238] time in the moſt perfect ſtate of harmony under the ſame roof; and the ſeverity of their former ſitua⯑tion producing a neceſſary regulation in their ex⯑pences, they were every day riſing no leſs in opu⯑lence than in felicity, when an unexpected mis⯑fortune left them in the moment of their utmoſt ſecurity without ſhelter and without bread: old Mr. Leeſon, finding his health very much impair⯑ed, and conceiving a diſguſt moreover at the part in which he reſided, becauſe his friends had not formerly been ſo ready to aſſiſt him in his neceſſi⯑ties, as he had reaſon to expect; reſolved with the concurrence of his ſon to diſpoſe of his eſtate, and to make an adequate purchaſe in the neighbour⯑hood of Dublin, where he might have an oppor⯑tunity of conſulting the beſt Phyſicians, and eſta⯑bliſhing a more agreeable circle of acquaintance: purſuant to this plan, he ſold every acre he poſ⯑ſeſſed, had the purchaſe money home in bills, and was preparing to ſet off for another part of the king⯑dom in a day or two, when an accidental fire reduced his habitation to an heap of aſhes, de⯑ſtroyed all his effects, and gave him ſcarcely a moment more than was abſolutely neceſſary for the preſervation of his family: Frank, whoſe whole property was alſo in bills, and packed up ready for the intended departure, loſt all in the general ca⯑lamity, and was obliged together with his father, his mother and his wife, to take refuge at a neigh⯑bouring gentleman's for a few days, till they were in a capacity of reaching the metropolis, [239] where Frank expected from ſome letters which he obtained to the lord Lieutenant, to procure a little eſtabliſhment either in the army or the public offices.

ON the arrival of our unfortunate family in town, young Mr. Leeſon applied himſelf induſ⯑triouſly to profit by his recommendations; but alas, though he met with civility, he could obtain no relief; every freſh application gave him nothing but freſh occaſion to lament the miſerable proſpect before him; and while he was continually cheer⯑ing every boſom at home with the ſpeedy expecta⯑tion of halcyon days, he had nothing but deſpair in his own. At length, deſtruction became too evident to be concealed; his father who was now confined to his bed, had been a whole day without ſuſtenance, and young Mrs. Leeſon was every hour trembling, leſt the pains of parturiency ſhould oblige her to ſolicit the charitable aſſiſtance of the public; thus ſituated, torn with a thouſand pangs, for a wife who poſſeſſed his higheſt eſteem; for a father whom he almoſt worſhipped, and a mother whom he tenderly loved; Frank ſallied out one evening into the ſtreets and ſtopping a gentleman, whoſe appearance indicated opulence, he demand⯑ed his money with ſuch a wildneſs of accent, that the gentleman terrified out of his wits, immedi⯑ately gave him a purſe of fifty guineas, and Frank eagerly retreated to his lodgings, depoſiting the money with his father, and telling him he had re⯑ceived it from the lord Lieutenant's order, as an [240] earneſt only of future obligations; the family at home not doubting the truth of this relation, poured out their whole ſouls in acknowledgment of the viceroy's goodneſs, and once more refreſhed them⯑ſelves with a comfortable repaſt.

NEXT morning, however, the robbery became noiſed abroad, and to the great ſurprize of every body a merchant of the firſt character and fortune was apprehended for the fact and lodged in Newgate; on the earlieſt knowledge of this circumſtance, Frank immediately wrote to the innocent gentle⯑man, deſiring him to be under no apprehenſion, for if he was not honourably acquitted, the perſon actually guilty would on the day of trial appear in court, acknowledge his crime, and ſurrender him⯑ſelf to the violated laws of his country; the gen⯑tleman naturally read his letter to every body, but though ſuch as were his friends, talked of it as a moſt extraordinary affair, the generality of people, conſidered it as a deſpicable artifice calculated to impoſe on the credulity of the public; however, the day of trial at laſt came; and notwithſtanding the merchant's character appeared irreproachable before this unfortunate ſtain; notwithſtanding ſeveral perſonages of the higheſt figure, proved him a man remarkably nice in his principles and opulent in his circumſtances; the proſecutor was ſo poſitive in his charge, and a number of circum⯑ſtances ſo ſurpriſingly concurred, that he was actu⯑ally convicted; and the judge proceeding to ſentence, when a loud noiſe of make way ran through the [241] and young Mr. Leeſon, with a manly, yet, modeſt countenance, ruſhing forward, demanded to be heard, and delivered himſelf to the following effect:

‘YOU ſee before you, my Lord, an unhappy young man, who once little thought of violating the laws of his country, and who wiſhed rather to be the friend, than the enemy of Society; but who knows to what he may be urged in the hour of a piercing calamity; to what he may be wrought when deſtitute of friends and deſtitute of bread? I my lord, was born a gentleman and bred one; ſix months ago I was maſter of an eaſy fortune, but an accidental fire in a moment redu⯑ced me to beggery, and what ſtill more diſtreſſed me, reduced alſo an infirm and excellent father, an aged and tender mother, together with the beſt of women and the beſt of wives to the ſame lamentable ſituation; encouraged by ſome recom⯑mendations to the great, we came up to town, and expected a decent means of procuring a ſubſiſtance; but alas, my Lord, thoſe who want compaſſion moſt, are thoſe who are moſt commonly diſregard⯑ed; inſtead of aſſiſtance we received compliments, and met with the bow of a frigid politeneſs, where we looked for the bounteous hand of relief; ſo that in a little time, our all was totally ex⯑hauſted; and my unhappy father with the vener⯑able partner of his youth were above a day with⯑out any ſuſtenance whatſoever, when unable to ſee them expiring for food, I ruſhed forth; and com⯑mitted [242] the robbery, for which this gentleman now priſoner at the bar has been condemned.’

‘THIS was not the whole of my affliction; a fond deſerving wife, who had brought me a plen⯑tiful fortune, lay alſo periſhing with hunger, and that too in a ſituation which demanded the ten⯑dereſt attention, and the moſt immediate regard: ſuch, my Lord, were my motives for that un⯑juſtifiable action. Had the gentleman con⯑demned, been happily acquitted, I had not made this public acknowledgment of my guilt: heaven only knows what I have ſuffered during his con⯑finement; but the empire of the univerſe would not bribe me to injure him farther; nor tempt me by an infamous ſacrifice of his life, to conſult the ſafety of my own. Here then, my Lord, I claim his ſentence, and demand his bonds. Provi⯑dence will, I doubt not, now take care of my innocent family, who are equally ignorant of my crime, and my ſelf-accuſation. For my own part, I am reſigned; and I feel nothing in conſequence of my approaching fate, but from what I am ſenſible my miſerable friends muſt ſuffer on my account.’

HERE Mr. Leeſon ended, and the whole court was loſt in approbation and tears—He was, how⯑ever condemned, but pardoned the ſame day; and his character ſuffered ſo little upon this occaſion, that the Lord Lieutenant gave him, with his life, a place of ſeven hundred pounds a year, while the [243] merchant, who had been accuſed from reſembling him exceſſively, dying ſometime after without iſſue left him his whole fortune, as a reward for ſo ex⯑emplary an act of juſtice and generoſity.

NUMB. CXVII. Saturday, April 23.

AS the managers of our threatres are, I am ſa⯑tisfied, gentlemen of too much underſtanding to be offended with any body for pointing out ſuch caſual improprieties as in the great multiplicity of their buſineſs, may poſſibly eſcape their own ob⯑ſervation; I ſhall employ the preſent paper in ac⯑quainting them with a circumſtance or two, which may be altered much to the ſatisfaction of the pub⯑lic, without expoſing themſelves to the ſmalleſt inconvenience, or the minuteſt expence.

AS I am very fond of a play and generally take my ſtation in the Pitt, I am frequently offended at the conſtant interruptions which the performance meets with from the reſtleſs diſpoſitions of the muſic, who the moment an act is begun, always get up ſtare about perhaps with an idle gape of ſtupidity, and then withdraw, though conſcious that their preſence is indiſpenſibly requiſite in half an hour at the fartheſt — when the prompter touches his bell towards the cloſe of the act, the audience is again diſturbed by their entrance, and this entrance, is made with ſo little caution that the actors are abſolutely impeded in the proſecution of their parts, [244] and the attention of the ſpectators very frequently called from the moſt intereſting paſſages of the play. Sometimes theſe conſiderate gentlemen will even tune their various inſtruments while the per⯑former is actually ſpeaking, and I have more than once heard Lear exclaiming againſt the unnatural hags his daughters, to the disjointed ſqueak of a hautboy, the impertinent ſharp of a fiddle, or the drowſy hum of a baſſoon. In every play we are ſure of being diſturbed ten times, by the very people who are paid to encreaſe our entertain⯑ment; and who ſurely ſhould from motives of in⯑tereſt, if not from principles of gratitude, ſeize every opportunity of adding to our ſatisfaction.

WHAT kind of corporeal qualities may go to the compoſition of a fiddler I neither know, nor am I very ſolicitous of being informed. I cannot however help thinking, but what they might ſit as quietly in their ſeats, as their paymaſters the public. During the courſe of an evening's enter⯑tainment not one in a hundred of the auditors find it neceſſary to go out. Why therefore the whole band of muſic, ſhould have occaſion to interrupt us regularly every half hour is ſomewhat extraor⯑dinary. A little common-ſenſe cannot ſurely pre⯑judice the nicety of their ears, or the expertneſs of their fingers; and if not, what excuſe can they poſſibly aſſign for a behaviour ſo generally diſ⯑agreeable to the town, and ſo palpably below the practice of any men who pretended in the leaſt ei⯑ther to manners or to modeſty?

[245]IT is a circumſtance mentioned highly to the ho⯑nour of the late prince of Wales his majeſty's father, that having by ſome unavoidable accident outſtaid his time one evening when he had commanded a play, he was no ſooner informed that the audience had been obliged to wait in conſequence of his delay, then he pulled out his watch in the full face of the houſe, as if he had recognized his error, and bowed with ſuch an acknowledgment of gracious condeſcenſion, as rendered him inconceivably ami⯑able from his little miſtake. With all poſſible deference to the gentlemen of the catgut, and the profeſſors of the pipe, I think the prince of Wales a perſonage of as much conſequence as the beſt of them; and therefore if an apology was amiable in him for detaining an audience ſome minutes from a favourite entertainment, it muſt be thought a little preſumptuous in them to be perpetually diſturbing it. It is not however the members of the band to whom I addreſs myſelf; it is to their immediate maſters, and I flatter myſelf after what I have here ſaid, I ſhall have but little occaſion to expatiate on the ſubject for the future, as the ma⯑nagers have good-ſenſe, and the public have re⯑collection.

THE next abuſe which I think wants refor⯑mation in our theatres, is the practice which ſome of the capital performers have of raiſing the price of the Pitt at their benefits. This of all the acts of preſumption, which I ever remember in the pro⯑feſſors of the ſtage is by much the moſt glaring [246] and unpardonable; and if it ſhould be tolerated but a few ſeaſons longer, there is no knowing to what lengths the temerity may be carried. I am far from being an enemy to the drama; on the contrary, I wiſh particularly well to the actors; and am never better pleaſed than when I ſee their merits properly rewarded, by the munificence of the public. But I think there is none of our per⯑formers who ought not to be very thankful for a clear benefit of two hundred pounds. This, either of the theatres will afford them at the common prices; and one ſhould ſurely imagine that they ought to teſtify their acknowledgments for the an⯑nual company of their friends, rather than make uſe of that very eſteem which the town entertains for them, to load it with an additional charge— what they may think of the affair I know not; but of this I am fully perſuaded, that the man who would not think himſelf highly obliged by a clear benefit of two hundred pounds, never deſerves to have a benefit at all.

LET us however examine a little into the general excuſe which the gentlemen of the theatres think proper to urge in extenuation of this extraordinary behaviour; whenever they are reprehended on this account their conſtant plea is, that they raiſe their price in order to oblige their friends, and that as nobody is forced to come, nobody can complain of an injury. This excuſe ſcarcely merits a re⯑ply; yet let me aſk the people who urge it, whether the theatre is not entirely a public entertainment; [247] and whether they can properly diſpoſe of thoſe places to any particular individuals, which are equally appointed for the indifferent reception of all — Cuſtom has for a long time authorized the letting of places in the boxes; but cuſtom has never authorized an addition to the regular price — Why therefore the frequenters of the Pitt ſhould be excluded from their uſual ſeats without the payment of two ſhillings extraordinary is a circum⯑ſtance which ſurpriſes me much. What have the Pitt part of the audience done that they ſhould be ſingled out to bear the impoſition of ſome arrogant favourite, whom they themſelves have probably raiſed into reputation? If an addition muſt be made to the price of tickets on benefit nights; let the tax become general; let the Boxes and the Galle⯑ries come in for their portion of the burden, and let not the people of the Pitt be the only perſon deſtined to bear the ſcourge of theatrical avarice and temerity — If an actor's friends want to put a ſum of money in his pocket, let them give double or treble the value for their own tickets; but let not the indifferent part of the public be obliged to pay for friendſhips in which they have no manner of connexion. The buildings which formerly diſ⯑graced the ſtage on benefit nights have been judi⯑ciouſly removed by the good-ſenſe of the managers; it is therefore to be hoped that they will ſhew as much readineſs in the ſuppreſſion of a palpable in⯑juſtice as in the ſuppreſſion of a mere inconveni⯑ence; and that they will not ſuffer their performers [248] to take a liberty with the public, which they dare not take themſelves.

THE laſt thing which I ſhall recommend to the managers, is to conſult the propriety of places, and to pay a little attention to the rank of their characters. — What buſineſs has a party of the Engliſh foot guards to attend upon a Perſian em⯑peror? Or is it a reaſon that a prince ſhould not be habited like a prince, becauſe the actor who appears in the character has but thirty ſhillings a week: — It is inconceivable how theſe little things affect an accurate obſerver — who can bear to ſee the duke of Cornwall's gentleman dreſt better than the duke of Cornwall himſelf — or endure with patience to ſee the perſons of one ſingle family dreſt in the manner of half a dozen different coun⯑tries? The probability of the fiction becomes de⯑ſtroyed by means of theſe ſlovenly inattentions, and Drury-lane or Covent-garden, ſtare us conti⯑nually in the face, when we want to be in Spain or in France, in Italy or Illyria.

NUMB. CXVIII. Saturday, April 30.

NUMB. CXIX. Saturday, May 7.

NUMB. CXX. Saturday, May 14.

IN one of my papers, ſome time ago, I threw out a hint relative to a paſſion, which my young rogue Harry had conceived for Miſs Cornelia Marchmont, whom I mentioned as the very ab⯑ſtract of every mental perfection, and every perſonal accompliſhment; my conjecture for a conſiderable while was acquiring freſh foundation, but as my nephew ſaid nothing of the matter to me, I took no notice of it to him, though I could not help ſmiling at the belief, which he entertained, that I was totally ignorant in regard to the object of his affections—Laſt monday ſevennight however, he came to me with an air of the greateſt tranſport, and after apologizing for not having made me acquainted with the buſineſs a little ſooner, inform⯑ed me, that Miſs Marchmont had bleſt him that morning with the acknowledgment of a reciprocal eſteem, and that I was the perſon whom ſhe had pitched upon to open a negotiation between the two families.

[258]AS I do not know any young lady exiſting, who poſſeſſes a greater ſhare of my eſteem, than Miſs Marchmont; nor ever ſaw a perſon ſo immediately calculated to make my boy happy, I ſhook him cordially by the hand, wiſhed him joy from the bottom of my heart, and inſtantly ſet out to my ſiſter Rattle, who is a very worthy woman, though ſhe ſometimes will argue with me about a point of philoſophy; and is a very ſenſible one too, though ſhe has within theſe three months found fault with one or two of my Bablers: — Luckily on my en⯑trance, I found Mr. Marchmont, Cornelia's father, chatting with her at the parlour fire, and as he and I have been intimately acquainted above thirty years, I opened the buſineſs of my errand without any ce⯑remony, and this the more eſpecially, becauſe I knew neither could have any reaſonable objection to the match; every thing turned out as I expected, both were rejoiced at the affection between the young people; and there being no mighty mat⯑ters of law to retard the celebration of the nuptials, I thought it beſt to make ſhort work of the affair, and accordingly fixed the wedding for the follow⯑ing Saturday. The propoſition being approved by the parent of each, I retired to make Harry happy with the intelligence, and in purſuance of the agreement I ſaw him bleſt with one of the worthieſt, as well as ſweeteſt girls in the univerſe, with ten thouſand pounds in her pocket laſt Satur⯑day morning; — Harry has fifteen hundred a year [259] himſelf, and my ſiſter who has a very good join⯑ture, is I fancy making a purſe for him into the bargain; — ſo that between what he muſt have upon her deceaſe; and upon the deceaſe of ano⯑ther perſon who ſhall be nameleſs — there will be ample proviſion for a riſing family.

AS I look upon a wedding-day, to be one of the moſt important calls which either of the ſexes have in their whole lives, for the exertion of an extraordinary delicacy I was not a little attentive to the behaviour of my two favourites, and it gave me infinite pleaſure to obſerve upon the whole, that Harry's behaviour was manly, tender and reſpectful, without deviating into that fulſome diſagraeable fondneſs; of which, even men of the beſt ſenſe are often guilty, when they have juſt obtained the wo⯑man of their heart: As to Cornelia, I never ſaw a young creature in her ſituation, conduct herſelf with more propriety — to all the dignity of conſcious virtue, ſhe joined all the ineffable ſweetneſs of an engaging timidity; and though ſhe ſeemed proud of the man whom ſhe had thus preferred to all the world, yet ſhe had too much ſenſibility not to feel ſome amiable terrors, at ſo awful an alteration of her circumſtances.

AFTER the performance of the ceremony we all retired to Mr. Marchmont's, and there being a large company of us, Harry judiciouſly propoſed an unremitting round of amuſements both before din⯑ner and after, which entirely employed the atten⯑tion even of the moſt volatile, and prevented the [260] circulation of thoſe indelicate ambiguities with which the generality of wedding-days are frequent⯑ly diſgraced. So that our mirth was as it ought to be; mingled with good ſenſe and manners; and of courſe the harmony of a day could be little liable to interruption while that harmony was regulated by reaſon and civility.

I HAVE been often ſhocked at the ſolemnization of a marriage, to ſee the ridiculous, I had almoſt ſaid the profligate, levity with which people have approached the altar of the divine being, and jeſted with one another at the inſtant of ſupplicating a bleſſing from his hand: nay I have been many times preſent where the clergyman who read the ſervice has conſidered the affair as a matter of the greateſt merriment, and even winked with a pecu⯑liar degree of archneſs at the bride, when he came to mention the procreation of children.

ONE would imagine on a wedding day, that, if the friends of the married couple had even no vene⯑ration for the Deity, they would at leaſt have ſome little ſhare of politeneſs; and be actuated by a ten⯑der concern for the feelings of the lady, if they even felt no awe whatſoever in the preſence of their God. A woman of any ſenſibility on her wed⯑ding-day, muſt naturally be in circumſtances ſuf⯑ficiently embarraſſed, without hearing any illiberal pleaſantries from the company, to enhance the difficulties of her ſituation. When ſhe conſiders that the happineſs or miſery of her life materially depends upon the choice which ſhe has then made, [261] ſhe has cauſe enough for terror: and when ſhe conſiders the privilege which is ſhortly to be claimed by the object of that choice, when ſhe con⯑ſiders that the delicate reſerve, in which ſhe has all her life been brought up, is in an inſtant to be ſacri⯑ficed to his inclination; I ſay, when all theſe things are conſidered, nothing can be more inſolent or indeed more cruel than to aggravate her di⯑ſtreſs, by the practice of any improper jocularities. People I am ſenſible are ſtrangely attached to old cuſtoms, but every cuſtom ſhould be aboliſhed, which is in the leaſt repugnant to reaſon and civi⯑lity; on which account, I flatter myſelf the reader will give a proper attention to this ſubject, and cor⯑rect the error I have here been ſpeaking of as far as he is able, in the circuit of his acquaintance.

NUMB. CXXI. Saturday, May 21.

DURING the time of the celebrated Thamas Kouli Kahn, it was a common amuſement with him and his officers, to take a number of aſſes, and try who could make the deepeſt inci⯑ſion, in the backs of thoſe unfortunate animals with a ſabre; he that cut fartheſt was allow⯑ed the reputation of the ſtrongeſt man; and frequently it happened, that one of the miſer⯑able creatures was entirely divided aſunder by the force of a ſingle ſtroke: this anecdote was men⯑tioned at a club, to which I have the honour [262] of belonging, by a gentleman of unqueſtionable veracity and good ſenſe, who was many years a reſident in Perſia, and was an occaſional ſpectator at ſeveral of theſe inhuman diverſions; the whole company to their honour, it muſt be mentioned, expreſſed an honeſt abhorrence at ſuch barbarous relaxations, and we all congratulated ourſelves upon living in a country, where it would be ſcan⯑dalous, for the very firſt orders to imitate the Perſian hero in his brutal exerciſes.

WHEN I got home, however, I could not help reflecting, that notwithſtanding the conſcious pride of heart, which we all poſſeſſed in the moment of ſelf-congratulation, a number of amuſements could be pointed out in this kingdom conſiderably more barbarous, than the practice of hewing an aſs to pieces, though this appeared ſo juſtly ſhocking to our imaginations: nay, what is ſtill worſe, the enjoyment of ſeveral barbarities is particularly re⯑ſerved for people of the firſt figure and under⯑ſtanding, as if thoſe, whoſe feeling ſhould be un⯑commonly tender, had an additional title to the commiſſion of cruelties; and as if a violent outrage upon every ſentiment of humanity, ſhould be the peculiar privilege of birth and fortune:—My readers may be ſurpriſed at this obſervation, upon the peo⯑ple of England; yet let me aſk if it be more cruel to torture an aſs, than to torture a ſtag; or whe⯑ther it is not even more compaſſionate to diſpatch the firſt at a blow, than to purſue the latter for a number of hours, encreaſing the wretched animal's [263] agony at every ſtep, and yielding it up at laſt, to a death that muſt harrow up the boſom of any good natured man, who allows himſelf a moment's ſpace for reflexion.

THE more in reality that we conſider this point, the more we ſhall find it neceſſary, to condemn the inhabitants of this civilized, this benevolent, country; the Perſian when he diſpatches the unfor⯑tunate aſs, commits no treſpaſs upon the property of his neighbour, nor manifeſts any diſregard to the diſtreſſes of a friend: the animal whom he de⯑ſtroys is his own, it is confined to a particular ſpot: and nobody can ſuffer in it's death but himſelf; whereas in the proſecution of the chace with us, we trample inconſiderately through half a county, perhaps, over the corn grounds and incloſures, which the induſtrious farmer has cultivated, or planted, at a very great expence; and if the per⯑ſon whom we thus injure expreſſes any reſentment at our conduct, we poſſibly horſewhip him for his inſolence, and ſend him home with the reparation of a bleeding head, to comfort his wife and chil⯑dren. This is not all, in the phrenzy of a hunting match, as well as being ſenſible to the wrongs which we offer to others, we become wholly un⯑mindful of the prejudice, which we do ourſelves; for let our lives be of never ſuch conſequence to our families, we become regardleſs of danger; we never heſitate at leaps that are manifeſtly big with deſtruction; and even, if the brother of our breaſt, ſhould meet with any accident in this mad-headed [264] courſe, ſo far from ſtopping to aſſiſt him, we make an abſolute jeſt of his misfortune, and expreſs a ſenſe of pleaſure in proportion as we find him in⯑volved in diſtreſs; if he diſlocates a leg or an arm by a fall from his horſe, he affords us an exquiſite entertainment; but, if he actually fractures his ſkull, our mirth becomes extravagant, and we con⯑tinue wild with delight, till happineſs is totally effaced by intoxication.

THE civilized nations of Europe, are extremely ready upon all occaſions, to ſtigmatize every other part of the world with the epithet of barbarians, though the appellation might with infinitely more propriety be conferred upon themſelves; among the politeſt of our neighbours, there are a thouſand cuſtoms kept up, which would fill the moſt unculti⯑vated ſavage with horror, and give him if poſſible, a ſtill more contemptible idea of chriſtianity; an Indian Brachmin, for inſtance, will frequently go to the ſea-ſide, while the fiſhermen are drawing their nets, and purchaſe a whole boat full of fiſh for the humane ſatisfaction of reſtoring the expiring creatures to their natural element, and ſnatching them from death; — nay, the tenderneſs of the Brachmins is ſo exceſſive, with regard to the ani⯑mal creation, that they have been known to pur⯑chaſe cattle at an extraordinary price, merely to ſave them from ſlaughter; compaſſionately think⯑ing, the lowing heifer, or the bleating lamb, an equal, though an humbler heir of exiſtence, with themſelves: what then, would men of this exalted [265] benevolence, think of the Britiſh nation, were they to ſee with what ſolemnity the right of murdering an innocent Partridge, or a harmleſs Hare, is ſettled by the legiſlative power of the kingdom? Were they to ſee the armies, which at particular ſeaſons, iſſue forth, to deſtroy the warbling inhabitants of air, for actual diverſion; the ſportive tenants of the river for idle recreation? But above all, what would they feel to ſee a generous domeſtic little bird, ſcandalouſly tied to the ſtake, and denied the ſmalleſt chance of life, at the eve of a ſacred-faſt, ſet apart by our holy religion, for the purpoſes of extraordinary ſanctity, and the buſineſs of unuſual mortification; — it is impoſſible to imagine what they would feel, when there are even Chriſtians to be found, who cannot ſee the practice without horror, nor think of it without tears.

I AM far from carrying my notions of tenderneſs to the animal creation, beyond the bounds of rea⯑ſon, as the Brachmins do, who think it irreligious to feed upon any thing which has been ever endued with life; becauſe I believe, the great Author of all things, deſigned theſe animals principally for the uſe and ſuſtenance of man: yet at the ſame time, that I ſuppoſe they were formed by the Deity for the relief of our neceſſities, I cannot imagine he ever intended, they ſhould be tortured through wantonneſs, or deſtroyed for diverſion; nor can I imagine, but what even the ſuperſtitious forbearance of the Brachmins, is infinitely more pleaſing in his ſight, than the inconſiderate cruelty of thoſe who [266] profeſs an immediate obedience to his word: a God All-mercy, never takes delight in the unneceſſary agony of a creature, whom he has been pleaſed to endue with exiſtence; we therefore offer an inſult to him, when we give a needleſs pang to the mean⯑eſt of his creatures, and abſolutely pervert the de⯑ſign of his Providence, whenever we ſacrifice thoſe animals to our amuſements, which he has conſti⯑tuted entirely for the relief of our wants.

I HAVE thrown out theſe reflexions with a bene⯑volent purpoſe, as ſuch numbers of the ignorant and the thoughtleſs, are apt to promote their amuſe⯑ments at the expence of their humanity; ſhould, what I have here offered, be attended with the refor⯑mation but of an individual, I ſhall think my time well employed; ridicule I muſt naturally expect from numbers, for daring to combat with favourite preju⯑dices; but it is my conſolation, that no witticiſm whatever, which may be aimed at me as a writer, can, on the preſent ſubject of animadverſion, do me the minuteſt injury as a man.

NUMB. CXXII. Saturday, May 28.

WE are told by Plutarch, that whenever the celebrated Phocion ſtood up in the ſenate to ſpeak upon the buſineſs of the nation, De⯑moſthenes, who generally eſpouſed a different ſyſtem of politics, would whiſper the perſon who ſat next [267] him, and ſay, here comes the pruning book of my pe⯑riods. For my own part, greatly as I myſelf may fall under the common cenſure with the generality of my brother ſcriblers, I could nevertheleſs wiſh that the preſent age had ſome ſalutary pruning hook, to lop off the redundancies of expreſſion in literary compoſition; that the reader might not be put to the trouble of going over an unneceſſary number of words, which, inſtead of helping out a writer's ſenſe, moſt commonly have quite a con⯑trary effect, and only ſerve to obſcure the tendency of his arguments.

IN the Proſaic productions of the preſs, our modern writers, inſtead of aiming at conciſeneſs and perſpicuity, are too apt to ſtudy what is called, a rotundity of period; and too ready to treſpaſs upon propriety, for the mere conſideration of em⯑belliſhment; thus to make a ſentence roll floridly on the ear, they often run into the moſt tedious repetitions; and uſe double the requiſite quantity of words from an unaccountable ſuppoſition, that an elegance of ſtile is conſtituted by an abſolute prolixity: whereas a moment's recollection muſt ſatisfy a ſenſible mind, that the ſooner we diſcover our meanings, the more maſterly our pens muſt be naturally eſteemed; and the ſooner we inform the underſtanding of a reader, the more capable we are to anſwer the important deſigns of his in⯑ſtruction.

IN poetical compoſition there is nothing more frequent than the practice of clogging a line with [268] a load of uſeleſs epithet or unmeaning pleonaſm, merely to fill out the neceſſary quantity of ſyllables: to point out what I mean more ſtrongly, I ſhall give the reader an example from a man of no leſs conſequence than Addiſon. The following ill-written ſimile in Cato has been greatly admired, and even in the Guardian it is quoted as one of the principal beauties which excites the admiration of lady Lizard and her family:

In the four firſt lines of this ſimile the judicious reader will immediately perceive, that the poet has done little more than called a ſpade a ſpade; that is, made uſe of ſynonimous epithets or meanings entirely ſimilar; the epithet pure is juſt the ſame as limpid; and we all know that when a ſtream is fouled, it muſt be ſtained of courſe: in like man⯑ner to work itſelf clear, it muſt refine as it runs; and conſequently refining only as it runs, it's ſhining muſt be gradual. To be ſerious, the poet might as well repeat the term pure, as follow it with the term limpid; and he might with juſt the ſame ele⯑gance tell us, that the ſtream waſtained with ſtains, as uſe a word of juſt the ſame ſignification. Mr. Addiſon, however highly entitled to our admi⯑ration [269] as a proſe-writer, has, as a verſifier, but ſmall pretenſions to our applauſe; it is not there⯑fore ſo much to cenſure him that I have pointed out the preſent imperfection, as to warn my poe⯑tical purchaſers from copying the miſtake. In poetry our epithets ſhould never be forced—pro⯑perly uſed they have a fine effect; but when they are viſibly dragged in to ſpin out the meaſure of a line, and are moreover bald repetitions of the ſame idea, they become abominable. Nothing contributes more to their beauty than variety; and nothing is eaſier than to render them various. A ſtream, for inſtance, has more qualities than one; it may be ſmooth as well as limpid; and a roſe beſides it's colour, has fragrance to diſtinguiſh it. When, therefore, our objects have qualities enough to ſupply us with a diverſity of epithets, it muſt be a ſtrange forgetfulneſs indeed to pick out a ſynonim, and to tell the world that what is ex⯑cellent is excellent.

THE great art of all ſtile is for a writer never to throw away his words; never to introduce any thing into his piece but what is really neceſ⯑ſary for the main purpoſe of his deſign. It is not becauſe he has a pompous period of proſe to diſplay, or has a mind to parade with a particular blaze of poetical fancy, that he ſhould overleap the bounds of propriety; no compoſition can have merit but in proportion as it is founded upon good ſenſe; and good ſenſe muſt always feel an injury where a ſtab is directed at propriety. For theſe [270] reaſons an author ſhould always aim at ſaying pertinent things, in preference to fine ones; and when his partiality for ſome new ſentiment is run⯑ning away with his judgment, he ought to conſider that the eye of the world is much more inclined to kindle with diſdain, than to ſparkle with admi⯑ration; he ought to conſider that an indifferent reader may look with the greateſt contempt upon the very paſſage which he himſelf views with ſo exquiſite a degree of ſatisfaction; and he ought alſo to conſider, that the nobleſt flight of genius improperly brought in, is at beſt but a ſhining ab⯑ſurdity.

FOR theſe reaſons therefore, when a writer ſits down to work upon a ſubject which he imagines of conſequence to mankind, let him by all means prefer the ſubſtantial advantages of intrinſic uſe, to the flimſey fripperies of outſide ornament; let him endeavour to be clear before he ſtrives to be florid; and let him, where he aims at a floridity of ſtile, take care that he is not in danger of ſtriking on the quickſands of a dull repetition, or a lifeleſs prolixity. Stile is but a very inſignificant circumſtance, unleſs it has actual matter to embelliſh; and it muſt ren⯑der a man truly ridiculous indeed, who takes a world of pains in the formation of a ſentence, which cannot poſſibly anſwer the moſt inconſiderable end. Upon the whole, if we cannot attain a ſtile in literary compoſition without tediouſneſs or tau⯑toligy; if we are forced to load every period with an unneceſſary weight of words, merely to give [271] our ſentiments a little air of ſmoothneſs and order, I think it would in general be adviſeable if we avoided an acquaintance with pen and ink; though at any rate a plain little frock will become us infi⯑nitely better than a tawdry fantaſtic coat covered entirely with tinſel, and marking us out to the world as a ridiculous compound of affectation and inability.

NUMB. CXXIII. Saturday, June 5.

IT is now above four years ſince the Babler firſt preſumed to ſolicit the attention of the Public, and during that period he has been happily favour⯑ed with a reception, which while it does the higheſt honour to the generoſity of his readers, impreſſes the moſt lively ſenſe of gratitude upon his heart; yet this encouragement he has not va⯑nity to aſcribe even by implication, to the account of ſuperior abilities; on the contrary, he is hum⯑ble enough to confeſs a conſciouſneſs, that the rec⯑titude of his intentions in the cauſe of virtue has been the principal baſis of his ſucceſs; and is ſatis⯑fied that he owes his little reputation more to the uprightneſs of his deſign, than to the extent of his underſtanding; yet upon recollection, he is not ſure but he betrays a greater ſhare of ſelf-ſufficience even in his humility, than if he had laid the moſt arrogant pretenſion to parts: the world however has it's forms, and thoſe forms ſhould be conſtantly com⯑plied [272] with, where they are neither ridiculous nor criminal; therefore, though a well-meaning mind may be reckoned among the firſt of all the human qualifications, ſtill as it is a qualification which every body has it in his power to poſſeſs, a man cannot be ſaid to raiſe himſelf inſolently above his neighbours, when he claims no more than what he willingly allows to the meaneſt of them all.

THE kindneſs of the Public having now put it into my power, to make a tolerable Selection from my various Papers, and the marriage of my nephew, with whom I reſide, having conſiderably leſſened the neceſſary time which ſhould be devoted to the conduct of a Weekly Eſſay; I purpoſe taking leave of my readers in the preſent number, with an ob⯑ſervation or two upon the nature of periodical pub⯑lication, and an excuſe for the evident diſparity which muſt be conſtantly expected in productions of this kind—The generality of writers when they undertake to amuſe the world upon a plan of this nature, imagine, that becauſe a paper or two may be ſtruck off with a happy facility, a thouſand may be compoſed with an equal degree of readineſs; and never once doubt, while the world continues in good humour with theſe works, but what they will be able to go on with an unceaſing variety of ſubjects, and an unabating fervor of inclination; the novelty of the undertaking, however is ſcarcely worn off, before the mind, with that laſſitude which it feels in a conſtant application to all it's other purſuits, flags under the weight of ſtudy [273] and fatigue, and anxiouſly wiſhes to be diſen⯑gaged; it ſickens at the oppreſſive tax which it has thus laid upon it's own enjoyments; and was it not for a ſecret fear that the diſcontinuance of it's toil, would be attributed not to an impatience of con⯑ſtraint, but to a want of abilities, many of our moſt celebrated Eſſayiſts would have ſoon relin⯑quiſhed their taſk, and conſulted their convenience even before the inſtruction of the world, and the eſtabliſhment of their reputations.

THERE is ſcarcely a walk of literature, which is reckoned ſo eaſy, or which in fact is ſo difficult as this ſpecies of periodical publication; in every other ſtile of compoſition, a writer may diſplay his abi⯑lities on that particular ſubject with which he is moſt intimately acquainted; and may raiſe a con⯑ſiderable ſhare of character by expatiating on ſuch topics as are moſt immediately agreeable to his imagination; beſides this, he may allow himſelf what time he thinks proper for the perfection of his works; and is never confined by a want of room from delivering himſelf fully upon the mi⯑nuteſt point of ſpeculation: but the caſe is far other wiſe with the unfortunate Eſſayiſt: the miſcel⯑laneous nature of his undertaking, forces him to furniſh a variety of ſubjects, and obliges him to enter upon numberleſs diſcuſſions, which require not only a general knowledge of the world, but are often repugnant to his inclination: nor do the in⯑conveniencies under which he labours reſt here; under an indiſpenſible neceſſity of publiſhing on a [274] particular day, whether he is either at leiſure or in health; unembarraſſed in his ſituation or undiſ⯑turbed in his mind; he muſt go on, and even com⯑priſe his thoughts within ſuch a compaſs as may ſuit the convenience of his Printer: before he can well begin, the ſcanty limits of his Paper renders it neceſſary to conclude; and his whole Eſſay muſt be contained in a quantity of words, which is ſcarcely ſufficient to ſerve it for an introduction.

I DO not mention theſe matters by any means to enhance the merit of my performance, but to apo⯑logize in reality for it's faults; a reader who does not conſider how an Eſſayiſt is circumſtanced, will often have opportunity to animadvert upon his pro⯑ductions with the greateſt ſeverity; he will find many ſubjects handled with little knowledge and others diſcuſſed with leſs force; his good nature muſt therefore mitigate the harſhneſs of his criti⯑ciſm, and he muſt never pronounce upon the work without conſidering the ſituation of the Author. When I firſt began to make a Selection from the various Papers which have appeared under the title of the BABLER, I was in reality aſtoniſhed at the intollerable dulneſs of a number which I committed to the flames, and could not help admiring the goodneſs of the world, which for the ſake of a few, I hope not altogether unworthy the regard of a good man, could patiently put up with ſuch heaps of ſtupidity; the more I conſidered the generoſity of the Public, the more I was encouraged to go on with my Selection; the ſame candour which I [275] experienced, when I appeared periodically, I flat⯑tered myſelf would attend the publication of a vo⯑lume or two; eſpecially when by weeding out the moſt inſufferable papers, I had in ſome meaſure rendered myſelf leſs undeſerving of the general pro⯑tection: ſuch of my readers therefore, as may not be aſhamed to ſee me in their libraries, have now an opportunity of buying me in volumes. Yet greatly as I have been encouraged by the Public, the purchaſers of ‘OWEN's WEEKLY CHRONICLE’ will have occaſion to be pleaſed at my declining to labour any longer in their ſervice, as a gentleman of real genius, is to fill up the column which I have enjoyed in that Paper, with an Eſſay entitled, ‘THE WISDOM OF THE WEEK; OR, A REGISTER OF PUBLIC ABSURDITIES:’ in which, I doubt not, but they will find infinitely more entertainment; occaſionally, I ſhall requeſt the author to favour me with a place, for though my engagements will not allow me to write without intermiſſion, I ſhall embrace every opportunity of aſſuring the Ladies and Gentlemen, who have hitherto honoured me with their protection, that I am,