path: root/6482.txt

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Coverley Papers, by Various

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: The Coverley Papers

Author: Various

Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6482]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 20, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COVERLEY PAPERS ***




Produced by Tonya Allen, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





THE COVERLEY PAPERS


FROM THE 'SPECTATOR'


EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY O. M. MYERS




PREFACE


The following selection comprises all numbers of the _Spectator_
which are concerned with the history or character of Sir Roger de
Coverley, and all those which arise out of the Spectator's visit to his
country house. Sir Roger's name occurs in some seventeen other papers,
but in these he either receives only passing mention, or is introduced
as a speaker in conversations where the real interest is the subject
under discussion. In these his character is well maintained, as, for
example, at the meeting of the club described in _Spectator_ 34,
where he warns the Spectator not to meddle with country squires, but
they add no traits to the portrait we already have of him. No. 129 is
included because it arises naturally out of No. 127, and illustrates the
relation between the town and country. No. 410 has been omitted because
it was condemned by Addison as inconsistent with the character of Sir
Roger, together with No. 544, which is an unconvincing attempt to
reconcile it with the whole scheme. Some of the papers have been
slightly abridged where they would not be acceptable to the taste of a
later age.

The papers are not all signed, but the authorship is never in doubt.
Where signatures are attached, C, L, I, and O are the mark of Addison's
work; R and T of Steele's, and X of Budgell's. [Footnote: _Spectator_
555.]

I have availed myself freely of the references and allusions collected
by former editors, and I have gratefully to acknowledge the help of Miss
G. E. Hadow in reading my introductory essay.

O. M. M.




CONTENTS


INTRODUCTION

COVERLEY PAPERS.

_Spectator_ 1 Addison (C)

" 2 Steele (R)

" 106 Addison (L)

" 107 Steele (R)

" 108 Addison (L)

" 109 Steele (R)

" 110 Addison (L)

" 112 " (L)

" 113 Steele (R)

" 114 " (T)

" 115 Addison (L)

" 116 Budgell (X)

" 117 Addison (L)

" 118 Steele (T)

" 119 Addison (L)

" 120 " (L)

" 121 " (L)

" 122 " (L)

" 123 " (L)

" 125 " (C)

" 126 " (C)

" 127 " (C)

" 128 " (C)

" 129 " (C)

" 130 " (C)

" 131 " (C)

" 132 Steele (T)

" 269 Addison (L)

" 329 " (L)

" 335 Addison (L)

" 359 Budgell (X)

" 383 Addison (I)

" 517 " (O)

NOTES

APPENDIX I. On Coffee-Houses

APPENDIX II. On the Spectator's Acquaintance

APPENDIX III. On the Death of Sir Roger

APPENDIX IV. On the Spectator's Popularity

INDEX




INTRODUCTION


It is necessary to study the work of Joseph Addison in close relation
to the time in which he lived, for he was a true child of his century,
and even in his most distinguishing qualities he was not so much in
opposition to its ideas as in advance of them. The early part of the
eighteenth century was a very middle-aged period: the dreamers of the
seventeenth century had grown into practical men; the enthusiasts of the
century before had sobered down into reasonable beings. We no longer
have the wealth of detail, the love of stories, the delight in the
concrete for its own sake of the Chaucerian and Elizabethan children;
these men seek for what is typical instead of enjoying what is detailed,
argue and illustrate instead of telling stories, observe instead of
romancing. Captain Sentry 'behaved himself with great gallantry in
several sieges' [Footnote: _Spectator_ 2.] but the Spectator does
not care for them as Chaucer cares for the battlefields of his Knight.
'One might ... recount' many tales touching on many points in our
speculations, and no child and no Elizabethan would refrain from doing
so, but the Spectator will not 'go out of the occurrences of common
life, but assert it as a general observation.' [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 107] He is in perfect harmony with his age, too, in the
intensely rational view which he takes of ghosts [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 110] and witches, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 117] for
it was a period in which men cared very little for things which 'the eye
hath not seen'. In his use of mottoes, again, which are deliberately
sought illustrations for his papers, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 221]
and not the sparks which have fired his train of thought, he is typical
of the period of middle-age in which men amuse themselves with such
academic pastimes. Addison is the very antipodes of the kind of man who

  'Loves t' have his sails fill'd with a lusty wind,
  Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack'--

_he_ remarks soberly that 'it is very unhappy for a man to be born
in such a stormy and tempestuous season.' [Footnote: _Spectator_
125.] He may not have been a great poet, but he was an exquisite critic
of life; he shared his contemporaries' lack of enthusiasm, but he
possessed a fine discrimination, and those less practical, more
irresponsible qualities would have been merely an incumbrance to the
apostle of good sense and moderation. For when men are young they are
much occupied with the framing of ideals and the search after absolute
truth; as they grow older they generally become more practical; they
accept, more or less, the idea of compromise, and make the best of
things as they are or as they may be made. The age being vicious,
Addison did not betake himself to a monastery, or urge others to do so;
he tried to mend its morals. This was a difficult task. The Puritans,
during their supremacy, had imposed their own severity on others; and
now the Court party was revenging itself by indulging in extreme
licentiousness. Its amusements were cruel and vicious, and the Puritans
did nothing to improve them, but denounced them altogether and held
themselves aloof. It was Addison's task to refine the taste of his
contemporaries and to widen their outlook, so that the Puritan and the
man of the world might find a common ground on which to meet and to
learn each from the other; it was his endeavour 'to enliven morality
with wit, and to temper wit with morality ... till I have recovered them
out of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age is
fallen. [Footnote: _Spectator_ 10.] It was a happy thing for that
and for all succeeding ages that a man of Addison's character and genius
was ready to undertake the work. He was well versed in the pleasures of
society and letters, but his delicate taste could not be gratified by
the ordinary amusements of the town. He treated life as an art capable
of affording the artist abundant pleasure, but he recognized goodness as
a necessary condition of this pleasure. He was the most popular man of
his day; even Swift said that if Addison had wished to be king people
could hardly have refused him; [Footnote: _Journal to Stella_,
October 12, 1710.] and the qualities which endeared him to his friends
were exactly of the kind to enable him to hold the mean between the
bigots and the butterflies, and to dictate without giving offence, for
they were humanity and humour, moderation of character, judgment, and a
most sensitive tact. His qualities and his limitations alike appear in
the _Spectator_. For example, he tells us that he wishes that
country clergymen would borrow the sermons of great divines, and devote
all their own efforts to acquiring a good elocution: [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 106.] here we detect the practical moralist and the man
who likes a thing good of its kind, but not the enthusiast. He upholds
the observance of Sunday on account of its social influences rather than
for its religious meaning; [Footnote: _Spectator_ 112.] Swift's
famous Argument against the Abolition of Christianity is only a
satirical exaggeration of this position. The virtues commended in the
_Spectator_ are those which make for the well-being of society--
good sense and dignity, moderation and a sense of fitness, kindness and
generosity. They are to be practised with an eye to their consequences;
even virtues must not be allowed to run wild. Modesty is in itself a
commendable quality, but in Captain Sentry it becomes a fault, because
it interferes with his advancement. [Footnote: _Spectator_ 2.] The
great function of goodness is to promote happiness; when it ceases to do
this it ceases to be goodness.

But the greatest hindrance that an enthusiastic temperament would have
presented to Addison's work is that it would have spoilt his method. His
aim he declared roundly to be 'the advancement of the public weal',
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 1.] but he did not prosecute it in the usual
way. 'A man,' he says, 'may be learned without talking sentences.'
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 4.] He saw much evil, and he laughed at it.
He has tried, he tells us, to 'make nothing ridiculous that is not in
some measure criminal'; [Footnote: _Spectator_ 445.] an enthusiast
could never have met crime with laughter, unless with the corrosive
laughter of a Swift. Addison's humour is perfectly frank and humane;
himself a Whig, he has given us a picture of the Tory Sir Roger which
has been compared to the portrait of our friend Mr. Pickwick. Sir Roger
put to silence and confusion by the perversity of the widow and her
confidant, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 113.] congratulating himself on
having been called 'the tamest and most humane of all the brutes in the
country', [Footnote: _Spectator_ 113.] seeking to be reassured that
no trace of his likeness showed through the whiskers of the Saracen's
head, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 122.] puzzled by his doubts concerning
the witch, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 117.] and pleased by the artful
gipsies, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 130.] inviting the guide to the
Abbey to visit him at his lodgings in order to continue their
conversation, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 329.] and shocked by the
discourtesy of the young men on the Thames [Footnote: _Spectator_
383.]--these are pictures drawn by one who laughed at what he loved.
Addison's humour has a 'grave composure' [Footnote: Elwin.] and a
characteristic appearance of simplicity which never cease to delight us.

This was the man; and he found the instrument ready to his hand. There
was now a large educated class in circumstances sufficiently prosperous
to leave them some leisure for society and its enjoyments. The peers and
the country squires were reinforced by the professional men, merchants,
and traders. The political revolution of 1688 had added greatly to the
freedom of the citizens; the cessation of the Civil War, the increased
importance of the colonies, the development of native industries, and
the impulse given to cloth-making and silk-weaving by the settlement of
Flemish and Huguenot workmen in the seventeenth century had encouraged
trade; and the establishment of the Bank of England had been favourable
to mercantile enterprise. We find the _Spectator_ speaking of 'a
trading nation like ours.' [Footnote: _Spectator_ 108.] Addison
realized that it is the way in which men employ their leisure which
really stamps their character; so he provided 'wit with morality' for
their reading, and attempted, through their reading, to refine their
taste and conversation at the theatre, the club, and the coffee-house.

Dunton, Steele, and Defoe had modified the periodical literature of the
day by adding to the newspapers essays on various subjects. The aim of
the _Tatler_ was the same as that of the _Spectator_, but it
had certain disadvantages. The press censorship had been abolished in
1695, but newspapers were excepted from the general freedom of the
Press. A more important disadvantage lay in the character of Steele, who
did not possess the balance and moderation required to edit such an
organ. Unlike Addison, he was not a true son of his century. He was
enthusiastic and impulsive, fertile in invention and sensitive to
emotion. His tenderness and pathos reach heights and depths that Addison
never touches, but he has not Addison's fine perception of events and
motives on the ordinary level of emotion. He could not repress his keen
interest sufficiently to treat of politics in his paper and yet remain
the impartial censor. So the _Tatler_ was dropped, and the
_Spectator_ took its place. This differed from its predecessors in
appearing every day instead of three times a week, and in excluding all
articles of news.

The machinery of the club had been anticipated in 1690 by John Dunton's
Athenian Society, which replied to all questions submitted by readers in
his paper, the _Athenian Mercury._ This was succeeded by the
Scandal Club of Defoe's _Review_, and the well-known club of the
_Tatler_, which met at the Trumpet; [Footnote: _Tatler_ 132]
but the plan of arranging the whole work round the doings of the club is
a new departure in the _Spectator_.

It is in these periodicals that we first find the familiar essay. Its
only predecessors are such serious essays as those of Bacon, Cowley, and
Temple, the turgid paragraphs of Shaftesbury, the vigorous but crude and
rough papers of Collier, and the 'characters' of Overbury and Earle.
These 'characters' had always been entirely typical; they were treated
rather from the abstract than from the human point of view, and had no
names or other individualization than that of their character and
calling. In some of the numbers of the Spectator we still find these
'characters' occurring, such as the character of Will Wimble, [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 108.] of the honest yeoman, [Footnote: _Spectator_
122.] and of Tom Touchy; [Footnote: _Spectator_ 122.] but they are
surrounded by circumstances peculiar to themselves, and so are much more
highly individualized. The _Tatler_ and the _Spectator_ very
greatly extended the range of essay-writing, and with it the flexibility
of prose style; it is this extension that gives to them their modern
quality. Nothing came amiss: fable, description, vision, gossip,
literary criticism or moral essays, discussion of large questions such
as marriage and education, or of the smaller social amenities--any
subject which would be of interest to a sufficiently large number of
readers would furnish a paper; as Steele wrote at the beginning of the
_Tatler_, 'Quicquid agunt homines nostri libelli farrago.'
Different interests were voiced by the various members of the club, and
the light humorous treatment and an easy style attracted a larger public
than had ever been reached by a single publication. [Footnote: v.
Appendix IV.] The elasticity of the structure enabled Addison to produce
the maximum effect, and to bring into play the full weight of his
character.

The nature of the work was determined throughout by its strongly human
interest. It is significant as standing between the lifeless
'characters' of the seventeenth century and the great development of the
novel. Thackeray calls Addison 'the most delightful talker in the
world', and his essays have precisely the charm of the conversation of a
well-informed and thoughtful man of the world. They are entirely
discursive; he starts with a certain subject, and follows any line of
thought that occurs to him. If he thinks of an anecdote in connexion
with his subject, that goes down; if it suggests to him abstract
speculations or moral reflections he gives us those instead. It is the
capricious chat of a man who likes to talk, not the product of an
imperative need of artistic expression. It is significant that so much
of his work consists of gossip about people. This growing interest in
the individual was leading up to the great eighteenth century novel. It
seems to arise out of a growing sense of identity, a stronger interest
in oneself; there is a common motive at the root of our observation of
other people, of the interest attaching to ordinary actions presented on
the stage, and of the fascination of a reflection or a portrait of
ourselves; by these means we are enabled to some extent to become
detached, and to take an external and impersonal view of ourselves. The
stage had already turned to the representation of contemporary life and
manners; portraiture was increasing in popularity; and the novel was on
its way.

In the Coverley Papers all the characteristic species of the
_Spectator_ are represented except the allegory and the essays in
literary criticism. Steele, who was always full of projects and swift
and spontaneous in invention, wrote the initial description of the club
members, and the characters were sustained by the two friends with
wonderful consistency. Apparently each was mainly responsible for a
certain number of the characters, and Sir Roger was really the property
of Addison, but no one person was strictly monopolized by either. The
papers were written independently, but it is easy to see that the two
authors had an identical conception of their characters. It is true that
the singularity of Sir Roger's behaviour described by Steele in the
first draft of his character is very lightly touched in subsequent
papers, and that, judging by the simplicity of his conduct in town, he
has forgotten very completely the 'fine gentleman' [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 2.] period of his life, when, like Master Shallow, he
'heard the chimes at midnight', but these are insignificant details.

Since Sir Roger belongs to Addison, it follows naturally that in the
present selection Addison's share compared with Steele's is larger in
proportion than in the complete _Spectator_, but it would be a
mistake to lose sight of the importance of Steele's part of the work.
Addison was the greater artist, and the balance and shapeliness of his
style enhances the effect of his thought and judgment, but we should be
no less sorry to relinquish Steele's headlong directness and warmth of
feeling. The humorous character sketches of Sir Roger's ancestors
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 109.] are his, and his the passage at arms
between the Quaker and the soldier in the coach--the delightful soldier
of whose remark the _Spectator_ tells us: 'This was followed by a
vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all the rest of the
company. I had nothing left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did
with all speed.' [Footnote: _Spectator_ 132.] His, too, is the
charming little idyll of the huntsman and his Betty, who fears that her
love will drown himself in a stream he can jump across, [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 118.] and the whole fragrant story of Sir Roger's
thirty years' attachment to the widow. [Footnote: _Spectator_ 113,
118.] But above all, we must not overlook the fact that without Steele,
as he himself says in his dedication to _The Drummer_, Addison
would never have brought himself to give to the world these familiar,
informal essays. Addison was naturally both cautious and shy; the mask
which Steele invented lent him just the security which he needed, and
the _Spectator_ endures as the monument of a great friendship, a
memorial such as Steele had always desired. [Footnote: _Spectator_
555.]

Steele himself explained the other advantages of the disguise: 'It is
much more difficult to converse with the world in a real than in a
personated character,' he says, both because the moral theory of a man
whose identity is known is exposed to the commentary of his life, and
because 'the fictitious person ... might assume a mock authority without
being looked upon as vain and conceited'. [Footnote: _Spectator_
555.] It is to the influence of this mask that much of the self-
complacent superiority which has been attributed to Addison may be
referred; one 'having nothing to do with men's passions and interests',
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 4.] one 'set to watch the manners and
behaviour of my countrymen and contemporaries,' [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 435.] and to extirpate anything 'that shocks modesty
and good manners', [Footnote: _Spectator_ 34.] such a censor was
bound to place himself on a pinnacle above the passions and foibles
which he was to rebuke. Yet occasionally Addison does appear a trifle
self-satisfied. Pope's indictment of his character in the person of
Atticus cannot be entirely set aside. His creed, as implied in
_Spectator_ 115, esteems the welfare of man as the prime end of a
fostering Providence, and such an opinion as this, held steadily without
doubt or struggle, would tend to give a man a strong sense of his own
importance. The superiority of his attitude to women, which, however,
does not appear in the Coverley Papers, is attributable partly to his
office of censor, and partly to their position at the time. This sort of
condescension appears most distinctly in his treatment of animals. He is
far more humane in his feeling for them than are the majority of his
contemporaries, but although he likes to moralize over Sir Roger's
poultry, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 120, 121.] he really looks down on
them from the elevation which a reasonable being must possess over the
creatures of instinct. Yet how does he know so certainly that instinct
is actually inferior to reason?

Addison is essentially a townsman, and his treatment of nature is always
cold. The one passage in these papers which evinces a genuine love of
the country is Steele's description of his enjoyment when he is
strolling in the widow's grove. He is 'ravished with the murmur of
waters, the whisper of breezes, the singing of birds; and whether I
looked up to the heavens, down on the earth, or turned to the prospects
around me, still struck with new sense of pleasure'. [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 118.] The style of the two writers reflects the
qualities of their minds. Addison's writing is fluent, easy, and lucid.
He wrote and corrected with great care, and his words very closely
express his thought. Landor speaks of his prose as a 'cool current of
delight', and Dr. Johnson, in an often quoted passage, calls it 'the
model of the middle style ... always equable and always easy, without
glowing words or pointed sentences.... His page is always luminous, but
never blazes in unexpected splendour. He is never feeble, and he did not
wish to be energetic.... Whoever wishes to attain an English style,
familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his
days and nights to the volumes of Addison.'

Steele was a far more rapid writer, and even grammatical faults are not
infrequent in his papers. He explicitly declares that 'Elegance, purity,
and correctness were not so much my purpose, as in any intelligible
manner as I could to rally all those singularities of human life ...
which obstruct anything that was really good and great'. [Footnote:
Dedication to _The Drummer_.] His style varies with his mood, and
with the degree of his interest. Occasionally it reaches the simple,
rhythmic prose of the passage quoted above, but generally it is somewhat
abrupt and a little toneless. But now and again we find the 'unexpected
splendour' in which Addison is wanting, in phrases like 'a covered
indigence, a magnificent poverty', [Footnote: _Spectator_ 114.] or
in the sparkling antitheses of Sir Roger's description of his ancestors.
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 109.] Yet Steele's claim on our admiration
rests not on the quality of his style, but, as Mr. John Forster has
said, on 'the soul of a sincere man shining through it all'.

The influence of the _Spectator_ was incalculable. Addison
succeeded in his principal object. 'I shall be ambitious to have it said
of me that I have brought philosophy out of closets and libraries,
schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables
and in coffee-houses,' and that I have produced 'such writings as tend
to the wearing out of ignorance, passion, and prejudice'. [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 10.] A glance at the social and literary history of the
next thirty or forty years will reveal how fully this wish was
accomplished. It is true that folly and vice have not yet been wiped off
the face of the earth, but the _Spectator_ turned the tide of
public opinion against them. The fashionable ideal was reversed; virtue
became admirable, and though vice could not be destroyed, it was no
longer suffered to plume itself in the eyes of the world. The
_Spectator_ had delivered virtue from its position of contempt, and
'set up the immoral man as the object of derision'. [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 445.]

The _Spectator_ has also acquired an incidental value from the
passage of time. Addison hints at this in his citations from an
imaginary history of Queen Anne's reign, supposed to be written three
hundred years later. In 'those little diurnal essays which are still
extant'--two-thirds of the time has elapsed, and at present the
_Spectator_ is certainly extant--we are enabled 'to see the
diversions and characters of the English nation in his time.' [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 101.] It is in the literature of a nation that we find
the history of its life and the motives of its deeds.

Finally, the _Spectator_ has a permanent value as a human document.
'Odd and uncommon characters are the game that I look for and most
delight in,' [Footnote: _Spectator_ 103. ] he tells us, but, with
the exception of the sketch of Tom Touchy [Footnote: _Spectator_
122.], none of his persons are lifeless embodiments of a single trait,
like the 'humours' of the early part of the preceding century. Sir
Roger, who 'calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way
upstairs to a visit', [Footnote: _Spectator_ 2.] who is too
delicate to mention that the 'very worthy gentleman to whom he was
highly obliged' was once his footman, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 107.]
who dwells upon the beauty of his lady's hand [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 113.] and can be jealous of Sir David Dundrum
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 359.] after thirty odd years of courtship,
who hardly likes to contemplate being of service to his lady, because of
'giving her the pain of being obliged', [Footnote: _Spectator_
118.] who addresses the court and remarks on the weather to the judge in
order to impress the _Spectator_ and the country, [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 122.] who will not own to a mere citizen among his
ancestors, [Footnote: _Spectator_ 109.] and 'very frequently'
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 125.] repeats his old stories--Sir Andrew,
with his joke about the sea and the British common, [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 2.] and his tenderness for his old friend and opponent
[Footnote: _Spectator_ 517.]--the volatile Will Honeycomb, whose
gallantry and care of his person [Footnote: _Spectator_ 2, 359.]
remind us of his successor, Major Pendennis--these are all in their
degree intimate friends or acquaintances, as living in our imagination
and in the actual world now as they were two hundred years ago, and
immortal as everything must be which has once been inspired with the
authentic breath of life.




[Illustration: Reduced facsimile of the original single-page issue.]




ADDISON: COVERLEY PAPERS




No. 1. THURSDAY, MARCH 1, 1710-11.

  _Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem
  Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat._
    HOR. Ars Poet. ver. 143.

  One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke;
  The other out of smoke brings glorious light,
  And (without raising expectation high)
  Surprises us with dazzling miracles.
    ROSCOMMON.


I have observed, that a Reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure,
until he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a
mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other
particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right
understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so
natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next as prefatory
discourses to my following writings, and shall give some account in them
of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief
trouble of compiling, digesting, and correcting will fall to my share, I
must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history.

I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to the
tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges
and ditches in _William_ the Conqueror's time that it is at
present, and has been delivered down from father to son whole and
entire, without the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow,
during the space of six hundred years. There runs a story in the family,
that when my mother was gone with child of me about three months, she
dreamt that she was brought to bed of a Judge: Whether this might
proceed from a law-suit which was then depending in the family, or my
father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not
so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in
my future life, though that was the interpretation which the
neighbourhood put upon it. The gravity of my behaviour at my very first
appearance in the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed to
favour my mother's dream: For, as she has often told me, I threw away my
rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral
until they had taken away the bells from it.

As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it remarkable, I
shall pass it over in silence. I find, that, during my nonage, I had the
reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always a favourite of my
schoolmaster, who used to say, _that my parts were solid, and would
wear well_. I had not been long at the university, before I
distinguished myself by a most profound silence; for during the space of
eight years, excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce
uttered the quantity of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember
that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I
was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my
studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned
or the modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with.

Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign
countries, and therefore left the university, with the character of an
odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would
but shew it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all
the countries of _Europe_, in which there was any thing new or
strange to be seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that
having read the controversies of some great men concerning the
antiquities of _Egypt_, I made a voyage to _Grand Cairo_, on
purpose to take the measure of a pyramid: And, as soon as I had set
myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with
great satisfaction.

I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently seen
in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my
select friends that know me; of whom my next paper shall give a more
particular account. There is no place of general resort, wherein I do
not often make my appearance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into
a round of politicians at _Will_'s, and listening with great
attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular
audiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at _Child_'s, and, whilst I
seem attentive to nothing but the _Postman_, overhear the
conversation of every table in the room. I appear on _Sunday_
nights at _St. James_'s coffee-house, and sometimes join the little
committee of politics in the inner-room, as one who comes there to hear
and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the _Grecian_,
the _Cocoa-Tree_, and in the theatres both of _Drury-Lane_ and
the _Hay-Market_. I have been taken for a merchant upon the
_Exchange_ for above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a
_Jew_ in the assembly of stock-jobbers at _Jonathan_'s: In
short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with them,
though I never open my lips but in my own club.

Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of mankind, than as one
of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative
statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with
any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a
husband or a father, and can discern the errors in the oeconomy,
business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in
them; as standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who
are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am
resolved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories,
unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either
side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on,
which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper.

I have given the Reader just so much of my history and character, as to
let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have
undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall
insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the mean
time, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to
blame my own taciturnity; and, since I have neither time nor inclination
to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it
in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, before I die. I have
been often told by my friends, that it is pity so many useful
discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of a silent
man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet-full of
thoughts every morning, for the benefit of my contemporaries; and if I
can any way contribute to the diversion or improvement of the country in
which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the
secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not lived in vain.

There are three very material points which I have not spoken to in this
paper; and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself,
at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my
lodgings. I must confess, I would gratify my reader in any thing that is
reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am sensible
they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet
come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They would
indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many
years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities,
which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I
can suffer, is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this
reason likewise, that I keep my complexion and dress as very great
secrets; though it is not impossible, but I may make discoveries of both
in the progress of the work I have undertaken.

After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall, in to-morrow's
paper, give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in
this work; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and
concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a Club. However,
as my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a
mind to correspond with me, may direct their letters to the SPECTATOR,
at Mr. _Buckley_'s in _Little-Britain_. For I must further
acquaint the Reader, that, though our club meets only on _Tuesdays_
and _Thursdays_, we have appointed a committee to sit every night,
for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the
advancement of the public weal. C.




No. 2. FRIDAY, MARCH 2.

  _Ast alii sex
  Et plures uno conclamant ore._
    Juv. Sat. vii. ver. 167.

  Six more at least join their consenting voice.


The first of our society is a gentleman of _Worcestershire_, of
ancient descent, a Baronet, his name Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY. His great-
grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance which is called
after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with the
parts and merits of Sir ROGER. He is a gentleman that is very singular
in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and
are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as he thinks the
world is in the wrong. However this humour creates him no enemies, for
he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to
modes and forms, makes him but the readier and more capable to please
and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he lives in _Soho-
Square_. It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was
crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him.
Before this disappointment, Sir ROGER was what you call a Fine
Gentleman, had often supped with my Lord _Rochester_ and Sir
_George Etherege_, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and
kicked Bully _Dawson_ in a public coffee-house for calling him
youngster. But being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very
serious for a year and a half; and though, his temper being naturally
jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never
dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same
cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry
humours, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first
wore it. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, chearful, gay, and hearty;
keeps a good house both in town and country; a great lover of mankind;
but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather
beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look
satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men
are glad of his company: When he comes into a house he calls the
servants by their names, and talks all the way upstairs to a visit. I
must not omit, that Sir ROGER is a justice of the _Quorum_; that he
fills the chair at a quarter-session with great abilities, and three
months ago gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the
game-act.

The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us, is another
bachelor, who is a member of the _Inner-Temple_; a man of great
probity, wit, and understanding; but he has chosen his place of
residence rather to obey the direction of an old humoursome father, than
in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there to study the
laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the house in those
of the stage. _Aristotle_ and _Longinus_ are much better
understood by him than _Littleton_ or _Coke_. The father sends
up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and
tenures, in the neighbourhood; all which questions he agrees with an
attorney to answer and take care of in the lump. He is studying the
passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the debates among
men which arise from them. He knows the argument of each of the orations
of _Demosthenes_ and _Tully_, but not one case in the reports
of our own courts. No one ever took him for a fool, but none, except his
intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes him
at once both disinterested and agreeable: As few of his thoughts are
drawn from business, they are most of them fit for conversation. His
taste of books is a little too just for the age he lives in; he has read
all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with the customs,
manners, actions, and writings of the ancients, makes him a very
delicate observer of what occurs to him in the present world. He is an
excellent critick, and the time of the play is his hour of business;
exactly at five he passes through _New-Inn_, crosses through
_Russel-Court_, and takes a turn at _Will_'s until the play
begins; he has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at the barber's
as you go into the _Rose_. It is for the good of the audience when
he is at a play, for the actors have an ambition to please him.

The person of next consideration is Sir ANDREW FREEPORT, a merchant of
great eminence in the city of _London_. A person of indefatigable
industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are
noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of
jesting, which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he
calls the sea the _British Common_. He is acquainted with commerce
in all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous
way to extend dominion by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and
industry. He will often argue, that if this part of our trade were well
cultivated, we should gain from one nation; and if another, from
another. I have heard him prove, that diligence makes more lasting
acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has ruined more nations than
the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, amongst which the
greatest favourite is, 'A penny saved is a penny got.' A general trader
of good sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar; and Sir
ANDREW having a natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his
discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He has
made his fortunes himself; and says that _England_ may be richer
than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is richer than
other men; though, at the same time, I can say this of him, that there
is not a point in the compass but blows home a ship in which he is an
owner.

Next to Sir ANDREW in the club-room sits Captain SENTRY, a gentleman of
great courage, good understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one of
those that deserve very well, but are very aukward at putting their
talents within the observation of such as should take notice of them. He
was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in
several engagements, and at several sieges; but having a small estate of
his own, and being next heir to Sir ROGER, he has quitted a way of life
in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, who is not something of
a courtier, as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in
a profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence
should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this purpose, I
never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left
the world because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty and an even
regular behaviour, are in themselves obstacles to him that must press
through crowds, who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour
of a commander. He will however, in his way of talk, excuse generals,
for not disposing according to men's desert, or inquiring into it: For,
says he, that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many to break
through to come at me, as I have to come at him: Therefore he will
conclude, that the man who would make a figure, especially in a military
way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the
importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in his own
vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in asserting
what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in
attacking when it is your duty. With this candour does the gentleman
speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his
conversation. The military part of his life has furnished him with many
adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the
company; for he is never overbearing, though accustomed to command men
in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit
of obeying men highly above him.

But that our society may not appear a set of humourists, unacquainted
with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have among us the
gallant WILL HONEYCOMB, a gentleman who, according to his years, should
be in the decline of his life, but having ever been very careful of his
person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but a very
little impression, either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in his
brain. His person is well turned, of a good height. He is very ready at
that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. He has
all his life dressed very well, and remembers habits as others do men.
He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the
history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the
_French_ court ladies our wives and daughters had this manner of
curling their hair, that way of placing their hoods, and whose vanity,
to shew her foot, made that part of the dress so short in such a year.
In a word, all his conversation and knowledge have been in the female
world: As other men of his age will take notice to you what such a
minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you when the
Duke of _Monmouth_ danced at court, such a woman was then smitten,
another was taken with him at the head of his troop in the _Park_.
In all these important relations, he has ever about the same time
received a kind glance or a blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty,
mother of the present Lord such-a-one.

If you speak of a young commoner that said a lively thing in the House,
he starts up, 'He has good blood in his veins, _Tom Mirabell_ begot
him, that rogue cheated me in that affair; that young fellow's mother
used me more like a dog than any woman I ever made advances to.' This
way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a
more sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the company, but
myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of
man who is usually called a well-bred Fine Gentleman. To conclude his
character, where women are not concerned, he is an honest worthy man.

I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to speak of, as
one of our company; for he visits us but seldom, but, when he does, it
adds to every man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a
very philosophic man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and
the most exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very weak
constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such cares and business
as preferments in his function would oblige him to: He is therefore
among divines what a chamber-counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of
his mind, and the integrity of his life, create him followers, as being
eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he
speaks upon; but we are so far gone in years, that he observes when he
is among us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine topic, which
he always treats with much authority, as one who has no interests in
this world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and
conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary
companions. R.




No. 106. MONDAY, JULY 2.

  _Hinc tibi copia Manabit ad plenum,
  benigno Ruris honorum opulenta cornu._
    HOR. Od. xvii. 1. i. v. 14.

  Here to thee shall plenty flow,
  And all her riches show,
  To raise the honour of the quiet plain.
     CREECH.


Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY
to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied
him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house,
where I intend to form several of my ensuing Speculations. Sir ROGER,
who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed
when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber as I think fit,
sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the
gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shews me at a
distance: As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them
stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the Knight desiring
them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at.

I am the more at ease in Sir ROGER'S family, because it consists of
sober and staid persons; for, as the Knight is the best master in the
world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about
him, his servants never care for leaving him; by this means his
domesticks are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would
take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed,
his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his
coachman has the looks of a privy-counsellor. You see the goodness of
the master even in the old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in
the stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard to his past
services, though he has been useless for several years.

I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that
appeared in the countenance of these ancient domesticks upon my friend's
arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears
at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to
do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed.
At the same time the good old Knight, with a mixture of the father and
the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs
with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and
good-nature engages every body to him, so that when he is pleasant upon
any of them, all his family are in good humour, and none so much as the
person whom he diverts himself with: On the contrary, if he coughs, or
betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe
a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who
is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants,
wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their
master talk of me as of his particular friend.

My chief companion, when Sir ROGER is diverting himself in the woods or
the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir ROGER, and has
lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This
gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular
life, and obliging conversation: He heartily loves Sir ROGER, and knows
that he is very much in the old Knight's esteem, so that he lives in the
family rather as a relation than a dependant.

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir ROGER,
amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist; and that his
virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain
extravagance, which makes them particularly _his_, and
distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is
generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly
agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue
would appear in their common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with
him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just
now mentioned? and without staying for my answer, told me, That he was
afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for
which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the University to
find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a
good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man
that understood a little of back-gammon. My friend, says Sir ROGER,
found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of
him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it: I
have given him the parsonage of the parish; and because I know his
value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me,
he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he
is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does not know I
have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked any thing of
me for himself though he is every day soliciting me for something in
behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not
been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them: If any
dispute arises they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do
not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once
or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I
made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in
_English_, and only begged of him that every _Sunday_ he would
pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them
into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a
continued system of practical divinity.

As Sir ROGER was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of
came up to us; and upon the Knight's asking him who preached to-morrow
(for it was _Saturday_ night) told us, the Bishop of St.
_Asaph_ in the morning, and Dr. _South_ in the afternoon. He
then shewed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw
with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop _Tillotson_, Bishop
_Saunderson_, Dr. _Barrow_, Dr. _Calamy_, with several
living authors who have published discourses of practical divinity. I no
sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of
my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a
clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure
and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think
I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after
this manner, is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a
graceful actor.

I could heartily wish that more of our country-clergy would follow this
example; and, instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions
of their own, would endeavour after a handsome elocution, and all those
other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater
masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more
edifying to the people. L.




No. 107. TUESDAY, JULY 3.

  _AEsopo ingentem statuam posuere Attici,
  Servumque collocarunt oeterna in basi,
  Patere honoris scirent ut cunctis viam._
    PHAED. Epilog. 1. 2.

  The _Athenians_ erected a large statue to _AEsop_,
  and placed him, though a slave, on a lasting pedestal;
  to show, that the way to honour lies open indifferently to all.


The reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed freedom and quiet,
which I meet with here in the country, has confirmed me in the opinion I
always had, that the general corruption of manners in servants is owing
to the conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in the family carries
so much satisfaction, that it appears he knows the happy lot which has
befallen him in being a member of it. There is one particular which I
have seldom seen but at Sir ROGER'S; it is usual in all other places,
that servants flee from the parts of the house through which their
master is passing; on the contrary, here they industriously place
themselves in his way; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood
as a visit, when the servants appear without calling. This proceeds from
the humane and equal temper of the man of the house, who also perfectly
well knows how to enjoy a great estate, with such oeconomy as ever to be
much beforehand. This makes his own mind untroubled, and consequently
unapt to vent peevish expressions, or give passionate or inconsistent
orders to those about him. Thus, respect and love go together; and a
certain cheerfulness in performance of their duty is the particular
distinction of the lower part of this family. When a servant is called
before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear himself
rated for some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped or used with any
other unbecoming language, which mean masters often give to worthy
servants; but it is often to know what road he took, that he came so
readily back according to order; whether he passed by such a ground, if
the old man who rents it is in good health; or whether he gave Sir
ROGER'S love to him, or the like.

A man who preserves a respect, founded on his benevolence to his
dependents, lives rather like a prince than a master in his family; his
orders are received as favours, rather than duties; and the distinction
of approaching him is part of the reward for executing what is commanded
by him.

There is another circumstance in which my friend excels in his
management, which is the manner of rewarding his servants: He has ever
been of opinion, that giving his cast clothes to be worn by valets has a
very ill effect upon little minds, and creates a silly sense of equality
between the parties, in persons affected only with outward things. I
have heard him often pleasant on this occasion, and describe a young
gentleman abusing his man in that coat, which a month or two before was
the most pleasing distinction he was conscious of in himself. He would
turn his discourse still more pleasantly upon the ladies' bounties of
this kind; and I have heard him say he knew a fine woman, who
distributed rewards and punishments in giving becoming or unbecoming
dresses to her maids.

But my good friend is above these little instances of good-will, in
bestowing only trifles on his servants; a good servant to him is sure of
having it in his choice very soon of being no servant at all. As I
before observed, he is so good an husband, and knows so thoroughly that
the skill of the purse is the cardinal virtue of this life: I say, he
knows so well that frugality is the support of generosity, that he can
often spare a large fine when a tenement falls, and give that settlement
to a good servant, who has a mind to go into the world, or make a
stranger pay the fine to that servant, for his more comfortable
maintenance, if he stays in his service.

A man of honour and generosity considers it would be miserable to
himself to have no will but that of another, though it were of the best
person breathing, and for that reason goes on as fast as he is able to
put his servants into independent livelihoods. The greatest part of Sir
ROGER'S estate is tenanted by persons who have served himself or his
ancestors. It was to me extremely pleasant to observe the visitants from
several parts to welcome his arrival in the country; and all the
difference that I could take notice of between the late servants who
came to see him, and those who staid in the family, was, that these
latter were looked upon as finer gentlemen and better courtiers.

This manumission, and placing them in a way of livelihood, I look upon
as only what is due to a good servant, which encouragement will make his
successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready as he was. There is
something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds, which can be
pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who please them.

One might, on this occasion, recount the sense that great persons in all
ages have had of the merit of their dependents, and the heroick services
which men have done their masters in the extremity of their fortunes;
and shewn to their undone patrons, that fortune was all the difference
between them; but as I design this my speculation only as a gentle
admonition to thankless masters, I shall not go out of the occurrences
of common life, but assert it as a general observation, that I never saw
but in Sir ROGER'S family, and one or two more, good servants treated as
they ought to be. Sir ROGER'S kindness extends to their children's
children, and this very morning he sent his coachman's grandson to
prentice. I shall conclude this paper with an account of a picture in
his gallery, where there are many which will deserve my future
observation.

At the very upper end of this handsome structure I saw the portraiture
of two young men standing in a river, the one naked, the other in a
livery. The person supported seemed half dead, but still so much alive
as to shew in his face exquisite joy and love towards the other. I
thought the fainting figure resembled my friend Sir ROGER; and looking
at the butler, who stood by me, for an account of it, he informed me
that the person in the livery was a servant of Sir ROGER'S, who stood on
the shore while his master was swimming, and observing him taken with
some sudden illness, and sink under water, jumped in and saved him. He
told me Sir ROGER took off the dress he was in as soon as he came home,
and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his favour ever since,
had made him master of that pretty seat which we saw at a distance as we
came to this house. I remembered indeed Sir ROGER said there lived a
very worthy gentleman, to whom he was highly obliged, without mentioning
any thing further. Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of
the picture, my attendant informed me that it was against Sir ROGER'S
will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was
drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master. R.




No. 108. WEDNESDAY, JULY 4.

  _Gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil agens._ PHAEDR. Fab. v. 1. 2.

  Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about nothing.


As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir ROGER before his house, a
country-fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr.
_William Wimble_ had caught that very morning; and that he
presented it, with his service to him, and intended to come and dine
with him. At the same time he delivered a letter which my friend read to
me as soon as the messenger left him.

'Sir ROGER,

'I DESIRE you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this
season. I intend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the perch
bite in the _Black River_. I observed with some concern, the last
time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to
it; I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I
hope will serve you all the time you are in the country. I have not been
out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at _Eaton_
with Sir _John_'s eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely. I
am, SIR,

'Your humble servant,

'WILL WIMBLE.'

This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied it, made me very
curious to know the character and quality of the gentleman who sent
them; which I found to be as follows. _Will Wimble_ is younger
brother to a baronet, and descended of the ancient family of the
_Wimbles_. He is now between forty and fifty; but, being bred to no
business and born to no estate, he generally lives with his elder
brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better
than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare.
He is extremely well-versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle
man: He makes a _May-fly_ to a miracle; and furnishes the whole
country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured officious fellow, and
very much esteemed upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest at
every house, and keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen
about him. He carries a tulip-root in his pocket from one to another, or
exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the
opposite sides of the county. _Will_ is a particular favourite of
all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has
weaved, or a setting dog that he has _made_ himself. He now and
then presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or
sisters; and raises a great deal of mirth among them, by inquiring as
often as he meets them _how they wear_? These gentleman-like
manufactures and obliging little humours make _Will_ the darling of
the country.

Sir ROGER was proceeding in the character of him, when we saw him make
up to us with two or three hazle-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in
Sir ROGER'S woods, as he came through them in his way to the house. I
was very much pleased to observe on one side the hearty and sincere
welcome with which Sir ROGER received him, and on the other, the secret
joy which his guest discovered at sight of the good old Knight. After
the first salutes were over, _Will_ desired Sir ROGER to lend him
one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks he had with him in a
little box to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he
had promised such a present for above this half year. Sir ROGER'S back
was no sooner turned, but honest _Will_ began to tell me of a large
cock-pheasant that he had sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with
two or three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon
characters are the game that I looked for, and most delight in; for
which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that
talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a
pheasant, and therefore listened to him with more than ordinary
attention.

In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to dinner, where the
gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of seeing the huge
jack, he had caught, served up for the first dish in a most sumptuous
manner. Upon our sitting down to it he gave us a long account how he had
hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the
bank, with several other particulars that lasted all the first course. A
dish of wild-fowl that came afterwards furnished conversation for the
rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of
_Will_'s for improving the quail-pipe.

Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly touched with
compassion towards the honest gentleman that had dined with us; and
could not but consider with a great deal of concern, how so good an
heart and such busy hands were wholly employed in trifles; that so much
humanity should be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry
so little advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind and
application to affairs, might have recommended him to the publick
esteem, and have raised his fortune in another station of life. What
good to his country or himself might not a trader or merchant have done
with such useful though ordinary qualifications?

_Will Wimble_'s is the case of many a younger brother of a great
family, who had rather see their children starve like gentlemen, than
thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. This
humour fills several parts of _Europe_ with pride and beggary. It
is the happiness of a trading nation, like ours, that the younger sons,
though uncapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in such
a way of life, as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their
family: Accordingly we find several citizens that were launched into the
world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater
estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but
_Will_ was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physick; and that,
finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at
length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might
have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned
for the occupations of trade and commerce. As I think this is a point
which cannot be too much inculcated, I shall desire my reader to compare
what I have here written with what I have said in my twenty-first
speculation. L.




No. 109. THURSDAY, JULY 5.

  _Abnormis sapiens._
    HOR. Sat. ii. 1. 2. v. 3.

  Of plain good sense, untutor'd in the schools.


I was this morning walking in the gallery when Sir ROGER entered at the
end opposite to me, and advancing towards me, said he was glad to meet
me among his relations the DE COVERLEYS, and hoped I liked the
conversation of so much good company, who were as silent as myself. I
knew he alluded to the pictures, and as he is a gentleman who does not a
little value himself upon his ancient descent, I expected he would give
me some account of them. We were now arrived at the upper end of the
gallery, when the Knight faced towards one of the pictures, and, as we
stood before it, he entered into the matter, after his blunt way of
saying things, as they occur to his imagination, without regular
introduction, or care to preserve the appearance of chain of thought.

'It is,' said he, 'worth while to consider the force of dress; and how
the persons of one age differ from those of another, merely by that
only. One may observe also, that the general fashion of one age has been
followed by one particular set of people in another, and by them
preserved from one generation to another. Thus the vast jetting coat and
small bonnet, which was the habit in _Harry_ the Seventh's time, is
kept on in the yeomen of the guard; not without a good and politick
view, because they look a foot taller, and a foot and an half broader:
Besides that the cap leaves the face expanded, and consequently more
terrible, and fitter to stand at the entrances of palaces.

'This predecessor of ours, you see, is dressed after this manner, and
his cheeks would be no larger than mine, were he in a hat as I am. He
was the last man that won a prize in the tilt-yard (which is now a
common street before _Whitehall_). You see the broken lance that
lies there by his right foot; he shivered that lance of his adversary
all to pieces; and bearing himself, look you, Sir, in this manner, at
the same time he came within the target of the gentleman who rode
against him, and taking him with incredible force before him on the
pommel of his saddle, he in that manner rid the tournament over, with an
air that shewed he did it rather to perform the rule of the lists, than
expose his enemy; however, it appeared he knew how to make use of a
victory, and with a gentle trot he marched up to a gallery where their
mistress sat (for they were rivals) and let him down with laudable
courtesy and pardonable insolence. I don't know but it might be exactly
where the coffee-house is now.

'You are to know this my ancestor was not only of a a military genius,
but fit also for the arts of peace, for he played on the bass-viol as
well as any gentleman at court; you see where his viol hangs by his
basket-hilt sword. The action at the tilt-yard you may be sure won the
fair lady, who was a maid of honour, and the greatest beauty of her
time; here she stands the next picture. You see, Sir, my great-great-
great-grandmother has on the new-fashioned petticoat, except that the
modern is gathered at the waist: my grandmother appears as if she stood
in a large drum whereas the ladies now walk as if they were in a go-
cart. For all this lady was bred at court, she became an excellent
country-wife, she brought ten children, and when I shew you the library,
you shall see in her own hand (allowing for the difference of the
language) the best receipt now in _England_ both for an hasty-
pudding and a white-pot.

'If you please to fall back a little, because it is necessary to look at
the three next pictures at one view: These are three sisters. She on the
right hand, who is so beautiful, died a maid; the next to her, still
handsomer, had the same fate, against her will; this homely thing in the
middle had both their portions added to her own, and was stolen by a
neighbouring gentleman, a man of stratagem and resolution, for he
poisoned three mastiffs to come at her, and knocked down two deer-
stealers in carrying her off. Misfortunes happen in all families: The
theft of this romp and so much money, was no great matter to our estate.
But the next heir that possessed it was this soft gentleman, whom you
see there: Observe the small buttons, the little boots, the laces, the
slashes about his clothes, and above all the posture he is drawn in,
(which to be sure was his own chusing:) You see he sits with one hand on
a desk writing and looking as it were another way, like an easy writer,
or a sonneteer: He was one of those that had too much wit to know how to
live in the world; he was a man of no justice, but great good manners;
he ruined every body that had anything to do with him, but never said a
rude thing in his life; the most indolent person in the world, he would
sign a deed that passed away half his estate with his gloves on, but
would not put on his hat before a lady if it were to save his country.
He is said to be the first that made love by squeezing the hand. He left
the estate with ten thousand pounds debt upon it, but however by all
hands I have been informed that he was every way the finest gentleman in
the world. That debt lay heavy on our house for one generation, but it
was retrieved by a gift from that honest man you see there, a citizen of
our name, but nothing at all akin to us. I know Sir ANDREW FREEPORT has
said behind my back, that this man was descended from one of the ten
children of the maid of honour I shewed you above; but it was never made
out. We winked at the thing indeed, because money was wanting at that
time.'

Here I saw my friend a little embarrassed, and turned my face to the
next portraiture.

Sir ROGER went on with his account of the gallery in the following
manner. 'This man' (pointing to him I looked at) 'I take to be the
honour of our house, Sir HUMPHREY DE COVERLEY; he was in his dealings as
punctual as a tradesman, and as generous as a gentleman. He would have
thought himself as much undone by breaking his word, as if it were to be
followed by bankruptcy. He served his country as knight of this shire to
his dying day. He found it no easy matter to maintain an integrity in
his words and actions, even in things that regarded the offices which
were incumbent upon him, in the care of his own affairs and relations of
life, and therefore dreaded (though he had great talents) to go into
employments of state, where he must be exposed to the snares of
ambition. Innocence of life and great ability were the distinguishing
parts of his character; the latter, he had often observed, had led to
the destruction of the former, and used frequently to lament that great
and good had not the same signification. He was an excellent husbandman,
but had resolved not to exceed such a degree of wealth; all above it he
bestowed in secret bounties many years after the sum he aimed at for his
own use was attained. Yet he did not slacken his industry, but to a
decent old age spent the life and fortune which was superfluous to
himself, in the service of his friends and neighbours.'

Here we were called to dinner, and Sir ROGER ended the discourse of this
gentleman, by telling me, as we followed the servant, that this his
ancestor was a brave man, and narrowly escaped being killed in the civil
wars: 'For, said he, he was sent out of the field upon a private
message, the day before the battle of _Worcester_.' The whim of
narrowly escaping by having been within a day of danger, with other
matters above-mentioned, mixed with good sense, left me at a loss
whether I was more delighted with my friend's wisdom or simplicity. R.




No. 110. FRIDAY, JULY 6.

  _Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent._
    VIRG. AEn. ii. v. 755.

  All things are full of horror and affright,
  And dreadful ev'n the silence of the night.
    DRYDEN.


At a little distance from Sir ROGER'S house, among the ruins of an old
abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms; which are shot up so very
high, that when one passes under them, the rooks and crows that rest
upon the tops of them seem to be cawing in another region. I am very
much delighted with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of
natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole
creation, and who, in the beautiful language of the _Psalms>_,
feedeth the young ravens that call upon him. I like this retirement the
better, because of an ill report it lies under of being _haunted;_
for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no living creature
ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good friend the butler desired
me with a very grave face not to venture myself in it after sun-set, for
that one of the footmen had been almost frighted out of his wits by a
spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black horse without an
head; to which he added, that about a month ago one of the maids coming
home late that way with a pail of milk upon her head, heard such a
rustling among the bushes that she let it fall.

I was taking a walk in this place last night between the hours of nine
and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the
world for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey are scattered up
and down on every side, and half-covered with ivy and elder bushes, the
harbours of several solitary birds, which seldom make their appearance
till the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a church-yard, and
has still several marks in it of graves and burying-places. There is
such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you stamp but a
little louder than ordinary, you hear the sound repeated. At the same
time the walk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens which from time
to time are heard from the tops of them, looks exceeding solemn and
venerable. These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and
when night heightens the awfulness of the place, and pours out her
supernumerary horrors upon every thing in it, I do not at all wonder
that weak minds fill it with spectres and apparitions.

Mr. _Locke_, in his chapter of the Association of Ideas, has very
curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice of education, one idea
often introduces into the mind a whole set that bear no resemblance to
one another in the nature of things. Among several examples of this
kind, he produces the following instance. _The ideas of goblins and
sprights have really no more to do with darkness than light: Yet let but
a foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child, and raise
them there together, possibly he shall never be able to separate them
again so long as he lives; but darkness shall ever afterwards bring with
it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can no
more bear the one than the other._

As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the evening
conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I observed a cow
grazing not far from me, which an imagination that was apt to
_startle_ might easily have construed into a black horse without an
head: And I dare say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such
trivial occasion.

My friend Sir ROGER has often told me with a good deal of mirth, that at
his first coming to his estate he found three parts of his house
altogether useless; that the best room in it had the reputation of being
haunted, and by that means was locked up; that noises had been heard in
his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after
eight o'clock at night; that the door of one of the chambers was nailed
up, because there went a story in the family that a butler had formerly
hanged himself in it; and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had
shut up half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son,
or daughter had died. The Knight seeing his habitation reduced to so
small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon
the death of his mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and
_exorcised_ by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after
another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so long
reigned in the family.

I should not have been thus particular upon these ridiculous horrors,
did not I find them so very much prevail in all parts of the country. At
the same time I think a person who is thus terrified with the
imagination of ghosts and spectres, much more reasonable than one who,
contrary to the reports of all historians sacred and profane, ancient
and modern, and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the appearance
of spirits fabulous and groundless: Could not I give myself up to this
general testimony of mankind, I should to the relations of particular
persons who are now living, and whom I cannot distrust in other matters
of fact. I might here add, that not only the historians, to whom we may
join the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity have favoured
this opinion. _Lucretius_ himself, though by the course of his
philosophy he was obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist
separate from the body, makes no doubt of the reality of apparitions,
and that men have often appeared after their death. This I think very
remarkable. He was so pressed with the matter of fact which he could not
have the confidence to deny, that he was forced to account for it by one
of the most absurd unphilosophical notions that was ever started. He
tells us, That the surfaces of all bodies are perpetually flying off
from their respective bodies, one after another; and that these surfaces
or thin cases, that included each other whilst they were joined in the
body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen entire when they are
separated from it; by which means we often behold the shapes and shadows
of persons who are either dead or absent.

I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of _Josephus_, not so
much for the sake of the story itself as for the moral reflexions with
which the author concludes it, and which I shall here set down in his
own words. '_Glaphyra_ the daughter of King _Archelaus_, after
the death of her two first husbands (being married to a third, who was
brother to her first husband, and so passionately in love with her that
he turned off his former wife to make room for this marriage) had a very
odd kind of dream. She fancied that she saw her first husband coming
towards her, and that she embraced him with great tenderness; when in
the midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the sight of him, he
reproached her after the following manner: _Glaphyra_, says he,
thou hast made good the old saying, That women are not to be trusted.
Was not I the husband of thy virginity? Have I not children by thee? How
couldst thou forget our loves so far as to enter into a second marriage,
and after that into a third, nay to take for thy husband a man who has
so shamefully crept into the bed of his brother? However, for the sake
of our passed loves, I shall free thee from thy present reproach, and
make thee mine for ever. Glaphyra told this dream to several women of
her acquaintance, and died soon after. I thought this story might not be
impertinent in this place, wherein I speak of those kings: Besides that
the example deserves to be taken notice of, as it contains a most
certain proof of the immortality of the soul, and of Divine Providence.
If any man thinks these facts incredible, let him enjoy his own opinion
to himself, but let him not endeavour to disturb the belief of others,
who by instances of this nature are excited to the study of virtue.'




No. 112. MONDAY, JULY 9.

  _Athanatous men prota theous,
  nomo hos diakeitai, tima._
    PYTHAG.

  First, in obedience to thy country's rites,
  Worship the immortal Gods.


I am always very well pleased with a country _Sunday_, and think,
if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would
be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and
civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon
degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such
frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet
together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to
converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties
explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being.
_Sunday_ clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it
refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both
the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all
such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the
village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the
_Church-yard_, as a citizen does upon the _Change_, the whole
parish-politicks being generally discussed in that place, either after
sermon or before the bell rings.

My friend Sir ROGER, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside
of his church with several texts of his own chusing: He has likewise
given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his
own expence. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he
found his parishioners very irregular; and that, in order to make them
kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and
a common-prayer-book; and at the same time employed an itinerant
singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct
them rightly in the tunes of the psalms; upon which they now very much
value themselves, and indeed out-do most of the country churches that I
have ever heard.

As Sir ROGER is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in
very good order, and will suffer no body to sleep in it besides himself;
for, if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon
recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees
any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants
to them. Several other of the old Knight's particularities break out
upon these occasions:

Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half
a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it;
sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he
pronounces _Amen_ three or four times to the same prayer; and
sometimes stands up when every body else is upon their knees, to count
the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst
of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was
about, and not disturb the congregation. This _John Matthews_ it
seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was
kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the Knight,
though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all
circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are
not polite enough to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides
that, the general good sense and worthiness of his character makes his
friends observe these little singularities as foils, that rather set off
than blemish his good qualities.

As soon as the sermon is finished, no body presumes to stir till Sir
ROGER is gone out of the church. The Knight walks down from his seat in
the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to
him on each side; and every now and then inquires how such an one's
wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church;
which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising-day, when Sir
ROGER has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a
bible to be given him next day for his encouragement; and sometimes
accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir ROGER has
likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may
encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church-
service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is
very old, to bestow it according to merit.

The fair understanding between Sir ROGER and his chaplain, and their
mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, because the
very next village is famous for the differences and contentions that
arise between the parson and the 'squire, who live in a perpetual state
of war. The parson is always preaching at the 'squire, and the 'squire
to be revenged on the parson never comes to church. The 'squire has made
all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers; while the parson instructs
them every _Sunday_ in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to
them in almost every sermon, that he is a better man than his patron. In
short, matters are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not
said his prayers either in public or private this half year; and that
the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for
him in the face of the whole congregation.

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal
to the ordinary people; who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that
they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate,
as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to regard any
truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them, when
they know there are several men of five hundred a year, who do not
believe it. L.




No. 113. TUESDAY, JULY 10.

  _Hoerent infixi pectore vultus._
    VIRG. AEn. iv. ver. 4.

  Her looks were deep imprinted in his heart.


In my first description of the company in which I pass most of my time,
it may be remembered that I mentioned a great affliction which my friend
Sir ROGER had met with in his youth; which was no less than a
disappointment in love. It happened this evening that we fell into a
very pleasing walk at a distance from his house: As soon as we came into
it, 'It is,' quoth the good old man, looking round him with a smile,
'very hard, that any part of my land should be settled upon one who has
used me so ill as the perverse widow did; and yet I am sure I could not
see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should
reflect upon her and her severity. She has certainly the finest hand of
any woman in the world. You are to know this was the place wherein I
used to muse upon her; and by that custom I can never come into it, but
the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if I had actually
walked with that beautiful creature under these shades. I have been fool
enough to carve her name on the bark of several of these trees; so
unhappy is the condition of men in love, to attempt the removing of
their passions by the methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She
has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world.'

Here followed a profound silence; and I was not displeased to observe my
friend falling so naturally into a discourse, which I had ever before
taken notice he industriously avoided. After a very long pause he
entered upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, with an
air which I thought raised my idea of him above what I had ever had
before; and gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of his, before it
received that stroke which has ever since affected his words and
actions. But he went on as follows.

'I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved to follow
the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this
spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good
neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame; and in country-sports and
recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was
obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and, in my servants,
officers, and whole equipage, indulged the pleasure of a young man (who
did not think ill of his own person) in taking that publick occasion of
shewing my figure and behaviour to advantage. You may easily imagine to
yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, rid well, and was
very well dressed, at the head of a whole county, with musick before me,
a feather in my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you I was
not a little pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the
balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were held.
But when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow's habit sat in
court, to hear the event of a cause concerning her dower. This
commanding creature (who was born for the destruction of all who behold
her) put on such a resignation in her countenance, and bore the whispers
of all around the court, with such a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you,
and then recovered herself from one eye to another, till she was
perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she
encountered, that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her
bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner met it, but I bowed like a great
surprized booby; and knowing her cause to be the first which came on, I
cried, like a captivated calf as I was, Make way for the defendant's
witnesses.

This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff
was also become a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause was
upon trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep
attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets
handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion,
occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not
only I, but the whole court was prejudiced in her favour; and all that
the next heir to her husband had to urge, was thought so groundless and
frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half
so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have
urged to her advantage. You must understand, Sir, this perverse woman is
one of those unaccountable creatures, that secretly rejoice in the
admiration of men, but indulge themselves in no farther consequences.
Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes
from her slaves in town to those in the country, according to the
seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, and far gone in the
pleasures of friendship: She is always accompanied by a confident, who
is witness to her daily protestations against our sex, and consequently
a bar to her first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own
maxims and declarations.

'However, I must needs say this accomplished mistress of mine has
distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir ROGER
DE COVERLEY was the tamest and most humane of all the brutes in the
country. I was told she said so, by one who thought he rallied me; but
upon the strength of this slender encouragement of being thought least
detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired my coach-horses, sent them
all to town to be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and move
all together, before I pretended to cross the country, and wait upon
her. As soon as I thought my retinue suitable to the character of my
fortune and youth, I set out from hence to make my addresses. The
particular skill of this lady has ever been to inflame your wishes, and
yet command respect. To make her mistress of this art, she has a greater
share of knowledge, wit, and good sense, than is usual even among men of
merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the race of women. If you will not
let her go on with a certain artifice with her eyes, and the skill of
beauty, she will arm herself with her real charms, and strike you with
admiration instead of desire. It is certain that if you were to behold
the whole woman, there is that dignity in her aspect, that composure in
her motion, that complacency in her manner, that if her form makes you
hope, her merit makes you fear. But then again she is such a desperate
scholar, that no country-gentleman can approach her without being a
jest. As I was going to tell you, when I came to her house I was
admitted to her presence with great civility; at the same time she
placed herself to be first seen by me in such an attitude, as I think
you call the posture of a picture, that she discovered new charms, and I
at last came towards her with such an awe as made me speechless. This
she no sooner observed but she made her advantage of it, and began a
discourse to me concerning love and honour, as they both are followed by
pretenders, and the real votaries to them. When she discussed these
points in a discourse, which I verily believe was as learned as the best
philosopher in _Europe_ could possibly make, she asked me whether
she was so happy as to fall in with my sentiments on these important
particulars. Her confident sat by her, and upon my being in the last
confusion and silence, this malicious aid of hers turning to her says,
'I am very glad to observe Sir ROGER pauses upon this subject, and seems
resolved to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases
to speak.' They both kept their countenances, and after I had sat half
an hour meditating how to behave before such profound casuists, I rose
up and took my leave. Chance has since that time thrown me very often in
her way, and she as often has directed a discourse to me which I do not
understand. This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the most
beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all
mankind, and you must make love to her, as you would conquer the sphinx,
by posing her. But were she like other women, and that there were any
talking to her, how constant must the pleasure of that man be, who would
converse with the creature--But, after all, you may be sure her heart is
fixed on some one or other; and yet I have been credibly informed;--but
who can believe half that is said? After she had done speaking to me,
she put her hand to her bosom and adjusted her tucker. Then she cast her
eyes a little down, upon my beholding her too earnestly. They say she
sings excellently: Her voice in her ordinary speech has something in it
inexpressibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a publick table
the day after I first saw her, and she helped me to some tansy in the
eye of all the gentlemen in the country. She has certainly the finest
hand of any woman in the world. I can assure you, Sir, were you to
behold her, you would be in the same condition; for as her speech is
musick, her form is angelick. But I find I grow irregular while I am
talking of her; but indeed it would be stupidity to be unconcerned at
such perfection. Oh the excellent creature! she is as inimitable to all
women, as she is inaccessible to all men.'

I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him towards the
house, that we might be joined by some other company; and am convinced
that the widow is the secret cause of all that inconsistency which
appears in some parts of my friend's discourse, though he has so much
command of himself as not directly to mention her, yet according to that
of _Martial_, which one knows not how to render into
_English_, _Dum tacet hanc loquitur_. I shall end this paper
with that whole epigram, which represents with much humour my honest
friend's condition.

  Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Noevia Rufo,
  Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur:
  Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est
  Noevia; si non sit Noevia, mutus erit.
  Scriberet hesterna patri cum luce salutem,
  Noevia lux, inquit, Noevia numen, ave._
    Epig. lxix. 1. I.

  Let _Rufus_ weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk,
  Still he can nothing but of Noevia talk;
  Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute,
  Still he must speak of Noevia, or be mute.
  He writ to his father, ending with this line,
  I am, my lovely Noevia, ever thine.




No. 114. WEDNESDAY, JULY 11.

  _Paupertalis pudor & fuga._
    HOR. Ep. xviii. 1. I. v. 24.

  The dread of nothing more
  Than to be thought necessitous and poor.
    POOLY.


Oeconomy in our affairs has the same effect upon our fortunes which
good-breeding has upon our conversations. There is a pretending
behaviour in both cases, which, instead of making men esteemed renders
them both miserable and contemptible. We had yesterday at Sir ROGER'S a
set of country gentlemen who dined with him; and after dinner the glass
was taken, by those who pleased, pretty plentifully. Among others I
observed a person of a tolerable good aspect, who seemed to be more
greedy of liquor than any of the company, and yet, methought, he did not
taste it with delight As he grew warm, he was suspicious of every thing
that was said; and as he advanced towards being fuddled, his humour grew
worse. At the same time his bitterness seemed to be rather an inward
dissatisfaction in his own mind, than any dislike he had taken to the
company. Upon hearing his name, I knew him to be a gentleman of a
considerable fortune in this county, but greatly in debt. What gives the
unhappy man this peevishness of spirit is, that his estate is dipped,
and is eating out with usury; and yet he has not the heart to sell any
part of it. His proud stomach, at the cost of restless nights, constant
inquietudes, danger of affronts, and a thousand nameless inconveniences,
preserves this canker in his fortune, rather than it shall be said he is
a man of fewer hundreds a year than he has been commonly reputed. Thus,
he endures the torment of poverty, to avoid the name of being less rich.
If you go to his house you see great plenty; but served in a manner that
shews it is all unnatural, and that the master's mind is not at home.
There is a certain waste and carelessness in the air of every thing, and
the whole appears but a covered indigence, a magnificent poverty. That
neatness and chearfulness, which attends the table of him who lives
within compass, is wanting, and exchanged for a libertine way of service
in all about him.

This gentleman's conduct, though a very common way of management, is as
ridiculous as the officer's would be, who had but few men under his
command, and should take the charge of an extent of country rather than
of a small pass. To pay for, personate, and keep in a man's hands, a
greater estate than he really has, is of all others the most
unpardonable vanity, and must in the end reduce the man who is guilty of
it to dishonour. Yet if we look round us in any county of _Great
Britain_, we shall see many in this fatal error; if that may be
called by so soft a name, which proceeds from a false shame of appearing
what they really are, when the contrary behaviour would in a short time
advance them to the condition which they pretend to.

_Laertes_ has fifteen hundred pounds a year; which is mortgaged for
six thousand pounds; but it is impossible to convince him that if he
sold as much as would pay off that debt, he would save four shillings in
the pound, which he gives for the vanity of being the reputed master of
it. Yet if _Laertes_ did this, he would, perhaps, be easier in his
own fortune; but then _Irus_, a fellow of yesterday, who has but
twelve hundred a year, would be his equal. Rather than this shall be,
_Laertes_ goes on to bring wellborn beggars into the world, and
every twelvemonth charges his estate with at least one year's rent more
by the birth of a child.

_Laertes_ and _Irus_ are neighbours, whose way of living are
an abomination to each other. _Irus_ is moved by the fear of
poverty, and _Laertes_ by the shame of it. Though the motive of
action is of so near affinity in both, and may be resolved into this,
'That to each of them poverty is the greatest of all evils,' yet are
their manners very widely different. Shame of poverty makes
_Laertes_ launch into unnecessary equipage, vain expence, and
lavish entertainments; fear of poverty makes _Irus_ allow himself
only plain necessaries, appear without a servant, sell his own corn,
attend his labourers, and be himself a labourer. Shame of poverty makes
_Laertes_ go every day a step nearer to it; and fear of poverty
stirs up _Irus_ to make every day some further progress from it.

These different motives produce the excesses which men are guilty of in
the negligence of and provision for themselves. Usury, stock-jobbing,
extortion, and oppression, have their seed in the dread of want; and
vanity, riot and prodigality, from the shame of it: But both these
excesses are infinitely below the pursuit of a reasonable creature.
After we have taken care to command so much as is necessary for
maintaining ourselves in the order of men suitable to our character, the
care of superfluities is a vice no less extravagant, than the neglect of
necessaries would have been before.

Certain it is, that they are both out of nature, when she is followed
with reason and good sense. It is from this reflexion that I always read
Mr. _Cowley_ with the greatest pleasure: His magnanimity is as much
above that of other considerable men, as his understanding; and it is a
true distinguishing spirit in the elegant author who published his
works, to dwell so much upon the temper of his mind and the moderation
of his desires: By this means he has rendered his friend as amiable as
famous. That state of life which bears the face of poverty with Mr.
_Cowley's great Vulgar_, is admirably described; and it is no small
satisfaction to those of the same turn of desire, that he produces the
authority of the wisest men of the best age of the world, to strengthen
his opinion of the ordinary pursuits of mankind.

It would methinks be no ill maxim of life, if according to that ancestor
of Sir ROGER, whom I lately mentioned, every man would point to himself
what sum he would resolve not to exceed. He might by this means cheat
himself into a tranquillity on this side of that expectation, or convert
what he should get above it to nobler uses than his own pleasures or
necessities. This temper of mind would exempt a man from an ignorant
envy of restless men above him, and a more inexcusable contempt of happy
men below him. This would be sailing by some compass, living with some
design; but to be eternally bewildered in prospects of future gain, and
putting on unnecessary armour against improbable blows of fortune, is a
mechanick being which has not good sense for its direction, but is
carried on by a sort of acquired instinct towards things below our
consideration and unworthy our esteem. It is possible that the
tranquillity I now enjoy at Sir ROGER'S may have created in me this way
of thinking, which is so abstracted from the common relish of the world:
But as I am now in a pleasing arbour surrounded with a beautiful
landscape, I find no inclination so strong as to continue in these
mansions, so remote from the ostentatious scenes of life; and am at this
present writing philosopher enough to conclude with Mr. Cowley:

  If e'er ambition did my fancy cheat,
  With any wish so mean as to be great;
  Continue heav'n, still from me to remove
  The humble blessings of that life I love.




No. 115. THURSDAY, JULY 12.

  _Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano._
    Juv. Sat. x. v. 356.

  A healthy body and a mind at ease.


Bodily labour is of two kinds, either that which a man submits to for
his livelihood, or that which he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter
of them generally changes the name of labour for that of exercise, but
differs only from ordinary labour as it rises from another motive.

A country life abounds in both these kinds of labour, and for that
reason gives a man a greater stock of health, and consequently a more
perfect enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life. I consider the
body as a system of tubes and glands, or to use a more rustic phrase, a
bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful
a manner as to make a proper engine for the soul to work with. This
description does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins,
nerves, and arteries, but every muscle and every ligature, which is a
composition of fibres, that are so many imperceptible tubes or pipes
interwoven on all sides with invisible glands or strainers.

This general idea of a human body, without considering it in its
niceties of anatomy, lets us see how absolutely necessary labour is for
the right preservation of it. There must be frequent motions and
agitations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as
well as to clear and cleanse that infinitude of pipes and strainers of
which it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and
lasting tone. Labour or exercise ferments the humours, casts them into
their proper channels, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in
those secret distributions, without which the body cannot subsist in its
vigour, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.

I might here mention the effects which this has upon all the faculties
of the mind, by keeping the understanding clear, the imagination
untroubled, and refining those spirits that are necessary for the proper
exertion of our intellectual faculties, during the present laws of union
between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this particular, that we
must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men of studious and
sedentary tempers, as well as the vapours to which those of the other
sex are so often subject.

Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our well-being, nature
would not have made the body so proper for it, by giving such an
activity to the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part as necessarily
produce these compressions, extensions, contortions, dilatations, and
all other kinds of motions that are necessary for the preservation of
such a system of tubes and glands as has been before mentioned. And that
we might not want inducements to engage us in such an exercise of the
body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered that nothing
valuable can be procured without it. Not to mention riches and honour,
even food and raiment are not to be come at without the toil of the
hands and sweat of the brows. Providence furnishes materials, but
expects that we should work them up ourselves. The earth must be
laboured before it gives its increase, and when it is forced into its
several products, how many hands must they pass through before they are
fit for use? Manufactures, trade, and agriculture, naturally employ more
than nineteen parts of the species in twenty; and as for those who are
not obliged to labour, by the condition in which they are born, they are
more miserable than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge themselves
in that voluntary labour which goes by the name of exercise.

My friend Sir ROGER has been an indefatigable man in business of this
kind, and has hung several parts of his house with the trophies of his
former labours. The walls of his great hall are covered with the horns
of several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chace, which he
thinks the most valuable furniture of his house, as they afford him
frequent topics of discourse, and shew that he has not been idle. At the
lower end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with hay, which
his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and the Knight looks
upon it with great satisfaction, because it seems he was but nine years
old when his dog killed him. A little room adjoining to the hall is a
kind of arsenal filled with guns of several sizes and inventions, with
which the Knight has made great havock in the woods, and destroyed many
thousands of pheasants, partridges and woodcocks. His stable-doors are
patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the Knight's own hunting
down. Sir ROGER shewed me one of them, that for distinction sake has a
brass nail struck through it, which cost him about fifteen hours riding,
carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of
geldings, and lost above half his dogs. This the knight looks upon as
one of the greatest exploits of his life. The perverse widow, whom I
have given some account of, was the death of several foxes; for Sir
ROGER has told me that in the course of his amours he patched the
western door of his stable. Whenever the widow was cruel, the foxes were
sure to pay for it. In proportion as his passion for the widow abated
and old age came on, he left off fox-hunting; but a hare is not yet safe
that sits within ten miles of his house.

There is no kind of exercise which I would so recommend to my readers of
both sexes as this of riding, as there is none which so much conduces to
health, and is every way accommodated to the body, according to the Idea
which I have given of it. Doctor _Sydenham_ is very lavish in its
praises; and if the _English_ reader will see the mechanical
effects of it described at length, he may find them in a book published
not many years since, under the title of _Medicina Gymnastica._ For
my own part, when I am in town, for want of these opportunities, I
exercise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb bell that is placed in
a corner of my room, and pleases me the more because it does every thing
I require of it in the most profound silence. My landlady and her
daughters are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that they
never come into my room to disturb me whilst I am ringing.

When I was some years younger than I am at present, I used to employ
myself in a more laborious diversion, which I learned from a Latin
treatise of exercises that is written with great erudition: It is there
called the skiomachia, or the fighting with a man's own shadow, and
consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped in each hand,
and loaden with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the chest,
exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, without
the blows. I could wish that several learned men would lay out that time
which they employ in controversies and disputes about nothing, in this
method of fighting with their own shadows. It might conduce very much to
evaporate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to the public as well as
to themselves.

To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and body, I consider myself as
obliged to a double scheme of duties; and think I have not fulfilled the
business of the day when I do not thus employ the one in labour and
exercise, as well as the other in study and contemplation. L.




No. 116. FRIDAY, JULY 13.

  _Vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron,
  Taygetique canes._
    Virg. Georg. iii. v. 43.

  The echoing hills and chiding hounds invite.


Those who have searched into human nature observe that nothing so much
shews the nobleness of the soul as that its felicity consists in action.
Every man has such an active principle in him, that he will find out
something to employ himself upon, in whatever place or state of life he
is posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was under close confinement
in the _Bastile_ seven years; during which time he amused himself
in scattering a few small pins about his chamber, gathering them up
again, and placing them in different figures on the arm of a great
chair. He often told his friends afterwards, that unless he had found
out this piece of exercise, he verily believed he should have lost his
senses.

After what has been said, I need not inform my readers that Sir ROGER,
with whose character I hope they are at present pretty well acquainted,
has in his youth gone through the whole course of those rural diversions
which the country abounds in; and which seem to be extremely well suited
to that laborious industry a man may observe here in a far greater
degree than in towns and cities. I have before hinted at some of my
friend's exploits: He has in his youthful days taken forty coveys of
partridges in a season; and tired many a salmon with a line consisting
but of a single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes of the
neighbourhood always attended him, on account of his remarkable enmity
towards foxes; having destroyed more of those vermin in one year, than
it was thought the whole country could have produced. Indeed the knight
does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends, that in order
to establish his reputation this way, he has secretly sent for great
numbers of them out of other counties, which he used to turn loose about
the country by night, that he might the better signalize himself in
their destruction the next day. His hunting-horses were the finest and
best managed in all these parts: His tenants are still full of the
praises of a grey stone-horse that unhappily staked himself several
years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the orchard.

Sir ROGER, being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep himself in
action, has disposed of his beagles and got a pack of _Stop-
hounds._ What these want in speed, he endeavours to make amends for
by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of their notes, which
are suited in such manner to each other, that the whole cry makes up a
complete concert. He is so nice in this particular, that a gentleman
having made him a present of a very fine hound the other day, the knight
returned it by the servant with a great many expressions of civility;
but desired him to tell his master, that the dog he had sent was indeed
a most excellent _Bass_, but that at present he only wanted a
_Counter-Tenor_. Could I believe my friend had ever read
_Shakespeare,_ I should certainly conclude he had taken the hint
from _Theseus_ in _the Midsummer Night's Dream_.

  _My hounds are bred out of the_ Spartan _kind,
  So flu'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
  With ears that sweep away the morning dew.
  Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like_ Thessalian _bulls,
  Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouths like bells,
  Each under each: A cry more tuneable
  Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with horn._

Sir ROGER is so keen at this sport, that he has been out almost every
day since I came down; and upon the chaplain's offering to lend me his
easy pad, I was prevailed on yesterday morning to make one of the
company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid along, to observe the
general benevolence of all the neighbourhood towards my friend. The
farmer's sons thought themselves happy if they could open a gate for the
good old Knight as he passed by; which he generally requited with a nod
or a smile, and a kind inquiry after their fathers and uncles.

After we had rid about a mile from home, we came upon a large heath, and
the sportsmen began to beat. They had done so for some time, when, as I
was at a little distance from the rest of the company, I saw a hare pop
out from a small furze-brake almost under my horse's feet. I marked the
way she took, which I endeavoured to make the company sensible of by
extending my arm; but to no purpose, until Sir ROGER, who knows that
none of my extraordinary motions are insignificant, rode up to me, and
asked me _if puss was gone that way?_ Upon my answering _Yes,_
he immediately called in the dogs, and put them upon the scent. As they
were going off, I heard one of the country-fellows muttering to his
companion, _That it was a wonder they had not lost all their sport,
for want of the silent gentleman's crying Stole away_.

This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me withdraw to a rising
ground, from whence I could have the pleasure of the whole chace,
without the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. The hare immediately
threw them above a mile behind her; but I was pleased to find, that
instead of running straight forwards, or, in hunter's language,
_Flying the country_, as I was afraid she might have done, she
wheeled about, and described a sort of circle round the hill where I had
taken my station, in such manner as gave me a very distinct view of the
sport. I could see her first pass by, and the dogs some time afterwards
unravelling the whole track she had made, and following her through all
her doubles. I was at the same time delighted in observing that
deference which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound,
according to the character he had acquired amongst them: If they were at
a fault, and an old hound of reputation opened but once, he was
immediately followed by the whole cry; while a raw dog, or one who was a
noted _Liar_, might have yelped his heart out without being taken
notice of.

The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, and been put up
again as often, came still nearer to the place where she was at first
started. The dogs pursued her, and these were followed by the jolly
Knight, who rode upon a white gelding, encompassed by his tenants and
servants, and cheering his hounds with all the gaiety of five and
twenty. One of the sportsmen rode up to me, and told me that he was sure
the chace was almost at an end, because the old dogs, which had hitherto
lain behind, now headed the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare
took a large field just under us, followed by the full cry _in
view_. I must confess the brightness of the weather, the cheerfulness
of every thing around me, the _chiding_ of the hounds, which was
returned upon us in a double echo from two neighbouring hills, with the
hallooing of the sportsmen and the sounding of the horn, lifted my
spirits into a most lively pleasure, which I freely indulged because I
knew it was _innocent_. If I was under any concern, it was on the
account of the poor hare, that was now quite spent and almost within the
reach of her enemies; when the huntsman, getting forward, threw down his
pole before the dogs. They were now within eight yards of that game
which they had been pursuing for almost as many hours; yet on the signal
before-mentioned they all made a sudden stand, and though they continued
opening as much as before, durst not once attempt to pass beyond the
pole. At the same time Sir ROGER rode forward, and alighting, took up
the hare in his arms; which he soon delivered to one of his servants,
with an order, if she could be kept alive, to let her go in his great
orchard; where it seems he has several of these prisoners of war, who
live together in a very comfortable captivity. I was highly pleased to
see the discipline of the pack, and the good nature of the Knight, who
could not find in his heart to murder a creature that had given him so
much diversion.

As we were returning home, I remembered that Monsieur _Paschal_ in
his most excellent discourse on _the misery of man_, tells us, that
_all our endeavours after greatness proceed from nothing but a desire
of being surrounded by a multitude of persons and affairs that may
hinder us from looking into ourselves, which is a view we cannot
bear_. He afterwards goes on to show that our love of sports comes
from the same reason, and is particularly severe upon hunting.
_What_, says he, _unless it be to drown thought, can make men
throw away so much time and pains upon a silly animal, which they might
buy cheaper in the market?_ The foregoing reflection is certainly
just, when a man suffers his whole mind to be drawn into his sports, and
altogether loses himself in the woods; but does not affect those who
propose a far more laudable end for this exercise; I mean, _The
preservation of health, and keeping all the organs of the soul in a
condition to execute her orders._ Had that incomparable person, whom
I last quoted, been a little more indulgent to himself in this point,
the world might probably have enjoyed him much longer: Whereas, through
too great an application to his studies in his youth, he contracted that
ill habit of body, which, after a tedious sickness, carried him off in
the fortieth year of his age; and the whole history we have of his life
till that time, is but one continued account of the behaviour of a noble
soul struggling under innumerable pains and distempers.

For my own part, I intend to hunt twice a week during my stay with Sir
ROGER; and shall prescribe the moderate use of this exercise to all my
country friends, as the best kind of physick for mending a bad
constitution, and preserving a good one.

I cannot do this better, than in the following lines out of Mr.
_Dryden_.

  _The first physicians by debauch were made;
  Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade.
  By chace our long liv'd fathers earn'd their food;
  Toil strung the nerves, and purifi'd the blood;
  But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
  Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
  Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
  Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
  The wise for cure on exercise depend;
  God never made his work for man to mend._ X.




No. 117. SATURDAY, JULY 14.

  _Ipsi sibi somnia fingunt._
    VIRG. Ecl. viii. ver. 108.

  Their own imaginations they deceive.


There are some opinions in which a man should stand neuter, without
engaging his assent to one side or the other. Such a hovering faith as
this, which refuses to settle upon any determination, is absolutely
necessary in a mind that is careful to avoid errors and prepossessions.
When the arguments press equally on both sides in matters that are
indifferent to us, the safest method is to give up ourselves to neither.

It is with this temper of mind that I consider the subject of
witchcraft. When I hear the relations that are made from all parts of
the world, not only from _Norway_ and _Lapland_, from the
_East_ and _West Indies_, but from every particular nation in
_Europe_, I cannot forbear thinking that there is such an
intercourse and commerce with evil spirits, as that which we express by
the name of witchcraft. But when I consider that the ignorant and
credulous parts of the world abound most in these relations, and that
the persons among us, who are supposed to engage in such an infernal
commerce, are people of a weak understanding and crazed imagination, and
at the same time reflect upon the many impostures and delusions of this
nature that have been detected in all ages, I endeavour to suspend my
belief till I hear more certain accounts than any which have yet come to
my knowledge. In short, when I consider the question whether there are
such persons in the world as those we call witches, my mind is divided
between the two opposite opinions; or rather, (to speak my thoughts
freely) I believe in general that there is, and has been such a thing as
witchcraft; but, at the same time, can give no credit to any particular
instance of it.

I am engaged in this speculation by some occurrences that I met with
yesterday, which I shall give my reader an account of at large. As I was
walking with my friend Sir ROGER by the side of one of his woods, an old
woman applied herself to me for my charity. Her dress and figure put me
in mind of the following description in _Otway_.

  _In a close lane as I pursu'd my journey,
  I spy'd a wrinkled_ Hag, _with age grown double,
  Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself.
  Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red;
  Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd withered;
  And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped
  The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging,
  Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold:
  So there was nothing of a piece about her.
  Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsly patch'd
  With different-coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow,
  And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness._

As I was musing on this description, and comparing it with the object
before me, the Knight told me, that this very old woman had the
reputation of a witch all over the country, that her lips were observed
to be always in motion, and that there was not a switch about her house
which her neighbours did not believe had carried her several hundreds of
miles. If she chanced to stumble, they always found sticks or straws
that lay in the figure of a cross before her. If she made any mistake at
church, and cried _Amen_ in a wrong place, they never failed to
conclude that she was saying her prayers backwards. There was not a maid
in the parish that would take a pin of her, though she should offer a
bag of money with it. She goes by the name of _Moll White_, and has
made the country ring with several imaginary exploits which are palmed
upon her. If the dairy-maid does not make the butter come so soon as she
would have it, _Moll White_ is at the bottom of the churn. If a
horse sweats in the stable, _Moll White_ has been upon his back. If
a hare makes an unexpected escape from the hounds, the huntsman curses
_Moll White_. 'Nay' (says Sir ROGER) 'I have known the master of
the pack, upon such an occasion, send one of his servants to see if
_Moll White_ had been out that morning.'

This account raised my curiosity so far, that I begged my friend Sir
ROGER to go with me into her hovel, which stood in a solitary corner
under the side of the wood. Upon our first entering Sir ROGER winked to
me, and pointed at something that stood behind the door, which, upon
looking that way I found to be an old broomstaff. At the same time he
whispered me in the ear to take notice of a tabby cat that sat in the
chimney-corner, which, as the old Knight told me, lay under as bad a
report as _Moll White_ herself; for, besides that _Moll_ is
said often to accompany her in the same shape, the cat is reported to
have spoken twice or thrice in her life, and to have played several
pranks above the capacity of an ordinary cat.

I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so much wretchedness and
disgrace, but at the same time could not forbear smiling to hear Sir
ROGER, who is a little puzzled about the old woman, advising her as a
justice of peace to avoid all communication with the Devil, and never to
hurt any of her neighbour's cattle. We concluded our visit with a
bounty, which was very acceptable.

In our return home Sir ROGER told me, that old _Moll_ had been
often brought before him for making children spit pins, and giving maids
the nightmare; and that the country people would be tossing her into a
pond, and trying experiments with her every day, if it was not for him
and his chaplain.

I have since found, upon inquiry, that Sir ROGER was several times
staggered with the reports that had been brought him concerning this old
woman, and would frequently have bound her over to the county-sessions,
had not his chaplain with much ado persuaded him to the contrary.

I have been the more particular in this account, because I hear there is
scarce a village in _England_ that has not a _Moll White_ in
it. When an old woman begins to dote, and grow chargeable to a parish,
she is generally turned into a witch, and fills the whole country with
extravagant fancies, imaginary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In the
mean time, the poor wretch that is the innocent occasion of so many
evils begins to be frighted at herself, and sometimes confesses secret
commerce and familiarities that her imagination forms in a delirious old
age. This frequently cuts off charity from the greatest objects of
compassion, and inspires people with a malevolence towards those poor
decrepid parts of our species, in whom human nature is defaced by
infirmity and dotage. L.




No. 118. MONDAY, JULY 16.

  _Haeret lateri lethalis arundo._
    VIRG. AEn. iv. ver. 73.

  The fatal dart
  Sticks in his side, and rankles in his heart.
    DRYDEN


This agreeable seat is surrounded with so many pleasing walks, which are
struck out of a wood, in the midst of which the house stands, that one
can hardly ever be weary of rambling from one labyrinth of delight to
another. To one used to live in a city the charms of the country are so
exquisite, that the mind is lost in a certain transport which raises us
above ordinary life, and is yet not strong enough to be inconsistent
with tranquillity. This state of mind was I in, ravished with the murmur
of waters, the whisper of breezes, the singing of birds; and whether I
looked up to the heavens, down to the earth, or turned on the prospects
around me, still struck with new sense of pleasure; when I found by the
voice of my friend, who walked by me, that we had insensibly strolled
into the grove sacred to the widow. 'This woman', says he, 'is of all
others the most unintelligible; she either designs to marry, or she does
not. What is the most perplexing of all, is, that she doth not either
say to her lovers she has any resolution against that condition of life
in general, or that she banishes them; but, conscious of her own merit,
she permits their addresses, without fear of any ill consequence, or
want of respect, from their rage or despair. She has that in her aspect,
against which it is impossible to offend. A man whose thoughts are
constantly bent upon so agreeable an object, must be excused if the
ordinary occurrences in conversation are below his attention. I call her
indeed perverse; but, alas! why do I call her so? Because her superior
merit is such, that I cannot approach her without awe, that my heart is
checked by too much esteem: I am angry that her charms are not more
acceptable, that I am more inclined to worship than salute her: How
often have I wished her unhappy, that I might have an opportunity of
serving her? and how often troubled in that very imagination, at giving
her the pain of being obliged? Well, I have led a miserable life in
secret upon her account; but fancy she would have condescended to have
some regard for me, if it had not been for that watchful animal her
confident.

'Of all persons under the sun' (continued he, calling me by my name)' be
sure to set a mark upon confidents: They are of all people the most
impertinent. What is most pleasant to observe in them, is, that they
assume to themselves the merit of the persons whom they have in their
custody. _Orestilla_ is a great fortune, and in wonderful danger of
surprises, therefore full of suspicions of the least indifferent thing,
particularly careful of new acquaintance, and of growing too familiar
with the old. _Themista_, her favourite woman, is every whit as
careful of whom she speaks to, and what she says. Let the ward be a
beauty, her confident shall treat you with an air of distance; let her
be a fortune, and she assumes the suspicious behaviour of her friend and
patroness. Thus it is that very many of our unmarried women of
distinction, are to all intents and purposes married, except the
consideration of different sexes. They are directly under the conduct of
their whisperer; and think they are in a state of freedom, while they
can prate with one of these attendants of all men in general, and still
avoid the man they most like. You do not see one heiress in a hundred
whose fate does not turn upon this circumstance of chusing a confident.
Thus it is that the lady is addressed to, presented and flattered, only
by proxy, in her woman. In my case, how is it possible that--' Sir
ROGER was proceeding in his harangue, when we heard the voice of one
speaking very importunately, and repeating these words, 'What, not one
smile?' We followed the sound till we came to a close thicket, on the
other side of which we saw a young woman sitting as it were in a
personated sullenness, just over a transparent fountain. Opposite to her
stood Mr. _William_, Sir ROGER's master of the game. The Knight
whispered me, 'Hist! these are lovers.' The huntsman looking earnestly
at the shadow of the young maiden in the stream, 'Oh thou dear picture,
if thou couldst remain there in the absence of that fair creature whom
you represent in the water, how willingly could I stand here satisfied
for ever, without troubling my dear _Betty_ herself with any
mention of her unfortunate _William_, whom she is angry with: But
alas! when she pleases to be gone, thou wilt also vanish--yet let me
talk to thee while thou dost stay. Tell my dearest _Betty_ thou
dost not more depend upon her, than does her _William_: Her absence
will make away with me as well as thee. If she offers to remove thee, I
will jump into these waves to lay hold on thee; herself, her own dear
person, I must never embrace again.--Still do you hear me without one
smile--It is too much to bear--' He had no sooner spoke these words, but
he made an offer of throwing himself into the water: At which his
mistress started up, and at the next instant he jumped across the
fountain and met her in an embrace. She, half recovering from her
fright, said, in the most charming voice imaginable, and with a tone of
complaint, 'I thought how well you would drown yourself. No, no, you
won't drown yourself till you have taken your leave of _Susan
Holiday_.' The huntsman, with a tenderness that spoke the most
passionate love, and with his cheek close to hers, whispered the softest
vows of fidelity in her ear, and cried, 'Don't, my dear, believe a word
_Kate Willow_ says; she is spiteful, and makes stories because she
loves to hear me talk to herself for your sake.' 'Look you there,' quoth
Sir ROGER, 'do you see there, all mischief comes from confidents! But
let us not interrupt them; the maid is honest, and the man dares not be
otherwise, for he knows I loved her father: I will interpose in this
matter, and hasten the wedding. _Kate Willow_ is a witty
mischievous wench in the neighbourhood, who was a beauty, and makes me
hope I shall see the perverse widow in her condition. She was so
flippant with her answers to all the honest fellows that came near her,
and so very vain of her beauty, that she has valued herself upon her
charms till they are ceased. She therefore now makes it her business to
prevent other young women from being more discreet than she was herself:
However, the saucy thing said the other day well enough,

"Sir ROGER and I must make a match, for we are both despised by those we
loved." The hussy has a great deal of power wherever she comes, and has
her share of cunning.

'However, when I reflect upon this woman, I do not know whether in the
main I am the worse for having loved her: Whenever she is recalled to my
imagination my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten warmth in my veins.
This affliction in my life has streaked all my conduct with a softness,
of which I should otherwise have been incapable. It is, perhaps, to this
dear image in my heart owing that I am apt to relent, that I easily
forgive, and that many desirable things are grown into my temper, which
I should not have arrived at by better motives than the thought of being
one day hers. I am pretty well satisfied such a passion as I have had is
never well cured; and, between you and me, I am often apt to imagine it
has had some whimsical effect upon my brain: For I frequently find, that
in my most serious discourse I let fall some comical familiarity of
speech, or odd phrase, that makes the company laugh; however, I cannot
but allow she is a most excellent woman. When she is in the country I
warrant she does not run into dairies, but reads upon the nature of
plants; but has a glass-hive, and comes into the garden out of books to
see them work, and observe the policies of their commonwealth. She
understands every thing. I would give ten pounds to hear her argue with
my friend Sir ANDREW FREEPORT about trade. No, no, for all she looks so
innocent as it were, take my word for it she is no fool.' T.




No. 119. TUESDAY, JULY 17.

  _Urbem, quam dicunt Romam, Melibaee, putavi
  Stultus ego huic nostrae similem._
    VIRG. Ecl. i. v. 20.

  Fool that I was, I thought imperial _Rome_
  Like _Mantua_.
    DRYDEN.


The first and most obvious reflexions which arise in a man who changes
the city for the country, are upon the different manners of the people
whom he meets with in those two different scenes of life. By manners I
do not mean morals, but behaviour and good-breeding, as they shew
themselves in the town and in the country.

And here, in the first place, I must observe a very great revolution
that has happened in this article of good-breeding. Several obliging
deferences, condescensions and submissions, with many outward forms and
ceremonies that accompany them, were first of all brought up among the
politer part of mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and
distinguished themselves from the rustick part of the species (who on
all occasions acted bluntly and naturally) by such a mutual complaisance
and intercourse of civilities. These forms of conversation by degrees
multiplied and grew troublesome; the modish world found too great a
constraint in them, and have therefore thrown most of them aside.
Conversation, like the _Romish_ religion, was so incumbered with
show and ceremony, that it stood in need of a reformation to retrench
its superfluities, and restore it to its natural good sense and beauty.
At present therefore an unconstrained carriage, and a certain openness
of behaviour, are the height of good-breeding. The fashionable world is
grown free and easy; our manners sit more loose upon us: Nothing is so
modish as an agreeable negligence. In a word, good-breeding shews itself
most where to an ordinary eye it appears the least.

If after this we look on the people of mode in the country, we find in
them the manners of the last age. They have no sooner fetched themselves
up to the fashion of the polite world, but the town has dropped them,
and are nearer to the first state of nature than to those refinements
which formerly reigned in the court, and still prevail in the country.
One may now know a man that never conversed in the world, by his excess
of good-breeding.

A polite country 'Squire shall make you as many bows in half an hour, as
would serve a courtier for a week. There is infinitely more to do about
place and precedency in a meeting of justices' wives, than in an
assembly of duchesses.

This rural politeness is very troublesome to a man of my temper, who
generally take the chair that is next me, and walk first or last, in the
front or in the rear, as chance directs. I have known my friend Sir
ROGER'S dinner almost cold before the company could adjust the
ceremonial, and be prevailed upon to sit down; and have heartily pitied
my old friend, when I have seen him forced to pick and cull his guests,
as they sat at the several parts of his table, that he might drink their
healths according to their respective ranks and qualities. Honest
_Will Wimble_, who I should have thought had been altogether
uninfected with ceremony, gives me abundance of trouble in this
particular. Though he has been fishing all the morning, he will not help
himself at dinner till I am served. When we are going out of the hall,
he runs behind me; and last night, as we were walking in the fields,
stopped short at a stile till I came up to it, and upon my making signs
to him to get over, told me, with a serious smile, that sure I believed
they had no manners in the country.

There has happened another revolution in the point of good-breeding,
which relates to the conversation among men of mode, and which I cannot
but look upon as very extraordinary. It was certainly one of the first
distinctions of a well-bred man, to express every thing that had the
most remote appearance of being obscene, in modest terms and distant
phrases; whilst the clown, who had no such delicacy of conception and
expression, clothed his _ideas_ in those plain homely terms that
are the most obvious and natural. This kind of good-manners was perhaps
carried to an excess, so as to make conversation too stiff, formal, and
precise: For which reason (as hypocrisy in one age is generally
succeeded by atheism in another) conversation is in a great measure
relapsed into the first extreme; so that at present several of our men
of the town, and particularly those who have been polished in
_France_, make use of the most coarse uncivilized words in our
language, and utter themselves often in such a manner as a clown would
blush to hear.

This infamous piece of good-breeding, which reigns among the coxcombs of
the town, has not yet made its way into the country; and as it is
impossible for such an irrational way of conversation to last long,
among a people that make any profession of religion or show of modesty,
if the country gentlemen get into it they will certainly be left in the
lurch. Their good-breeding will come too late to them, and they will be
thought a parcel of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves talking
together like men of wit and pleasure.

As the two points of good-breeding which I have hitherto insisted upon,
regard behaviour and conversation, there is a third which turns upon
dress. In this too the country are very much behind-hand. The rural
beaux are not yet got out of the fashion that took place at the time of
the Revolution, but ride about the country in red coats and laced hats,
while the women in many parts are still trying to outvie one another in
the height of their headdresses.

But a friend of mine, who is now upon the western circuit, having
promised to give me an account of the several modes and fashions that
prevail in the different parts of the nation through which he passes, I
shall defer the enlarging upon this last topick till I have received a
letter from him, which I expect every post. L.




NO. 120. WEDNESDAY, JULY 18.

  _Equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis
  Ingenium._
    VIRG. Georg. i. ver. 415.

  I think their breasts with heav'nly souls inspir'd.
    DRYDEN.


My friend Sir ROGER is very often merry with me upon my passing so much
of my time among his poultry. He has caught me twice or thrice looking
after a bird's nest, and several times sitting an hour or two together
near an hen and chickens. He tells me he believes I am personally
acquainted with every fowl about his house; calls such a particular cock
my favourite, and frequently complains that his ducks and geese have
more of my company than himself.

I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those speculations of
nature which are to be made in a country-life; and as my reading has
very much lain among books of natural history, I cannot forbear
recollecting upon this occasion the several remarks which I have met
with in authors, and comparing them with what falls under my own
observation: The argument for providence drawn from the natural history
of animals being in my opinion demonstrative.

The make of every kind of animal is different from that of every other
kind; and yet there is not the least turn in the muscles or twist in the
fibres of any one, which does not render them more proper for that
particular animal's way of life than any other cast or texture of them
would have been.

The most violent appetites in all creatures are _Lust_ and
_Hunger_: The first is a perpetual call upon them to propagate
their kind; the latter to preserve themselves.

It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of care that descend
from the parent to the young, so far as is absolutely necessary for the
leaving a posterity. Some creatures cast their eggs as chance directs
them, and think of them no farther, as insects and several kinds of
fish; others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds to deposite them
in, and there leave them; as the serpent, the crocodile, and ostrich:
Others hatch their eggs, and tend the birth, till it is able to shift
for itself.

What can we call the principle which directs every different kind of
bird to observe a particular plan in the structure of its nest, and
direct all the same species to work after the same model? It cannot be
_Imitation_; for, though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never
let it see any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be
the same, to the laying of a stick, with all the other nests of the same
species. It cannot be _reason_; for, were animals indued with it to
as great a degree as man, their buildings would be as different as ours,
according to the different conveniencies that they would propose to
themselves.

Is it not remarkable, that the same temper of weather, which raises this
genial warmth in animals, should cover the trees with leaves, and the
fields with grass, for their security and concealment, and produce such
infinite swarms of insects for the support and sustenance of their
respective broods?

Is it not wonderful, that the love of the parent should be so violent
while it lasts, and that it should last no longer than is necessary for
the preservation of the young?

The violence of this natural love is exemplified by a very barbarous
experiment; which I shall quote at length, as I find it in an excellent
author, and hope my readers will pardon the mentioning such an instance
of cruelty, because there is nothing can so effectually show the
strength of that principle in animals of which I am here speaking. 'A
person who was well skilled in dissections opened a bitch, and as she
lay in the most exquisite tortures, offered her one of her young
puppies, which she immediately fell a licking; and for the time seemed
insensible of her own pain: On the removal, she kept her eye fixt on it,
and began a wailing sort of cry, which seemed rather to proceed from the
loss of her young one, than the sense of her own torments.'

But, notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is much more violent
and intense than in rational creatures, providence has taken care that
it should be no longer troublesome to the parent than it is useful to
the young; for so soon as the wants of the latter cease, the mother
withdraws her fondness, and leaves them to provide for themselves: And,
what is a very remarkable circumstance in this part of instinct, we find
that the love of the parent may be lengthened out beyond its usual time,
if the preservation of the species requires it; as we may see in birds
that drive away their young as soon as they are able to get their
livelihood, but continue to feed them if they are tied to the nest, or
confined within a cage, or by any other means appear to be out of a
condition of supplying their own necessities.

This natural love is not observed in animals to ascend from the young to
the parent, which is not at all necessary for the continuance of the
species; nor indeed in reasonable creatures does it rise in any
proportion, as it spreads itself downwards: For in all family affection,
we find protection granted and favours bestowed, are greater motives to
love and tenderness, than safety, benefits, or life received. One would
wonder to hear sceptical men disputing for the reason of animals, and
telling us it is only our pride and prejudices that will not allow them
the use of that faculty.

Reason shews itself in all occurrences of life; whereas the brute makes
no discovery of such a talent, but in what immediately regards his own
preservation, or the continuance of his species. Animals in their
generation are wiser than the sons of men; but their wisdom is confined
to a few particulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. Take a brute
out of his instinct, and you find him wholly deprived of understanding.
To use an instance that comes often under observation.

With what caution does the hen provide herself a nest in places
unfrequented, and free from noise and disturbance! When she has laid her
eggs in such a manner that she can cover them, what care does she take
in turning them frequently, that all parts may partake of the vital
warmth? When she leaves them, to provide for her necessary sustenance,
how punctually does she return before they have time to cool, and become
incapable of producing an animal? In the summer you see her giving
herself greater freedoms, and quitting her care for above two hours
together; but in winter, when the rigour of the season would chill the
principles of life, and destroy the young one, she grows more assiduous
in her attendance, and stays away but half the time. When the birth
approaches, with how much nicety and attention does she help the chick
to break its prison? Not to take notice of her covering it from the
injuries of the weather, providing it proper nourishment, and teaching
it to help itself; nor to mention her forsaking the nest, if after the
usual time of reckoning the young one does not make its appearance. A
chymical operation could not be followed with greater art or diligence,
than is seen in the hatching of a chick; though there are many other
birds that shew an infinitely greater sagacity in all the forementioned
particulars.

But at the same time the hen, that has all this seeming ingenuity (which
is indeed absolutely necessary for the propagation of the species),
considered in other respects, is without the least glimmerings of
thought or common sense. She mistakes a piece of chalk for an egg, and
sits upon it in the same manner: She is insensible of any increase or
diminution in the number of those she lays: She does not distinguish
between her own and those of another species; and when the birth appears
of never so different a bird, will cherish it for her own. In all these
circumstances, which do not carry an immediate regard to the subsistence
of herself or her species, she is a very idiot.

There is not, in my opinion, any thing more mysterious in nature than
this instinct in animals, which thus rises above reason, and falls
infinitely short of it. It cannot be accounted for by any properties in
matter, and at the same time works after so odd a manner, that one
cannot think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own part, I
look upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in bodies, which is
not to be explained by any known qualities inherent in the bodies
themselves, nor from any laws of mechanism; but, according to the best
notions of the greatest philosophers, is an immediate impression from
the first mover, and the divine energy acting in the creatures. L.




NO. 121. THURSDAY, JULY 19.

  _Jovis omnia plena_.
    VIRG. Ecl. iii. v. 60.

  All is full of _Jove_.


As I was walking this morning in the great yard that belongs to my
friend's country house, I was wonderfully pleased to see the different
workings of instinct in a hen followed by a brood of ducks. The young,
upon the sight of a pond, immediately ran into it, while the step-
mother, with all imaginable anxiety, hovered about the borders of it, to
call them out of an element that appeared to her so dangerous and
destructive. As the different principle which acted in these different
animals cannot be termed reason, so when we call it _instinct_, we
mean something we have no knowledge of. To me, as I hinted in my last
paper, it seems the immediate direction of providence, and such an
operation of the Supreme Being, as that which determines all the
portions of matter to their proper centres. A modern philosopher, quoted
by Monsieur _Bayle_ in his learned dissertation on the souls of
brutes, delivers the same opinion, though in a bolder form of words,
where he says, _Deus est anima brutorum_, God himself is the soul
of brutes. Who can tell what to call that seeming sagacity in animals,
which directs them to such food as is proper for them, and makes them
naturally avoid whatever is noxious or unwholesome? _Tully_ has
observed, that a lamb no sooner falls from its mother, but immediately
and of his own accord applies itself to the teat. _Dampier_, in his
travels, tells us, that when seamen are thrown upon any unknown coasts
of America, they never venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempting
soever it may appear, unless they observe that it is marked with the
pecking of birds; but fall on without any fear or apprehension where the
birds have been before them.

But notwithstanding animals have nothing like the use of reason, we find
in them all the lower parts of our nature, the passions and senses in
their greatest strength and perfection. And here it is worth our
observation, that all beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully subject
to anger, malice, revenge, and all the other violent passions that may
animate them in search of their proper food; as those that are incapable
of defending themselves, or annoying others, or whose safety lies
chiefly in their flight, are suspicious, fearful, and apprehensive of
every thing they see or hear; whilst others that are of assistance and
use to man, have their natures softened with something mild and
tractable, and by that means are qualified for a domestic life. In this
case the passions generally correspond with the make of the body. We do
not find the fury of the lion in so weak and defenceless an animal as a
lamb, nor the meekness of a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and
assault as the lion. In the same manner, we find that particular animals
have a more or less exquisite sharpness and sagacity in those particular
senses which most turn to their advantage, and in which their safety and
welfare is the most concerned.

Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms with which nature has
differently fortified the bodies of several kind of animals, such as
claws, hoofs, and horns, teeth, and tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, or
a _proboscis_. It is likewise observed by naturalists, that it must
be some hidden principle distinct from what we call reason, which
instructs animals in the use of these their arms, and teaches them to
manage them to the best advantage; because they naturally defend
themselves with that part in which their strength lies, before the
weapon be formed in it; as is remarkable in lambs, which though they are
bred within doors, and never saw the action of their own species, push
at those who approach them with their foreheads, before the first
budding of a horn appears.

I shall add to these general observations an instance, which Mr.
_Locke_ has given us of providence, even in the imperfections of a
creature which seems the meanest and most despicable in the whole animal
world. _We may_, says he, _from the make of an oyster, or cockle,
conclude, that it has not so many nor so quick senses as a man, or
several other animals: Nor if it had, would it, in that state and
incapacity of transferring itself from one place to another, be bettered
by them. What good would sight and hearing do to a creature that cannot
move itself to or from the object, wherein at a distance it perceives
good or evil? And would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience
to an animal that must be still where chance has once placed it, and
there receive the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as it
happens to come to it_.

I shall add to this instance out of Mr. _Locke_ another out of the
learned Dr. _More_, who cites it from _Cardan_, in relation to
another animal which providence has left defective, but at the same time
has shewn its wisdom in the formation of that organ in which it seems
chiefly to have failed. _What is more obvious and ordinary than a
mole? and yet what more palpable argument of providence than she? The
members of her body are so exactly fitted to her nature and manner of
life: For her dwelling being under ground where nothing is to be seen,
nature has so obscurely fitted her with eyes, that naturalists can
hardly agree whether she have any sight at all or no. But for amends,
what she is capable of for her defence and warning of danger, she has
very eminently conferred upon her; for she is exceedingly quick of
hearing. And then her short tail and short legs, but broad forefeet
armed with sharp claws, we see by the event to what purpose they are,
she so swiftly working herself under ground, and making her way so fast
in the earth as they that behold it cannot but admire it. Her legs
therefore are short, that she need dig no more than will serve the mere
thickness of her body; and her fore feet are broad that she may scoop
away much earth at a time; and little or no tail she has, because she
courses it not on the ground, like the rat and mouse, of whose kindred
she is, but lives under the earth, and is fain to dig herself a dwelling
there. And she making her way through so thick an element, which will
not yield easily, as the air or the water, it had been dangerous to have
drawn so long a train behind her; for her enemy might fall upon her
rear, and fetch her out, before she had completed or got full possession
of her works_.

I cannot forbear mentioning Mr. _Boyle's_ remark upon this last
creature, who I remember somewhere in his works observes, that though
the mole be not totally blind (as it is commonly thought) she has not
sight enough to distinguish particular objects. Her eye is said to have
but one humour in it, which is supposed to give her the idea of light,
but of nothing else, and is so formed that this idea is probably painful
to the animal. Whenever she comes up into broad day she might be in
danger of being taken, unless she were thus affected by a light striking
upon her eye, and immediately warning her to bury herself in her proper
element. More sight would be useless to her, as none at all might be
fatal.

I have only instanced such animals as seem the most imperfect works of
nature; and if providence shews itself even in the blemishes of these
creatures, how much more does it discover itself in the several
endowments which it has variously bestowed upon such creatures as are
more or less finished and compleated in their several faculties,
according to the condition of life in which they are posted.

I could wish our Royal Society would compile a body of Natural History,
the best that could be gathered together from books and observations. If
the several writers among them took each his particular species, and
gave us a distinct account of its original, birth and education, its
policies; hostilities and alliances, with the frame, and texture of its
inward and outward parts, and particularly those that distinguish it
from all other animals, with their peculiar aptitudes for the state of
being in which providence has placed them, it would be one of the best
services their studies could do mankind, and not a little redound to the
glory of the All-wise Contriver.

It is true, such a Natural History, after all the disquisitions of the
learned, would be infinitely short and defective. Seas and deserts hide
millions of animals from our observation. Innumerable artifices and
stratagems are acted in the _Howling Wilderness_ and in the
_Great Deep_, that can never come to our knowledge. Besides that
there are infinitely more species of creatures which are not to be seen
without, nor indeed with the help of the finest glasses, than of such as
are bulky enough for the naked eye to take hold of. However, from the
consideration of such animals as lie within the compass of our
knowledge, we might easily form a conclusion of the rest, that the same
variety of wisdom and goodness runs through the whole creation, and puts
every creature in a condition to provide for its safety and subsistence
in its proper station.

_Tully_ has given us an admirable sketch of natural history, in his
second book concerning the nature of the Gods; and that in a style so
raised by metaphors and descriptions, that it lifts the subject above
rallery and ridicule, which frequently fall on such nice observations
when they pass through the hands of an ordinary writer. L.




No. 122. FRIDAY, JULY 20.

  _Comes jucundus in via pro vehiculo est._
    PUBL. SYR. Frag.

  An agreeable companion upon the road is as good as
  a coach.


A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his own heart;
his next, to escape the censures of the world: If the last interferes
with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected; but otherwise there
cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest mind, than to see those
approbations which it gives itself seconded by the applauses of the
publick: A man is more sure of his conduct, when the verdict he passes
upon his own behaviour is thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of
all that know him.

My worthy friend Sir ROGER is one of those who is not only at peace
within himself, but beloved and esteemed by all about him. He receives a
suitable tribute for his universal benevolence to mankind, in the
returns of affection and good-will, which are paid him by every one that
lives within his neighbourhood. I lately met with two or three odd
instances of that general respect which is shewn to the good old Knight.
He would needs carry _Will Wimble_ and myself with him to the
county assizes: As we were upon the road _Will Wimble_ joined a
couple of plain men who rid before us, and conversed with them for some
time; during which my friend Sir ROGER acquainted me with their
characters.

The first of them, says he, that has a spaniel by his side, is a yeoman
of about an hundred pounds a year, an honest man: He is just within the
game-act, and qualified to kill an hare or a pheasant: He knocks down a
dinner with his gun twice or thrice a-week; and by that means lives much
cheaper than those who have not so good an estate as himself. He would
be a good neighbour if he did not destroy so many partridges: In short,
he is a very sensible man; shoots flying; and has been several times
foreman of the petty-jury.

The other that rides along with him is _Tom Touchy_, a fellow
famous for _taking the law_ of every body. There is not one in the
town where he lives that he has not sued at the quarter-sessions. The
rogue had once the impudence to go to law with the _widow_. His
head is full of costs, damages, and ejectments: He plagued a couple of
honest gentlemen so long for a trespass in breaking one of his hedges,
till he was forced to sell the ground it inclosed to defray the charges
of the prosecution: His father left him fourscore pounds a-year; but he
has _cast_ and been cast so often, that he is not now worth thirty.
I suppose he is going upon the old business of the willow-tree.

As Sir ROGER was giving me this account of _Tom Touchy_, _Will
Wimble_ and his two companions stopped short till we came up to them.
After having paid their respects to Sir ROGER, _Will_ told him that
_Mr. Touchy_ and he must appeal to him upon a dispute that arose
between them. _Will_ it seems had been giving his fellow-traveller
an account of his angling one day in such a hole; when _Tom
Touchy_, instead of hearing out his story, told him that Mr. Such-a-
one, if he pleased, might _take the law of him_ for fishing in that
part of the river. My friend Sir ROGER heard them both, upon a round
trot; and after having paused some time told them, with the air of a man
who would not give his judgment rashly, that _much might be said on
both sides_. They were neither of them dissatisfied with the Knight's
determination, because neither of them found himself in the wrong by it:
Upon which we made the best of our way to the assizes.

The court was sat before Sir ROGER came; but notwithstanding all the
justices had taken their places upon the bench, they made room for the
old Knight at the head of them; who for his reputation in the county
took occasion to whisper in the judge's ear, _That he was glad his
Lordship had met with so much good weather in his circuit_. I was
listening to the proceeding of the court with much attention, and
infinitely pleased with that great appearance and solemnity which so
properly accompanies such a publick administration of our laws; when,
after about an hour's sitting, I observed to my great surprise, in the
midst of a trial, that my friend Sir ROGER was getting up to speak. I
was in some pain for him, till I found he had acquitted himself of two
or three sentences, with a look of much business and great intrepidity.

Upon his first rising the court was hushed, and a general whisper ran
among the country people, that Sir ROGER _was up_. The speech he
made was so little to the purpose, that I shall not trouble my readers
with an account of it; and I believe was not so much designed by the
Knight himself to inform the court, as to give him a figure in my eye,
and keep up his credit in the country.

I was highly delighted, when the court rose, to see the gentlemen of the
country gathering about my old friend, and striving who should
compliment him most; at the same time that the ordinary people gazed
upon him at a distance, not a little admiring his courage, that was not
afraid to speak to the judge.

In our return home we met with a very odd accident; which I cannot
forbear relating, because it shews how desirous all who know Sir ROGER
are of giving him marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the
verge of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and
our horses. The man of the house had it seems been formerly a servant in
the Knight's family; and to do honour to his old master, had some time
since, unknown to Sir ROGER, put him up in a sign-post before the door;
so that _the Knight's head_ had hung out upon the road about a week
before he himself knew any thing of the matter. As soon as Sir ROGER was
acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded
wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had made
him too high a compliment; and when the fellow seemed to think that
could hardly be, added with a more decisive look, That it was too great
an honour for any man under a duke; but told him at the same time, that
it might be altered with a very few touches, and that he himself would
be at the charge of it. Accordingly they got a painter by the Knight's
directions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by a little
aggravation of the features to change it into the _Saracen's Head_.
I should not have known this story had not the innkeeper, upon Sir
ROGER'S alighting, told him in my hearing, That his honour's head was
brought back last night with the alterations that he had ordered to be
made in it. Upon this my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related
the particulars above-mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into
the room. I could not forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth
than ordinary upon the appearance of this monstrous face, under which,
notwithstanding it was made to frown and stare in a most extraordinary
manner, I could still discover a distant resemblance of my old friend.
Sir ROGER upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I
thought it possible for people to know him in that disguise. I at first
kept my usual silence; but upon the Knight's conjuring me to tell him
whether it was not still more like himself than a _Saracen_, I
composed my countenance in the best manner I could, and replied, _that
much might be said on both sides_.

These several adventures, with the Knight's behaviour in them, gave me
as pleasant a day as ever I met with in any of my travels.




No. 123, SATURDAY, JULY 21.

  _Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
  Rectique cultus pectora roborant:
  Utcunque defecere mores,
  Dedecorant bene nata culpae._
    HOR. Od. iv. 1. 4. ver. 33.

  Yet the best blood by learning is refin'd,
  And virtue arms the solid mind;
  Whilst vice will stain the noblest race,
  And the paternal stamp efface.
    ANON.


As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend Sir ROGER, we were met
by a fresh-coloured ruddy young man, who rid by us full speed, with a
couple of servants behind him. Upon my inquiry who he was, Sir ROGER
told me that he was a young gentleman of a considerable estate, who had
been educated by a tender mother that lived not many miles from the
place where we were. She is a very good lady, says my friend, but took
so much care of her son's health, that she has made him good for
nothing. She quickly found that reading was bad for his eyes, and that
writing made his head ache. He was let loose among the woods as soon as
he was able to ride on horseback, or carry a gun upon his shoulder. To
be brief, I found, by my friend's account of him, that he had got a
great stock of health, but nothing else; and that if it were a man's
business only to live, there would not be a more accomplished young
fellow in the whole country.

The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts, I have seen and
heard innumerable instances of young heirs and elder brothers who,
either from their own reflecting upon the estates they are born to, and
therefore thinking all other accomplishments unnecessary, or from
hearing these notions frequently inculcated to them by the flattery of
their servants and domesticks, or from the same foolish thought
prevailing in those who have the care of their education, are of no
manner of use but to keep up their families, and transmit their lands
and houses in a line to posterity.

This makes me often think on a story I have heard of two friends, which
I shall give my reader at large, under feigned names. The moral of it
may, I hope, be useful, though there are some circumstances which make
it rather appear like a novel than a true story.

_Eudoxus_ and _Leontine_ began the world with small estates.
They were both of them men of good sense and great virtue. They
prosecuted their studies together in their earliest years, and entered
into such a friendship as lasted to the end of their lives.
_Eudoxus_, at his first setting out in the world, threw himself
into a court, where, by his natural endowments and his acquired
abilities, he made his way from one post to another, till at length he
had raised a very considerable fortune. _Leontine_ on the contrary
sought all opportunities of improving his mind by study, conversation,
and travel. He was not only acquainted with all the sciences, but with
the most eminent professors of them throughout _Europe_. He knew
perfectly well the interests of its princes, with the customs and
fashions of their courts, and could scarce meet with the name of an
extraordinary person in the _Gazette_ whom he had not either talked
to or seen. In short, he had so well mixed and digested his knowledge of
men and books, that he made one of the most accomplished persons of his
age. During the whole course of his studies and travels, he kept up a
punctual correspondence with _Eudoxus_, who often made himself
acceptable to the principal men about court, by the intelligence which
he received from _Leontine_. When they were both turned of forty
(an age in which, according to Mr. _Cowley, there is no dallying with
life_) they determined, pursuant to the resolution they had taken in
the beginning of their lives, to retire, and pass the remainder of their
days in the country. In order to this, they both of them married much
about the same time. _Leontine_, with his own and his wife's
fortune, bought a farm of three hundred a-year, which lay within the
neighbourhood of his friend _Eudoxus_, who had purchased an estate
of as many thousands; they were both of them fathers about the same
time, _Eudoxus_ having a son born to him, and _Leontine_ a
daughter; but to the unspeakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in
whom all his happiness was wrapt up) died in a few days after the birth
of her daughter. His affliction would have been insupportable, had he
not been comforted by the daily visits and conversations of his friend.
As they were one day talking together with their usual intimacy,
_Leontine_, considering how incapable he was of giving his daughter
a proper education in his own house, and _Eudoxus_ reflecting on
the ordinary behaviour of a son who knows himself to be the heir of a
great estate, they both agreed upon an exchange of children, namely,
that the boy should be bred up with _Leontine_ as his son, and that
the girl should live with _Eudoxus_ as his daughter, till they were
each of them arrived at years of discretion. The wife of _Eudoxus_,
knowing that her son could not be so advantageously brought up as under
the care of _Leontine_, and considering at the same time that he
would be perpetually under her own eye, was by degrees prevailed upon to
fall in with the project. She therefore took _Leonilla_, for that
was the name of the girl, and educated her as her own daughter. The two
friends on each side had wrought themselves to such an habitual
tenderness for the children who were under their direction, that each of
them had the real passion of a father, where the title was but
imaginary. _Florio_, the name of the young heir that lived with
_Leontine_, though he had all the duty and affection imaginable for
his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at the sight of
_Eudoxus_, who visited his friend very frequently, and was dictated
by his natural affection, as well as by the rules of prudence, to make
himself esteemed and beloved by _Florio_. The boy was now old
enough to know his supposed father's circumstances, and that therefore
he was to make his way in the world by his own industry. This
consideration grew stronger in him every day, and produced so good an
effect, that he applied himself with more than ordinary attention to the
pursuit of every thing which _Leontine_ recommended to him. His
natural abilities, which were very good, assisted by the directions of
so excellent a counsellor, enabled him to make a quicker progress than
ordinary through all the parts of his education. Before he was twenty
years of age, having finished his studies and exercises with great
applause, he was removed from the University to the Inns of Court, where
there are very few that make themselves considerable proficients in the
studies of the place, who know they shall arrive at great estates
without them. This was not _Florio's_ case; he found that three
hundred a-year was but a poor estate for _Leontine_ and himself to
live upon, so that he studied without intermission till he gained a very
good insight into the constitution and laws of his country.

I should have told my reader, that whilst _Florio_ lived at the
house of his foster-father, he was always an acceptable guest in the
family of _Eudoxus_, where he became acquainted with
_Leonilla_ from her infancy. His acquaintance with her by degrees
grew into love, which, in a mind trained up in all the sentiments of
honour and virtue, became a very uneasy passion. He despaired of gaining
an heiress of so great a fortune, and would rather have died than
attempted it by any indirect methods. _Leonilla_, who was a woman
of the greatest beauty joined with the greatest modesty, entertained at
the same time a secret passion for _Florio_, but conducted herself
with so much prudence that she never gave him the least intimation of
it. _Florio_ was now engaged in all those arts and improvements
that are proper to raise a man's private fortune, and give him a figure
in his country, but secretly tormented with that passion which burns
with the greatest fury in a virtuous and noble heart, when he received a
sudden summons from _Leontine_ to repair to him in the country the
next day. For it seems _Eudoxus_ was so filled with the report of
his son's reputation, that he could no longer with-hold making himself
known to him. The morning after his arrival at the house of his supposed
father, _Leontine_ told him that _Eudoxus_ had something of
great importance to communicate to him; upon which the good man embraced
him, and wept. _Florio_ was no sooner arrived at the great house
that stood in his neighbourhood, but _Eudoxus_ took him by the
hand, after the first salutes were over, and conducted him into his
closet. He there opened to him the whole secret of his parentage and
education, concluding after this manner: _I have no other way left of
acknowledging my gratitude to_ Leontine, _than by marrying you to
his daughter. He shall not lose the pleasure of being your father by the
discovery I have made to you._ Leonilla _too shall still be my
daughter; her filial piety, though misplaced, has been so exemplary,
that it deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it. You shall
have the pleasure of seeing a great estate fall to you, which you would
have lost the relish of had you known yourself born to it. Continue only
to deserve it in the same manner you did before you were possessed of
it. I have left your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns towards
you. She is making the same discoveries to_ Leonilla _which I have
made to yourself._ _Florio_ was so overwhelmed with this
profusion of happiness, that he was not able to make a reply, but threw
himself down at his father's feet, and, amidst a flood of tears, kissed
and embraced his knees, asking his blessing, and expressing in dumb show
those sentiments of love, duty, and gratitude that were too big for
utterance. To conclude, the happy pair were married, and half
_Eudoxus_'s estate settled upon them. _Leontine_ and
_Eudoxus_ passed the remainder of their lives together; and
received in the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of _Florio_ and
_Leonilla_ the just recompense as well as the natural effects of
that care which they had bestowed upon them in their education. L.




No. 125. TUESDAY, JULY 24.

  _Ne, pueri, ne tanta animis assuescite bella,
  Neu patrice validas in viscera vertite vires._
    VIRG. AEn. vi. v. 832.

  Embrace again, my sons, be foes no more,
  Nor stain your country with her children's gore.
    DRYDEN.


My worthy friend Sir Roger, when we are talking of the malice of
parties, very frequently tells us an accident that happened to him when
he was a schoolboy, which was at a time when the feuds ran high between
the Round-heads and Cavaliers. This worthy Knight, being then but a
stripling, had occasion to inquire which was the way to St.
_Anne_'s Lane, upon which the person whom he spoke to, instead of
answering his question, called him a young Popish Cur, and asked him who
had made _Anne_ a saint! The boy, being in some confusion, inquired
of the next he met, which was the way to _Anne_'s Lane; but was
called a prickeared cur for his pains, and instead of being shown the
way, was told that she had been a saint before he was born, and would be
one after he was hanged. Upon this, says Sir Roger, I did not think fit
to repeat the former question, but going into every lane of the
neighbourhood, asked what they called the name of that lane. By which
ingenious artifice he found out the place he inquired after, without
giving offence to any party. Sir ROGER generally closes this narrative
with reflections on the mischief that parties do in the country; how
they spoil good neighbourhood, and make honest gentlemen hate one
another; besides that they manifestly tend to the prejudice of the land-
tax, and the destruction of the game.

There cannot a greater judgment befal a country than such a dreadful
spirit of division as rends a government into two distinct people, and
makes them greater strangers and more averse to one another, than if
they were actually two different nations. The effects of such a division
are pernicious to the last degree, not only with regard to those
advantages which they give the common enemy, but to those private evils
which they produce in the heart of almost every particular person. This
influence is very fatal both to men's morals and their understandings;
it sinks the virtue of a nation, and not only so, but destroys even
common sense.

A furious party-spirit, when it rages in its full violence, exerts
itself in civil war and bloodshed; and when it is under its greatest
restraints naturally breaks out in falsehood, detraction, calumny, and a
partial administration of justice. In a word, it fills a nation with
spleen and rancour, and extinguishes all the seeds of good-nature,
compassion, and humanity.

_Plutarch_ says very finely, that a man should not allow himself to
hate even his enemies, because, says he, if you indulge this passion in
some occasions, it will rise of itself in others; if you hate your
enemies, you will contract such a vicious habit of mind, as by degrees
will break out upon those who are your friends, or those who are
indifferent to you. I might here observe how admirably this precept of
morality (which derives the malignity of hatred from the passion itself,
and not from its object) answers to that great rule which was dictated
to the world about an hundred years before this philosopher wrote; but,
instead of that, I shall only take notice, with a real grief of heart,
that the minds of many good men among us appear soured with party-
principles, and alienated from one another in such a manner, as seems to
me altogether inconsistent with the dictates either of reason or
religion. Zeal for a publick cause is apt to breed passions in the
hearts of virtuous persons, to which the regard of their own private
interest would never have betrayed them.

If this party-spirit has so ill an effect on our morals, it has likewise
a very great one upon our judgments. We often hear a poor insipid paper
or pamphlet cried up, and sometimes a noble piece depreciated, by those
who are of a different principle from the author. One who is actuated by
this spirit is almost under an incapacity of discerning either real
blemishes or beauties. A man of merit in a different principle is like
an object seen in two different mediums, that appears crooked or broken,
however straight and entire it may be in itself. For this reason there
is scarce a person of any figure in _England_, who does not go by
two contrary characters, as opposite to one another as light and
darkness. Knowledge and learning suffer in a particular manner from this
strange prejudice, which at present prevails amongst all ranks and
degrees in the _British_ nation. As men formerly became eminent in
learned societies by their parts and acquisitions, they now distinguish
themselves by the warmth and violence with which they espouse their
respective parties. Books are valued upon the like considerations: an
abusive scurrilous style passes for satire, and a dull scheme of party-
notions is called fine writing.

There is one piece of sophistry practised by both sides, and that is the
taking any scandalous story that has been ever whispered or invented of
a private man, for a known undoubted truth, and raising suitable
speculations upon it. Calumnies that have been never proved, or have
been often refuted, are the ordinary postulatums of these infamous
scribblers, upon which they proceed as upon first principles granted by
all men, though in their hearts they know they are false, or at best
very doubtful. When they have laid these foundations of scurrility, it
is no wonder that their superstructure is every way answerable to them.
If this shameless practice of the present age endures much longer,
praise and reproach will cease to be motives of action in good men.

There are certain periods of time in all governments when this inhuman
spirit prevails. _Italy_ was long torn in pieces by the
_Guelfes_ and _Gibellines_, and _France_ by those who
were for and against the League: but it is very unhappy for a man to be
born in such a stormy and tempestuous season. It is the restless
ambition of artful men that thus breaks a people into factions, and
draws several well-meaning persons to their interest, by a specious
concern for their country. How many honest minds are filled with
uncharitable and barbarous notions, out of their zeal for the publick
good? What cruelties and outrages would they not commit against men of
an adverse party, whom they would honour and esteem, if, instead of
considering them as they are represented, they knew them as they are?
Thus are persons of the greatest probity seduced into shameful errors
and prejudices, and made bad men even by that noblest of principles, the
love of their country. I cannot here forbear mentioning the famous
_Spanish_ proverb, _If there were neither fools nor knaves in the
world, all people would be of one mind_.

For my own part, I could heartily wish that all honest men would enter
into an association, for the support of one another against the
endeavours of those whom they ought to look upon as their common
enemies, whatsoever side they may belong to. Were there such an honest
body of neutral forces, we should never see the worst of men in great
figures of life, because they are useful to a party; nor the best
unregarded, because they are above practising those methods which would
be grateful to their faction. We should then single every criminal out
of the herd, and hunt him down, however formidable and overgrown he
might appear: On the contrary, we should shelter distressed innocence,
and defend virtue, however beset with contempt or ridicule, envy or
defamation. In short, we should not any longer regard our fellow-
subjects as Whigs or Tories, but should make the man of merit our
friend, and the villain our enemy. C.




No. 126. WEDNESDAY, JULY 25.

  _Tros Rutulusve fuat, nullo discrimim habebo._
    VIRG. AEn. x. ver. 108.

  _Rutulians_, _Trojans_, are the same to me.
    DRYDEN.


In my yesterday's paper I proposed, that the honest men of all parties
should enter into a kind of association for the defence of one another,
and the confusion of their common enemies. As it is designed this
neutral body should act with a regard to nothing but truth and equity,
and divest themselves of the little heats and prepossessions that cleave
to parties of all kinds, I have prepared for them the following form of
an association, which may express their intentions in the most plain and
simple manner.

_We whose names are hereunto subscribed do solemnly declare, That we
do in our consciences believe two and two make four; and that we shall
adjudge any man whatsoever to be our enemy who endeavours to persuade us
to the contrary. We are likewise ready to maintain with the hazard of
all that is near and dear to us, That six is less than seven in all
times and all places; and that ten will not be more three years hence
than it is at present. We do also firmly declare, That it is our
resolution, as long as we live, to call black, black; and white, white.
And we shall upon all occasions oppose such persons, that, upon any day
of the year, shall call black white, or white black, with the utmost
peril of our lives and fortunes_.

Were there such a combination of honest men, who, without any regard to
places, would endeavour to extirpate all such furious zealots as would
sacrifice one half of their country to the passion and interest of the
other; as also such infamous hypocrites, that are for promoting their
own advantage, under colour of the publick good; with all the profligate
immoral retainers to each side, that have nothing to recommend them but
an implicit submission to their leaders; we should soon see that furious
party-spirit extinguished, which may in time expose us to the derision
and contempt of all the nations about us.

A member of this society, that would thus carefully employ himself in
making room for merit, by throwing down the worthless and depraved part
of mankind from those conspicuous stations of life to which they have
been sometimes advanced, and all this without any regard to his private
interest, would be no small benefactor to his country.

I remember to have read in _Diodorus Siculus_ an account of a very
active little animal, which I think he calls the _Ichneumon_, that
makes it the whole business of his life to break the eggs of the
crocodile, which he is always in search after. This instinct is the more
remarkable, because the _Ichneumon_ never feeds upon the eggs he
has broken, nor any other way finds his account in them.

Were it not for the incessant labours of this industrious animal,
_AEgypt_, says the historian, would be over-run with crocodiles; for
the _AEgyptians_ are so far from destroying those pernicious
creatures, that they worship them as gods.

If we look into the behaviour of ordinary Partizans, we shall find them
far from resembling this disinterested animal; and rather acting after
the example of the wild _Tartars_, who are ambitious of destroying
a man of the most extraordinary parts and accomplishments, as thinking
upon his decease the same talents, whatever post they qualified him for,
enter of course into his destroyer.

As in the whole train of my Speculations, I have endeavoured as much as
I am able to extinguish that pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice,
which rages with the same violence in all parties, I am still the more
desirous of doing some good in this particular, because I observe that
the spirit of party reigns more in the country than in the town. It here
contracts a kind of brutality and rustick fierceness, to which men of
politer conversation are wholly strangers. It extends itself even to the
return of the bow and the hat; and at the same time that the heads of
parties preserve towards one another an outward show of good-breeding,
and keep up a perpetual intercourse of civilities, their tools that are
dispersed in these outlying parts will not so much as mingle together at
a cock-match. This humour fills the country with several periodical
meetings of Whig Jockeys and Tory Fox-hunters; not to mention the
innumerable curses, frowns, and whispers it produces at a quarter-
sessions.

I do not know whether I have observed in any of my former papers, that
my friends Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY and Sir ANDREW FREEPORT are of
different principles, the first of them inclined to the _landed_
and the other to the _monied_ interest. This humour is so moderate
in each of them, that it proceeds no farther than to an agreeable
rallery, which very often diverts the rest of the club. I find however
that the Knight is a much stronger Tory in the country than in town,
which, as he has told me in my ear, is absolutely necessary for the
keeping up his interest. In all our journey from _London_ to his
house we did not so much as bait at a Whig inn; or, if by chance the
coachman stopped at a wrong place, one of Sir ROGER'S servants would
ride up to his master full speed, and whisper to him that the master of
the house was against such an one in the last election. This often
betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer; for we were not so inquisitive
about the inn as the inn-keeper; and, provided our landlord's principles
were sound, did not take any notice of the staleness of his provisions.
This I found still the more inconvenient, because the better the host
was, the worse generally were his accommodations; the fellow knowing
very well that those who were his friends would take up with coarse diet
and an hard lodging. For these reasons, all the while I was upon the
road, I dreaded entering into an house of any one that Sir ROGER had
applauded for an honest man.

Since my stay at Sir ROGER'S in the country, I daily find more instances
of this narrow party-humour. Being upon a bowling-green at a
neighbouring market-town the other day, (for that is the place where the
gentlemen of one side meet once a week) I observed a stranger among them
of a better presence and genteeler behaviour than ordinary; but was much
surprised, that notwithstanding he was a very fair _bettor_, no
body would take him up. But upon inquiry I found, that he was one who
had given a disagreeable vote in a former parliament, for which reason
there was not a man upon that bowling-green who would have so much
correspondence with him as to win his money of him.

Among other instances of this nature, I must not omit one which concerns
myself. _Will Wimble_ was the other day relating several strange
stories that he had picked up no body knows where, of a certain great
man; and upon my staring at him, as one that was surprised to hear such
things in the country, which had never been so much as whispered in the
town, _Will_ stopped short in the thread of his discourse, and
after dinner asked my friend Sir ROGER in his ear if he was sure that I
was not a fanatick.

It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit of dissension in the
country; not only as it destroys virtue and common sense, and renders us
in a manner barbarians towards one another, but as it perpetuates our
animosities, widens our breaches, and transmits our present passions and
prejudices to our posterity. For my own part, I am sometimes afraid that
I discover the seeds of a civil war in these our divisions; and
therefore cannot but bewail, as in their first principles, the miseries
and calamities of our children. C.




No. 127. THURSDAY, JULY 26.

  _Quantum est in rebus inane?_
    PERS. Sat. i. ver. 1.

  How much of emptiness we find in things!


It is our custom at Sir ROGER'S, upon the coming in of the post, to sit
about a pot of coffee, and hear the old Knight read _Dyer_'s
letter; which he does with his spectacles upon his nose, and in an
audible voice, smiling very often at those little strokes of satire,
which are so frequent in the writings of that author; I afterwards
communicate to the Knight such packets as I receive under the quality of
SPECTATOR. The following letter chancing to please him more than
ordinary, I shall publish it at his request.

'Mr. SPECTATOR,

'You have diverted the town almost a whole month at the expence of the
country, it is now high time that you should give the country their
revenge. Since your withdrawing from this place, the fair sex are run
into great extravagancies. Their petticoats, which began to heave and
swell before you left us, are now blown up into a most enormous concave,
and rise every day more and more: In short, Sir, since our women know
themselves to be out of the eye of the SPECTATOR, they will be kept
within no compass. You praised them a little too soon for the modesty of
their head-dresses; for, as the humour of a sick person is often driven
out of one limb into another, their superfluity of ornaments, instead of
being entirely banished, seems only fallen from their heads upon their
lower parts. What they have lost in height they make up in breadth, and,
contrary to all rules of architecture, widen the foundations at the same
time that they shorten the superstructure.

'I find several speculative persons are of opinion that our sex has of
late years been very saucy, and that the hoop-petticoat is made use of
to keep us at a distance. It is most certain that a woman's honour
cannot be better entrenched than after this manner, in circle within
circle, amidst such a variety of out-works and lines of circumvallation,
A female who is thus invested in whalebone is sufficiently secured
against the approaches of an ill-bred fellow, who might as well think of
Sir _George Etherege_'s way of making love in a tub, as in the
midst of so many hoops.

'Among these various conjectures, there are men of superstitious
tempers, who look upon the hoop-petticoat as a kind of prodigy. Some
will have it that it portends the downfal of the _French_ King, and
observe that the farthingale appeared in _England_ a little before
the ruin of the _Spanish_ monarchy. Others are of opinion that it
fortels battle and bloodshed, and believe it of the same prognostication
as the tail of a blazing star.

'Should this fashion get among the ordinary people, our publick ways
would be so crowded that we should want street-room. Several
congregations of the best fashion find themselves already very much
straitened, and if the mode increase I wish it may not drive many
ordinary women into meetings and conventicles. Should our sex at the
same time take it into their heads to wear trunk-breeches (as who knows
what their indignation at this female treatment may drive them to) a man
and his wife would fill a whole pew.

'You know, Sir, it is recorded of _Alexander the Great_, that in
his _Indian_ expedition he buried several suits of armour, which,
by his direction, were made much too big for any of his soldiers, in
order to give posterity an extraordinary idea of him, and make them
believe he had commanded an army of giants. I am persuaded that if one
of the present petticoats happens to be hung up in any repository of
curiosities, it will lead into the same error the generations that lie
some removes from us, unless we can believe our posterity will think so
disrespectfully of their great-grandmothers, that they made themselves
monstrous to appear amiable.

'When I survey this new-fashioned _Rotunda_ in all its parts, I
cannot but think of the old philosopher, who, after having entered into
an _AEgyptian_ temple, and looked about for the idol of the place,
at length discovered a little black monkey enshrined in the midst of it,
upon which he could not forbear crying out, (to the great scandal of the
worshippers) What a magnificent palace is here for such a ridiculous
inhabitant!

'Though you have taken a resolution, in one of your papers, to avoid
descending to particularities of dress, I believe you will not think it
below you on so extraordinary an occasion, to unhoop the fair sex, and
cure this fashionable tympany that is got among them. I am apt to think
the petticoat will shrink of its own accord at your first coming to
town; at least a touch of your pen will make it contract itself, like
the sensitive plant, and by that means oblige several who are either
terrified or astonished at this portentous novelty, and among the rest,

'Your humble servant, &c.'

C.




No. 128. FRIDAY, JULY 27.

  _Concordia discors._
    LUCAN. 1. I. v. 98.

  Harmonious discord.


Women in their nature are much more gay and joyous than men; whether it
be that their blood is more refined, their fibres more delicate, and
their animal spirits more light and volatile; or whether, as some have
imagined, there may not be a kind of sex in the very soul, I shall not
pretend to determine. As vivacity is the gift of women, gravity is that
of men. They should each of them therefore keep a watch upon the
particular bias which nature has fixed in their mind, that it may not
_draw_ too much, and lead them out of the paths of reason. This
will certainly happen, if the one in every word and action affects the
character of being rigid and severe, and the other of being brisk and
airy. Men should beware of being captivated by a kind of savage
philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry. Where these precautions
are not observed, the man often degenerates into a Cynick, the woman
into a coquette; the man grows sullen and morose, the woman impertinent
and fantastical.

By what I have said, we may conclude, men and women were made as
counterparts to one another, that the pains and anxieties of the husband
might be relieved by the sprightliness and good-humour of the wife. When
these are rightly tempered, care and chearfulness go hand in hand; and
the family, like a ship that is duly trimmed, wants neither sail nor
ballast.

Natural historians observe, (for whilst I am in the country I must fetch
my allusions from thence) That only the male birds have voices; that
their songs begin a little before breeding-time, and end a little after;
that whilst the hen is covering her eggs the male generally takes his
stand upon a neighbouring bough within her hearing; and by that means
amuses and diverts her with his songs during the whole time of her
sitting.

This contract among birds lasts no longer than till a brood of young
ones arises from it; so that in the feathered kind, the cares and
fatigues of the married state, if I may so call it, lie principally upon
the female. On the contrary, as in our species the man and woman are
joined together for life, and the main burden rests upon the former,
nature has given all the little arts of soothing and blandishment to the
female, that she may chear and animate her companion in a constant and
assiduous application to the making a provision for his family, and the
educating of their common children. This however is not to be taken so
strictly, as if the same duties were not often reciprocal, and incumbent
on both parties; but only to set forth what seems to have been the
general intention of nature, in the different inclinations and
endowments which are bestowed on the different sexes.

But whatever was the reason that man and woman were made with this
variety of temper, if we observe the conduct of the fair sex, we find
that they choose rather to associate themselves with a person who
resembles them in that light and volatile humour which is natural to
them, than to such as are qualified to moderate and counterbalance it.
It has been an old complaint, that the coxcomb carries it with them
before the man of sense. When we see a fellow loud and talkative, full
of insipid life and laughter, we may venture to pronounce him a female
favourite: Noise and flutter are such accomplishments as they cannot
withstand. To be short, the passion of an ordinary woman for a man is
nothing else but self-love diverted upon another object: She would have
the lover a woman in every thing but the sex. I do not know a finer
piece of satire on this part of womankind, than those lines of Mr.
_Dryden_.

  _Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form,
  And empty noise, and loves itself in man._

This is a source of infinite calamities to the sex, as it frequently
joins them to men, who in their own thoughts are as fine creatures as
themselves; or, if they chance to be good-humoured, serve only to
dissipate their fortunes, inflame their follies, and aggravate their
indiscretions.

The same female levity is no less fatal to them after marriage than
before: It represents to their imaginations the faithful prudent husband
as an honest, tractable, and domestick animal; and turns their thoughts
upon the fine gay gentleman that laughs, sings, and dresses so much more
agreeably.

As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray the hearts of ordinary
women in the choice of their lovers and the treatment of their husbands,
it operates with the same pernicious influence towards their children,
who are taught to accomplish themselves in all those sublime perfections
that appear captivating in the eye of their mother. She admires in her
son what she loved in her gallant; and by that means contributes all she
can to perpetuate herself in a worthless progeny.

The younger _Faustina_ was a lively instance of this sort of women.
Notwithstanding she was married to _Marcus Aurelius_, one of the
greatest, wisest, and best of the _Roman_ emperors, she thought a
common gladiator much the prettier gentleman; and had taken such care to
accomplish her son _Commodus_ according to her own notions of a
fine man, that when he ascended the throne of his father, he became the
most foolish and abandoned tyrant that was Jo ever placed at the head of
the _Roman empire_, signalizing himself in nothing but the fighting
of prizes, and knocking out men's brains. As he had no taste of true
glory, we see him in several medals and statues which are still extant
of him, equipped like an _Hercules_ with a club and a lion's skin.

I have been led into this speculation by the characters I have heard of
a country gentleman and his lady, who do not live many miles from Sir
ROGER. The wife is an old coquette, that is always hankering after the
diversions of the town; the husband a morose rustick, that frowns and
frets at the name of it. The wife is over-run with affectation, the
husband sunk into brutality. The lady cannot bear the noise of the larks
and nightingales, hates your tedious summer days, and is sick at the
sight of shady woods and purling streams; the husband wonders how any
one can be pleased with the fooleries of plays and operas, and rails
from morning to night at essenced fops and tawdry courtiers. The
children are educated in these different notions of their parents. The
sons follow the father about his grounds, while the daughters read
volumes of love-letters and romances to their mother. By this means it
comes to pass, that the girls look upon their father as a clown, and the
boys think their mother no better than she should be.

How different are the lives of _Aristus_ and _Aspasia_? the
innocent vivacity of the one is tempered and composed by the chearful
gravity of the other. The wife grows wise by the discourses of the
husband, and the husband good-humoured by the conversations of the wife.
_Aristus_ would not be so amiable were it not for his
_Aspasia_, nor _Aspasia_ so much esteemed were it not for her
_Aristus_. Their virtues are blended in their children, and diffuse
through the whole family a perpetual spirit of benevolence, complacency,
and satisfaction. C.




No. 129. SATURDAY, JULY 28.

  _Vertentem sese frustra sectabere canthum,
  Cum rota posterior curras & in axe secundo._
    PERS. Sat. v. ver. 71.

  Thou, like the hindmost chariot-wheels, art curst
  Still to be near, but ne'er to be the first.
    DRYDEN.


Great masters in painting never care for drawing people in the fashion;
as very well knowing that the head-dress, or periwig, that now prevails,
and gives a grace to their portraitures at present, will make a very odd
figure, and perhaps look monstrous in the eyes of posterity. For this
reason they often represent an illustrious person in a _Roman_
habit, or in some other dress that never varies. I could wish, for the
sake of my country friends, that there was such a kind of _everlasting
drapery_ to be made use of by all who live at a certain distance from
the town, and that they would agree upon such fashions as should never
be liable to changes and innovations. For want of this _standing
dress_, a man who takes a journey into the country is as much
surprised, as one who walks in a gallery of old family pictures; and
finds as great a variety of garbs and habits in the persons he converses
with. Did they keep to one constant dress they would sometimes be in the
fashion, which they never are as matters are managed at present. If
instead of running after the mode, they would continue fixed in one
certain habit, the mode would some time or other overtake them, as a
clock that stands still is sure to point right once in twelve hours: In
this case therefore I would advise them, as a gentleman did his friend
who was hunting about the whole town after a rambling fellow, if you
follow him you will never find him, but if you plant yourself at the
corner of any one street, I'll engage it will not be long before you see
him.

I have already touched upon this subject in a speculation which shows
how cruelly the country are led astray in following the town; and
equipped in a ridiculous habit, when they fancy themselves in the height
of the mode. Since that speculation I have received a letter (which I
there hinted at) from a gentleman who is now in the western circuit.

'Mr. SPECTATOR,

'Being a lawyer of the _Middle-Temple_, a _Cornishman_ by
birth, I generally ride the western circuit for my health, and as I am
not interrupted with clients, have leisure to make many observations
that escape the notice of my fellow-travellers.

'One of the most fashionable women I met with in all the circuit was my
landlady at _Stains_, where I chanced to be on a holiday. Her
commode was not half a foot high, and her petticoat within some yards of
a modish circumference. In the same place I observed a young fellow with
a tolerable periwig, had it not been covered with a hat that was shaped
in the _Ramilie_ cock. As I proceeded in my journey I observed the
petticoat grew scantier and scantier, and about threescore miles from
_London_ was so very unfashionable, that a woman might walk in it
without any manner of inconvenience.

'Not far from _Salisbury_ I took notice of a justice of peace's
lady, who was at least ten years behindhand in her dress, but at the
same time as fine as hands could make her. She was flounced and
furbelowed from head to foot; every ribbon was wrinkled, and every part
of her garments in curl, so that she looked like one of those animals
which in the country we call a _Friezland_ hen.

'Not many miles beyond this place I was informed, that one of the last
year's little muffs had by some means or other straggled into those
parts, and that all the women of fashion were cutting their old muffs in
two, or retrenching them according to the little model which was got
among them. I cannot believe the report they have there, that it was
sent down franked by a parliament-man in a little packet; but probably
by next winter this fashion will be at the height in the country, when
it is quite out at _London_. The greatest beau at our next
county-sessions was dressed in a most monstrous flaxen periwig, that was
made in King _William_'s reign. The wearer of it goes, it seems, in
his own hair, when he is at home, and lets his wig lie in buckle for a
whole half year, that he may put it on upon occasion to meet the judges
in it.

'I must not here omit an adventure which happened to us in a country
church upon the frontiers of _Cornwall_. As we were in the midst of
the service, a lady who is the chief woman of the place, and had passed
the winter at _London_ with her husband, entered the congregation
in a little head-dress, and a hooped petticoat. The people, who were
wonderfully startled at such a sight, all of them rose up. Some stared
at the prodigious bottom and some at the little top of this strange
dress. In the mean time the lady of the manor filled the area of the
church, and walked up to her pew with an unspeakable satisfaction,
amidst the whispers, conjectures, and astonishments of the whole
congregation.

'Upon our way from hence we saw a young fellow riding towards us full
gallop, with a bob-wig and a black silken bag tied to it. He stopt short
at the coach, to ask us how far the judges were behind us. His stay was
so very short, that we had only time to observe his new silk waistcoat,
which was unbuttoned in several places to let us see that he had a clean
shirt on, which was ruffled down to his middle.

'From this place, during our progress through the most western parts of
the kingdom, we fancied ourselves in in King _Charles_ II.'s reign,
the people having made very little variations in their dress since that
time. The smartest of the country squires appear still in the
_Monmouth_ cock, and when they go a wooing (whether they have any
post in the militia or not) they generally put on a red coat. We were
indeed, very much surprised at the place we lay at last night, to meet
with a gentleman that had accoutred himself in a night-cap wig, a coat
with long pockets and slit sleeves, and a pair of shoes with high
scollop tops; but we soon found by his conversation that he was a person
who laughed at the ignorance and rusticity of the country people, and
was resolved to live and die in the mode.

'_Sir_, If you think this account of my travels may be of any
advantage to the public, I will next year trouble you with such
occurrences as I shall meet with in other parts of _England_. For I
am informed there are greater curiosities in the northern circuit than
in the western; and that a fashion makes its progress much slower into
_Cumberland_ than into _Cornwall_. I have heard in particular,
that the Steenkirk arrived but two months ago at _Newcastle_, and
that there are several commodes in those parts which are worth taking a
journey thither to see.' C.




No. 130. MONDAY, JULY 30.

  _Semperque recentes
  Convectare juvat praedas, et vivere rapto._
    VIRG. AEn. vii. ver. 748.

  Hunting their sport, and plund'ring was their trade.
    DRYDEN.

As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend Sir ROGER, we
saw at a little distance from us a troop of gipsies. Upon the first
discovery of them, my friend was in some doubt whether he should not
exert the _Justice of the Peace_ upon such a band of lawless
vagrants; but not having his clerk with him, who is a necessary
counsellor on these occasions, and fearing that his poultry might fare
the worse for it, he let the thought drop: But at the same time gave me
a particular account of the mischiefs they do in the country, in
stealing people's goods and spoiling their servants. If a stray piece of
linen hangs upon an hedge, says Sir ROGER, they are sure to have it; if
the hog loses his way in the fields, it is ten to one but he becomes
their prey; our geese cannot live in peace for them; if a man prosecutes
them with severity, his henroost is sure to pay for it: They generally
straggle into these parts about this time of the year; and set the heads
of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we do not expect to have
any business done as it should be whilst they are in the country. I have
an honest dairymaid who crosses their hands with a piece of silver every
summer, and never fails being promised the handsomest young fellow in
the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been fool enough to
be seduced by them; and though he is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a
spoon every time his fortune is told him, generally shuts himself up in
the pantry with an old gipsy for above half an hour once in a
twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the things they live upon, which they
bestow very plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to them.
You see now and then some handsome young jades among them: The sluts
have very often white teeth and black eyes.

Sir ROGER observing that I listened with great attention to his account
of a people who were so entirely new to me, told me, that if I would
they should tell us our fortunes. As I was very well pleased with the
Knight's proposal, we rid up and communicated our hands to them. A
_Cassandra_ of the crew, after having examined my lines very
diligently, told me, that I loved a pretty maid in a corner, that I was
a good woman's man, with some other particulars which I do not think
proper to relate. My friend Sir ROGER alighted from his horse, and
exposing his palm to two or three that stood by him, they crumpled it
into all shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle that could be made
in it; when one of them, who was older and more sunburnt than the rest,
told him, that he had a widow in his line of life: Upon which the Knight
cried, Go, go, you are an idle baggage; and at the same time smiled upon
me. The gipsy finding he was not displeased in his heart, told him,
after a farther inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was constant,
and that she should dream of him to-night: My old friend cried pish, and
bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he was a bachelor, but would not
be so long; and that he was dearer to somebody than he thought: The
Knight still repeated she was an idle baggage, and bid her go on. Ah,
master, says the gipsy, that roguish leer of yours makes a pretty
woman's heart ache; you have not that simper about the mouth for
nothing--The uncouth gibberish with which all this was uttered, like the
darkness of an oracle, made us the more attentive to it. To be short,
the Knight left the money with her that he had crossed her hand with,
and got up again on his horse.

As we were riding away, Sir ROGER told me, that he knew several sensible
people who believed these gipsies now and then foretold very strange
things; and for half an hour together appeared more jocund than
ordinary. In the height of his good-humour, meeting a common beggar upon
the road who was no conjurer, as he went to relieve him he found his
pocket was picked; that being a kind of palmistry at which this race of
vermin are very dexterous.

I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks on this idle
profligate people, who infest all the countries of _Europe_, and
live in the midst of governments in a kind of commonwealth by
themselves. But instead of entering into observations of this nature, I
shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a story which is still
fresh in _Holland_, and was printed in one of our monthly accounts
about twenty years ago. 'As the _Trekschuyt_ or hackney-boat, which
carries passengers from _Leyden_ to _Amsterdam_, was putting
off, a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken in;
which the master of the boat refused, because the lad had not quite
money enough to pay the usual fare. An eminent merchant being pleased
with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with compassion towards
him, paid the money for him, and ordered him to be taken on board. Upon
talking with him afterwards, he found that he could speak readily in
three or four languages, and learned upon further examination that he
had been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled
ever since with a gang of those strollers up and down several parts of
_Europe_. It happened that the merchant, whose heart seems to have
inclined towards the boy by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost
a child some years before. The parents, after a long search for him,
gave him for drowned in one of the canals with which that country
abounds; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine boy, who
was her only son, that she died for grief of it. Upon laying together
all particulars, and examining the several moles and marks by which the
mother used to describe the child when he was first missing, the boy
proved to be the son of the merchant whose heart had so unaccountably
melted at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a
father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate; the
father on the other hand was not a little delighted to see a son return
to him, whom he had given for lost, with such a strength of
constitution, sharpness of understanding, and skill in languages.' Here
the printed story leaves off; but if I may give credit to reports, our
linguist having received such extraordinary rudiments towards a good
education, was afterwards trained up in every thing that becomes a
gentleman; wearing off by little and little all the vicious habits and
practices that he had been used to in the course of his peregrinations:
Nay, it is said, that he has since been employed in foreign courts upon
national business, with great reputation to himself and honour to those
who sent him, and that he has visited several countries as a public
minister, in which he formerly wandered as a gipsy. C.




No. 131. TUESDAY, JULY 31.

  _Ipsae rursum concedite sylvae._
    VIRG. Ecl. x. ver. 63.

  Once more, ye woods, adieu.


It is usual for a man who loves country-sports to preserve the game on
his own grounds, and divert himself upon those that belong to his
neighbour. My friend Sir ROGER generally goes two or three miles from
his house, and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before he beats
about in search of a hare or partridge, on purpose to spare his own
fields, where he is always sure of finding to diversion, when the worst
comes to the worst. By this means the breed about his house has time to
increase and multiply, beside that the sport is the more agreeable where
the game is the harder to come at, and where it does not lie so thick as
to produce any perplexity or confusion in the pursuit. For these reasons
the country gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home.

In the same manner I have made a month's excursion out of the town,
which is the great field of game for sportsmen of my species, to try my
fortune in the country, where I have started several subjects, and
hunted them down, with some pleasure to myself, and I hope to others. I
am here forced to use a great deal of diligence before I can spring
anything to my mind, whereas in town, whilst I am following one
character, it is ten to one but I am crossed in my way by another, and
put up such a variety of odd creatures in both sexes, that they foil the
scent of one another, and puzzle the chace. My greatest difficulty in
the country is to find sport, and in town to chuse it. In the mean time,
as I have given a whole month's rest to the cities of _London_ and
_Westminster_, I promise myself abundance of new game upon my
return thither.

It is indeed high time for me to leave the country, since I find the
whole neighbourhood begin to grow very inquisitive after my name and
character: My love of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way of life,
having raised a great curiosity in all these parts.

The notions which have been framed of me are various: Some look upon me
as very proud, some as very modest, and some as very melancholy. _Will
Wimble_, as my friend the butler tells me, observing me very much
alone, and extremely silent when I am in company, is afraid I have
killed a man. The country people seem to suspect me for a conjurer; and
some of them, hearing of the visit which I made to _Moll White_,
will needs have it that Sir ROGER has brought down a cunning man with
him, to cure the old woman, and free the country from her charms. So
that the character which I go under in part of the neighbourhood, is
what they here call a _White Witch_.

A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and is not of Sir
ROGER'S party, has it seems said twice or thrice at his table, that he
wishes Sir ROGER does not harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he
thinks the gentlemen of the country would do very well to make me give
some account of myself.

On the other side, some of Sir ROGER'S friends are afraid the old Knight
is imposed upon by a designing fellow, and as they have heard that he
converses very promiscuously when he is in town, do not know but he has
brought down with him some discarded Whig, that is sullen, and says
nothing because he is out of place.

Such is the variety of opinions which are here entertained of me, so
that I pass among some for a disaffected person, and among others for a
Popish priest; among some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer;
and all this for no other reason, that I can imagine, but because I do
not hoot and hollow, and make a noise. It is true my friend Sir ROGER
tells them, _That it is my way_, and that I am only a philosopher;
but this will not satisfy them. They think there is more in me than he
discovers, and that I do not hold my tongue for nothing.

For these and other reasons I shall set out for _London_ to-morrow,
having found by experience that the country is not a place for a person
of my temper, who does not love jollity, and what they call good
neighbourhood. A man that is out of humour when an unexpected guest
breaks in upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an afternoon to
every chance-comer; that will be the master of his own time, and the
pursuer of his own inclinations, makes but a very unsociable figure in
this kind of life. I shall therefore retire into the town, if I may make
use of that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as I can, in
order to be alone. I can there raise what speculations I please upon
others, without being observed myself, and at the same time enjoy all
the advantages of company with all the privileges of solitude. In the
mean while, to finish the month, and conclude these my rural
speculations, I shall here insert a letter from my friend WILL
HONEYCOMB, who has not lived a month for these forty years out of the
smoke of London, and rallies me after his way upon my country life.

'_Dear_ SPEC,

'I SUPPOSE this letter will find thee picking of daisies, or smelling to
a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in some innocent country
diversion of the like nature. I have however orders from the club to
summon thee up to town, being all of us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be
able to relish our company, after thy conversations with _Moll
White_ and _Will Wimble_. Pr'ythee do not send us up any more
stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the town with spirits and
witches. Thy speculations begin to smell confoundedly of woods and
meadows. If thou dost not come up quickly, we shall conclude that thou
art in love with one of Sir ROGER'S dairymaids. Service to the Knight.
Sir ANDREW is grown the cock of the club since he left us, and if he
does not return quickly will make every mother's son of us
commonwealth's men. _Dear_ SPEC,

'_Thine eternally_

'WILL HONEYCOMB.'

C.




No. 132. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1.

  _Qui, aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loquitur,
  aut se ostentat, aut eorum quibuscum est rationem non
  habet, is ineptus esse dicitur._
    TULL.

  That man is guilty of impertinence, who considers not
  The circumstances of time, or engrosses the conversation,
  or makes himself the subject of his discourse, or
  pays no regard to the company he is in.


Having notified to my good friend Sir ROGER that I should set out for
_London_ the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed hour
in the evening; and, attended by one of his grooms, I arrived at the
country town at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the
day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant, who waited
upon me, inquired of the chamberlain in my hearing, what company he had
for the coach? The fellow answered, Mrs. _Betty Arable_, the great
fortune, and the widow her mother; a recruiting officer (who took a
place because they were to go;) young squire _Quickset_ her cousin
(that her mother wished her to be married to); _Ephraim_ the
quaker, her guardian; and a gentleman that had studied himself dumb,
from Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY'S. I observed by what he said of myself, that
according to his office he dealt much in intelligence; and doubted not
but there was some foundation for his reports for the rest of the
company, as well as for the whimsical account he gave of me. The next
morning at day-break we were all called; and I, who know my own natural
shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be disputed with as
possible, dressed immediately, that I might make no one wait. The first
preparation for our setting out was, that the captain's half-pike was
placed near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the mean time
the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very loud, that none of the
captain's things should be placed so as to be spoiled; upon which his
cloak-bag was fixed in the seat of the coach; and the captain himself,
according to a frequent, though invidious behaviour of military men,
ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should
have the place he had taken fronting to the coach-box.

We were in some little time fixed in our seats, and sat with that
dislike which people not too good-natured usually conceive of each other
at first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into some sort of
familiarity; and we had not moved above two miles when the widow asked
the captain what success he had in his recruiting? The officer, with a
frankness he believed very graceful, told her, 'That indeed he had but
very little luck, and had suffered much by desertion, therefore should
be glad to end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter.
In a word, continued he, I am a soldier, and to be plain is my
character: You see me, Madam, young, sound, and impudent; take me
yourself, widow, or give me to her, I will be wholly at your disposal. I
am a soldier of fortune, ha!' This was followed by a vain laugh of his
own, and a deep silence of all the rest of the company. I had nothing
left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with all speed. 'Come,'
said he, 'resolve upon it, we will make a wedding at the next town; we
will wake this pleasant companion who is fallen asleep, to be the
brideman, and' (giving the quaker a clap on the knee) he concluded,
'This sly saint, who, I'll warrant, understands what's what as well as
you or I, widow, shall give the bride as father.' The quaker, who
happened to be a man of smartness, answered, 'Friend, I take it in good
part that thou hast given me the authority of a father over this comely
and virtuous child; and I must assure thee, that if I have the giving
her, I shall not bestow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, savoureth of
folly: Thou art a person of a light mind; thy drum is a type of thee, it
soundeth because it is empty. Verily, it is not from thy fullness, but
thy emptiness that thou hast spoken this day. Friend, friend, we have
hired this coach in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great
city; we cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must hear thee, if
thou wilt needs utter thy follies; we cannot help it, friend, I say: If
thou wilt we must hear thee; but, if thou wert a man of understanding,
thou wouldst not take advantage of thy courageous countenance to abash
us children of peace. Thou art, thou sayest, a soldier; give quarter to
us, who cannot resist thee. Why didst thou fleer at our friend, who
feigned himself asleep? He said nothing; but how dost thou know what he
containeth? If thou speakest improper things in the hearing of this
virtuous young virgin, consider it as an outrage against a distressed
person that cannot get from thee: To speak indiscreetly what we are
obliged to hear, by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is
in some degree assaulting on the high road.'

Here _Ephraim_ paused, and the captain with a happy and uncommon
impudence (which can be convicted and support itself at the same time)
cries, 'Faith, friend, I thank thee; I should have been a little
impertinent if thou hadst not reprimanded me. Come, thou art, I see, a
smoky old fellow, and I'll be very orderly the ensuing part of my
journey. I was going to give myself airs, but, ladies, I beg pardon.'

The captain was so little out of humour, and our company was so far from
being soured by this little ruffle, that _Ephraim_ and he took a
particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future; and
assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the company. Our
reckonings, apartments, and accommodation, fell under _Ephraim_:
and the captain looked to all disputes upon the road, as the good
behaviour of our coachman, and the right we had of taking place as going
to _London_ of all vehicles coming from thence. The occurrences we
met with were ordinary, and very little happened which could entertain
by the relation of them: But when I considered the company we were in, I
took it for no small good-fortune that the whole journey was not spent
in impertinencies, which to the one part of us might be an
entertainment, to the other a suffering. What therefore _Ephraim_
said when we were almost arrived at _London_, had to me an air not
only of good understanding but good breeding. Upon the young lady's
expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful
it had been to her, _Ephraim_ delivered himself as follows: 'There
is no ordinary part of human life which expresseth so much a good mind,
and a right inward man, as his behaviour upon meeting with strangers,
especially such as may seem the most unsuitable companions to him: Such
a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and
innocence, however knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt
himself thereof; but will the rather hide his superiority to them, that
he may not be painful unto them. My good friend, (continued he, turning
to the officer) thee and I are to part by and by, and peradventure we
may never meet again: But be advised by a plain man; modes and apparel
are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think such a man as
thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me contemptible for
mine. When two such as thee and I meet, with affections such as we ought
to have towards each other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peaceable
demeanour, and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to
protect me in it.' T.




No. 269. TUESDAY, JANUARY 8.

  _Aevo rarissima nostro
  Simplicitas._
    OVID, Ars Am. lib. i. ver. 241.

  And brings our old simplicity again.
    DRYDEN.


I was this morning surprised with a great knocking at the door, when my
landlady's daughter came up to me, and told me that there was a man
below desired to speak with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told
me it was a very grave elderly person, but that she did not know his
name. I immediately went down to him, and found him to be the coachman
of my worthy friend Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY. He told me, that his master
came to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me in
_Gray's-Inn_ walks. As I was wondering in myself what had brought
Sir ROGER to town, not having lately received any letter from him, he
told me that his master was come up to get a sight of Prince
_Eugene_, and that he desired I would immediately meet him.

I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old Knight, though
I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say more than once in
private discourse, that he looked upon Prince _Eugenio_ (for so the
Knight always calls him) to be a greater man than _Scanderbeg_.

I was no sooner come into _Gray's-Inn_ walks, but I heard my friend
upon the terrace hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigour,
for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own
phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice of
the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems.

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old man, who
before he saw me was engaged in conversation with a beggar man that had
asked an alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for not finding
out some work; but at the same time saw him put his hand in his pocket
and give him sixpence.

Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of many kind
shakes of the hand, and several affectionate looks which we cast upon
one another. After which the Knight told me my good friend his chaplain
was very well, and much at my service, and that the _Sunday_ before
he had made a most incomparable sermon out of Dr. _Barrow_. 'I have
left,' says he, 'all my affairs in his hands, and being willing to lay
an obligation upon him, have deposited with him thirty merks, to be
distributed among his poor parishioners.'

He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare of _Will Wimble_.
Upon which he put his hand into his fob, and presented me in his name
with a tobacco-stopper, telling me that _Will_ had been busy all
the beginning of the winter in turning great quantities of them; and
that he made a present of one to every gentleman in the country who has
good principles, and smokes. He added, that poor _Will_ was at
present under great tribulation, for that _Tom Touchy_ had taken
the law of him for cutting some hazel-sticks out of one of his hedges.

Among other pieces of news which the Knight brought from his country-
seat, he informed me that _Moll White_ was dead; and that about a
month after her death the wind was so very high, that it blew down the
end of one of his barns. 'But for my own part,' says Sir ROGER, 'I do
not think that the old woman had any hand in it.'

He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions which had passed in
his house during the holidays; for Sir ROGER, after the laudable custom
of his ancestors, always keeps open house at _Christmas_. I learned
from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for this season, that he had
dealt about his chines very liberally amongst his neighbours, and that
in particular he had sent a string of hogs-puddings with a pack of cards
to every poor family in the parish. 'I have often thought,' says Sir
ROGER, 'it happens very well that _Christmas_ should fall out in
the middle of winter. It is the most dead uncomfortable time of the
year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their poverty and
cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and _Christmas_
Gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this
season, and to see the whole village merry in my great hall. I allow a
double quantity of malt to my small beer, and set it a running for
twelve days to every one that calls for it. I have always a piece of
cold beef and a mince-pye upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to
see my tenants pass away a whole evening in playing their innocent
tricks, and smutting one another. Our friend _Will Wimble_ is as
merry as any of them, and shews a thousand roguish tricks upon these
occasions.'

I was very much delighted with the reflexion of my old friend, which
carried so much goodness in it. He then launched out into the praise of
the late act of Parliament for securing the Church of _England_,
and told me, with great satisfaction, that he believed it already began
to take effect, for that a rigid dissenter who chanced to dine at his
house on _Christmas_ day, had been observed to eat very plentifully
of his plumb-porridge.

After having dispatched all our country matters, Sir ROGER made several
inquiries concerning the club, and particularly of his old antagonist
Sir ANDREW FREEPORT. He asked me with a kind of a smile, whether Sir
ANDREW had not taken the advantage of his absence, to vent among them
some of his republican doctrines; but soon after gathering up his
countenance into a more than ordinary seriousness, 'Tell me truly,' says
he, 'do not you think Sir ANDREW had a hand in the Pope's procession?'--
but without giving me time to answer him, 'Well, well,' says he, 'I know
you are a wary man, and do not care to talk of public matters.'

The Knight then asked me if I had seen Prince Eugenio, and made me
promise to get him a stand in some convenient place, where he might have
a full sight of that extraordinary man, whose presence does so much
honour to the _British_ nation. He dwelt very long on the praises
of this great General, and I found that, since I was with him in the
country, he had drawn many just observations together out of his reading
in _Baker's_ Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his
hall window, which very much redound to the honour of this Prince.

Having passed away the greatest part of the morning in hearing the
Knight's reflexions, which were partly private, and partly political, he
asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish of Coffee at
_Squire's_. As I love the old man, I take delight in complying with
every thing that is agreeable to him, and accordingly waited on him to
the coffee-house, where his venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of
the whole room. He had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the
high table, but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish
of coffee, a wax-candle, and the _Supplement_, with such an air of
cheerfulness and good humour, that all the boys in the coffee-room (who
seemed to take pleasure in serving him) were at once employed on his
several errands, insomuch that no body else could come at a dish of tea,
until the Knight had got all his conveniences about him. L.




No. 329. TUESDAY, MARCH 18.

  _Ire tamen restat,
  Numa quo devenit, et Ancus._
    HOR. Ep. vi. 1. i. ver. 27.

  With _Ancus_, and with _Numa_, kings of _Rome_,
  We must descend into the silent tomb.


My friend Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY told me the other night, that he had
been reading my paper upon _Westminster Abbey_, 'in which,' says
he, 'there are a great many ingenious fancies.' He told me at the same
time, that he observed I had promised another paper upon _the
Tombs_, and that he should be glad to go and see them with me, not
having visited them since he had read history. I could not at first
imagine how this came into the Knight's head, till I recollected that he
had been very busy all last summer upon _Baker's_ Chronicle, which
he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir ANDREW FREEPORT
since his last coming to town. Accordingly I promised to call upon him
the next morning, that we might go together to the _Abbey_.

I found the Knight under his butler's hands, who always shaves him. He
was no sooner dressed than he called for a glass of the widow
_Trueby's_ water, which they told me he always drank before he went
abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same time, with so much
heartiness, that I could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got
it down, I found it very unpalatable, upon which the Knight observing
that I had made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should not
like it at first, but that it was the best thing in the world against
the stone or gravel.

I could have wished indeed that he had acquainted me with the virtues of
it sooner; but it was too late to complain, and I knew what he had done
was out of good-will. Sir ROGER told me further, that he looked upon it
to be very good for a man whilst he staid in town, to keep off
infection, and that he got together a quantity of it upon the first news
of the sickness being at _Dantzick_: When of a sudden, turning
short to one of his servants who stood behind him, he bid him call a
hackney-coach, and take care it was an elderly man that drove it.

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. _Trueby's_ water, telling
me that the widow _Trueby_ was one who did more good than all the
doctors or apothecaries in the country: That she distilled every poppy
that grew within five miles of her; that she distributed her water
_gratis_ among all sorts of people; to which the knight added, that
she had a very great jointure, and that the whole country would fain
have it a match between him and her; 'and truly,' says Sir ROGER, 'if I
had not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better.'

His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had called a
coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his eye upon the wheels,
he asked the coachman if his axle-tree was good; upon the fellow's
telling him he would warrant it, the Knight turned to me, told me he
looked like an honest man, and went in without further ceremony.

We had not gone far, when Sir ROGER, popping out his head, called the
coachman down from his box, and, upon presenting himself at the window,
asked him if he smoked; as I was considering what this would end in, he
bid him stop by the way at any good tobacconist's and take in a roll of
their best _Virginia_. Nothing material happened in the remaining
part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of the
_Abbey_.

As we went up the body of the church, the Knight pointed at the trophies
upon one of the new monuments, and cried out, 'A brave man, I warrant
him!' Passing afterwards by Sir _Cloudesly Shovel_, he flung his
hand that way, and cried, 'Sir _Cloudesly Shovel_! a very gallant
man!' As he stood before _Busby's_ tomb, the Knight uttered himself
again after the same manner, 'Dr. _Busby_, a great man! he whipped
my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I
had not been a blockhead; a very great man!'

We were immediately conducted to the little chapel on the right hand.
Sir ROGER, planting himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive
to every thing he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the
lord who had cut off the king of _Morocco's_ head. Among several
other figures, he was very well pleased to see the statesman
_Cecil_ upon his knees; and concluding them all to be great men,
was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good
housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's
telling us that she was a maid of honour to queen _Elizabeth_, the
Knight was very inquisitive into her name and family; and after having
regarded her finger for some time, 'I wonder,' says he, 'that Sir
_Richard Baker_ has said nothing of her in his Chronicle.'

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend
after having heard that the stone underneath the most ancient of them,
which was brought from _Scotland_, was called _Jacob's
pillar_, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the figure
of an old _Gothick_ king, asked our interpreter, what authority
they had to say that _Jacob_ had ever been in _Scotland_? The
fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him, that he hoped his
honour would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir ROGER a little ruffled
upon being thus trepanned; but our guide not insisting upon his demand,
the knight soon recovered his good-humour, and whispered in my ear, that
if WILL WIMBLE were with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard
but he would get a tobacco-stopper out of one or the other of them.

Sir ROGER, in the next place, laid his hand upon _Edward_ the
Third's sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole
history of the _Black Prince_; concluding that, in Sir _Richard
Baker's_ opinion, _Edward_ the Third was one of the greatest
princes that ever sat upon the _English_ throne.

We were then shewn _Edward_ the Confessor's tomb; upon which Sir
ROGER acquainted us, that he was the first who touched for the evil; and
afterwards _Henry_ the Fourth's, upon which he shook his head, and
told us there was fine reading in the casualties of that reign.

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the figure of
one of our _English_ kings without an head; and upon giving us to
know, that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away
several years since: 'Some Whig, I'll warrant you,' says Sir ROGER; 'you
ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry off the body too, if
you don't take care.'

The glorious names of _Henry_ the Fifth and Queen _Elizabeth_
gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to
Sir _Richard Baker_; who, as our Knight observed with some
surprise, had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen
in the Abbey.

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the Knight shew such
an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectful
gratitude to the memory of its princes.

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows
out towards every one he converses with, made him very kind to our
interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraordinary man; for which
reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling him, that he should
be very glad to see him at his lodgings in _Norfolk-Buildings_, and
talk over these matters with him more at leisure.




NO. 335. TUESDAY, MARCH 25.

  _Respicere exemplar vitae morumque jubebo
  Doctum unitatorem, et veras hinc ducere voces._
    HOR. Ars Poet. ver. 317.

  Those are the likest copies, which are drawn
  From the original of human life.
    ROSCOMMON.


My friend Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY, when we last met together at the club,
told me that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy with me,
assuring me at the same time, that he had not been at a play these
twenty years. 'The last I saw,' said Sir ROGER, 'was the
_Committee_, which I should not have gone to neither, had not I
been told beforehand that it was a good church-of-_England_
comedy.' He then proceeded to inquire of me who this Distressed Mother
was; and upon hearing that she was _Hector's_ widow, he told me
that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a school-boy he
had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked me, in
the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late,
in case the _Mohocks_ should be abroad. 'I assure you,' says he, 'I
thought I had fallen into their hands last night; for I observed two or
three lusty black men that followed me half way up _Fleet-Street_,
and mended their pace behind me, in proportion as I put on to get away
from them. You must know,' continued the Knight with a smile, 'I fancied
they had a mind to _hunt_ me; for I remember an honest gentleman in
my neighbourhood, who was served such a trick in King _Charles_ the
Second's time, for which reason he has not ventured himself in town ever
since. I might have shewn them very good sport, had this been their
design; for as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have turned and dogged,
and have played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their
lives before.'

Sir ROGER added, that if these gentlemen had any such intention, they
did not succeed very well in it; 'for I threw them out,' says he, 'at
the end of _Norfolk-Street_, where I doubled the corner, and got
shelter in my lodgings before they could imagine what was become of me.
However,' says the Knight, 'if Captain SENTRY will make one with us to-
morrow night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four
o'clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my
coach in readiness to attend you, for _John_ tells me he has got
the fore-wheels mended.'

The Captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed hour,
bid Sir ROGER fear nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which
he made use of at the battle of _Steenkirk_. Sir ROGER'S servants,
and among the rest my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided
themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master upon this
occasion. When we had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left-
hand, the Captain before him, and his butler at the head of his footmen
in the rear, we conveyed him in safety to the play-house, where after
having marched up the entry in good order, the Captain and I went in
with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house was
full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up and looked about
him with that pleasure, which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally
feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of people who seemed
pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment.
I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle
of the pit, that he made a very proper center to a tragick audience.
Upon the entering of _Pyrrhus_, the Knight told me that he did not
believe the King of _France_ himself had a better strut. I was
indeed very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon
them as a piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him,
at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not
imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for
_Andromache_; and a little while after as much for _Hermione_;
and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of _Pyrrhus_.

When Sir ROGER saw _Andromache's_ obstinate refusal to her lover's
importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would
never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehemence,
'You cannot imagine, Sir, what it is to have to do with a widow.' Upon
_Pyrrhus_ his threatening afterwards to leave her, the Knight shook
his head and muttered to himself, 'Ay, do if you can.' This part dwelt
so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third
act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered me in the ear,
'These widows, Sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But
pray,' says he, 'you that are a critick, is the play according to your
dramatic rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always
talk to be understood? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play
that I do not know the meaning of.'

The fourth act very luckily begun before I had time to give the old
gentleman an answer: 'Well,' says the Knight, sitting down with great
satisfaction,' I suppose we are now to see _Hector's_ ghost.' He
then renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the
widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom at
his first entering he took for _Astyanax_; but quickly set himself
right in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should
have been very glad to have seen the little boy, 'who,' says he, 'must
needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him.' Upon
_Hermione's_ going off with a menace to _Pyrrhus_, the
audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir ROGER added, 'On my word, a
notable young baggage!'

As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audience
during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity
of the intervals between the acts, to express their opinion of the
players, and of their respective parts. Sir ROGER hearing a cluster of
them praise _Orestes_, struck in with them, and told them, that he
thought his friend _Pylades_ was a very sensible man; as they were
afterwards applauding _Pyrrhus_, Sir ROGER put in a second time:
'And let me tell you,' says he, 'though he speaks but little, I like the
old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.' Captain SENTRY seeing
two or three wags, who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear towards
Sir ROGER, and fearing lest they should smoke the Knight, plucked him by
the elbow, and whispered something in his ear, that lasted till the
opening of the fifth act. The Knight was wonderfully attentive to the
account which _Orestes_ gives of _Pyrrhus_ his death, and at
the conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work, that
he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards
_Orestes_ in his raving fit, he grew more than ordinary serious,
and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil conscience,
adding, that _Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw
something_.

As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that
went out of it; being resolved to have a clear passage for our old
friend, whom we did not care to venture among the justling of the crowd.
Sir ROGER went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we
guarded him to his lodging in the same manner that we brought him to the
play-house; being highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the
performance of the excellent piece which had been presented, but with
the satisfaction which it had given to the old man. L.




No. 359. TUESDAY, APRIL 22.

  _Torva leaena lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam;
  Florentem cytisum sequitur lasciva capella._
    VIRG. Eccl. ii. v. 63.

  The greedy lioness the wolf pursues,
  The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browse.
    DRYDEN.


As we were at the club last night, I observed my old friend Sir ROGER,
contrary to his usual custom, sat very silent, and instead of minding
what was said by the company, was whistling to himself in a very
thoughtful mood, and playing with a cork. I jogged Sir ANDREW FREEPORT
who sat between us; and as we were both observing him, we saw the Knight
shake his head, and heard him say to himself, '_A foolish woman! I
can't believe it_.' Sir ANDREW gave him a gentle pat upon the
shoulder, and offered to lay him a bottle of wine that he was thinking
of the widow. My old friend started, and recovering out of his brown
study, told Sir ANDREW, that once in his life he had been in the right.
In short, after some little hesitation, Sir ROGER told us in the fulness
of his heart that he had just received a letter from his steward, which
acquainted him that his old rival and antagonist in the country, Sir
_David Dundrum_, had been making a visit to the widow. However,
says Sir ROGER, I can never think that she will have a man that is half
a year older than I am, and a noted republican into the bargain.

WILL HONEYCOMB, who looks upon love as his particular province,
interrupting our friend with a jaunty laugh; 'I thought, Knight,' says
he, 'thou had'st lived long enough in the world, not to pin thy
happiness upon one that is a woman and a widow. I think that without
vanity, I may pretend to know as much of the female world as any man in
_Great Britain_, though the chief of my knowledge consists in this,
that they are not to be known.' WILL immediately, with his usual
fluency, rambled into an account of his own amours. 'I am now,' says he,
'upon the verge of fifty' (though by the way we all knew he was turned
of threescore). 'You may easily guess,' continued WILL, 'that I have not
lived so long in the world without having had some thoughts of
_settling_ in it, as the phrase is. To tell you truly, I have
several times tried my fortune that way, though I cannot much boast of
my success.

'I made my first addresses to a young lady in the country: but when I
thought things were pretty well drawing to a conclusion, her father
happening to hear that I had formerly boarded with a surgeon, the old
Put forbid me his house, and within a fortnight after married his
daughter to a fox-hunter in the neighbourhood.

'I made my next application to a widow, and attacked her so briskly,
that I thought myself within a fortnight of her. As I waited upon her
one morning, she told me, that she intended to keep her ready money and
jointure in her own hand, and desired me to call upon her attorney in
_Lion's-Inn_, who would adjust with me what it was proper for me to
add to it. I was so rebuffed by this overture, that I never inquired
either for her or her attorney afterwards.

'A few months after I addressed myself to a young lady, who was an only
daughter, and of a good family: I danced with her at several balls,
squeezed her by the hand, said soft things to her, and in short made no
doubt of her heart; and tho' my fortune was not equal to hers, I was in
hopes that her fond father would not deny her the man she had fixed her
affections upon. But as I went one day to the house in order to break
the matter to him, I found the whole family in confusion, and heard to
my unspeakable surprise, that Miss _Jenny_ was that morning run
away with the butler.

'I then courted a second widow, and am at a loss to this day how I came
to miss her, for she had often commended my person and behaviour. Her
maid indeed told me one day, that her mistress had said she never saw a
gentleman with such a spindle pair of legs as Mr. Honeycomb.

'After this I laid siege to four heiresses successively, and being a
handsome young dog in those days, quickly made a breach in their hearts;
but I do not know how it came to pass, though I seldom failed of getting
the daughter's consent, I could never in my life get the old people on
my side.

'I could give you an account of a thousand other unsuccessful attempts,
particularly of one which I made some years since upon an old woman,
whom I had certainly borne away with flying colours, if her relations
had not come pouring in to her assistance from all parts of
_England_; nay, I believe I should have got her at last, had not
she been carried off by a hard frost.'

As Will's transitions are extremely quick, he turned from Sir ROGER, and
applying himself to me, told me there was a passage in the book I had
considered last _Saturday_, which deserved to be writ in letters of
gold; and taking out a Pocket-Milton, read the following lines, which
are part of one of Adam's speeches to Eve after the fall.

  _Oh! why did God,
  Creator wise! that peopled highest heav'n
  With spirits masculine, create at last
  This novelty on earth, this fair defect
  Of nature? and not fill the world at once
  With men, as angels, without feminine?
  Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
  This mischief had not then befallen,
  And more that shall befall, innumerable
  Disturbances on earth through female snares,
  And strait conjunction with this sex: For either
  He never shall find out fit mate, but such
  As some misfortune brings him, or mistake;
  Or, whom he wishes most, shall seldom gain
  Through her perverseness; but shall see her gain'd
  By a far worse; or if she love, withheld
  By parents; or his happiest choice too late
  Shall meet already link'd, and wedlock-bound
  To a fell adversary, his hate or shame;
  Which infinite calamity shall cause
  To human life, and household peace confound._

Sir ROGER listened to this passage with great attention, and desiring
Mr. Honeycomb to fold down a leaf at the place, and lend him his book,
the Knight put it up in his pocket, and told us that he would read over
those verses again before he went to bed. X.




No. 383. TUESDAY, MAY 20.

  _Criminibus debent hortos._
    Juv. Sat. i. ver. 75.

  A beauteous garden, but by vice maintain'd.


As I was sitting in my chamber and thinking on a subject for my next
_Spectator_, I heard two or three irregular bounces at my
landlady's door, and upon the opening of it, a loud cheerful voice
enquiring whether the Philosopher was at home. The child who went to the
door answered very innocently, that he did not lodge there. I
immediately recollected that it was my good friend Sir ROGER's voice;
and that I had promised to go with him on the water to _Spring-
Garden_, in case it proved a good evening. The Knight put me in mind
of my promise from the bottom of the staircase, but told me that if I
was speculating he would stay below till I had done.

Upon my coming down I found all the children of the family got about my
old friend, and my landlady herself, who is a notable prating gossip,
engaged in a conference with him; being mightily pleased with his
stroking her little boy upon the head, and bidding him be a good child,
and mind his book.

We were no sooner come to the _Temple_ Stairs, but we were
surrounded with a crowd of watermen offering us their respective
services. Sir ROGER, after having looked about him very attentively,
spied one with a wooden leg and immediately gave him orders to get his
boat ready. As we were walking towards it, _You must know_, says
Sir ROGER, _I never make use of any body to row me, that has not
either lost a leg or an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of
his oar than not employ an honest man that has been wounded in the
Queen's service. If I was a lord or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would
not put a fellow in my livery that had not a wooden leg._

My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed the boat with
his coachman, who, being a very sober man, always serves for ballast on
these occasions, we made the best of our way for _Faux-Hall_. Sir
ROGER obliged the waterman to give us the history of his right leg, and
hearing that he had left it at _La Hogue_, with many particulars
which passed in that glorious action, the Knight in the triumph of his
heart made several reflections on the greatness of the _British_
nation; as, that one _Englishman_ could beat three
_Frenchmen_; that we could never be in danger of Popery so long as
we took care of our fleet; that the _Thames_ was the noblest river
in Europe, that _London Bridge_ was a greater piece of work, than
any of the seven wonders of the world; with many other honest prejudices
which naturally cleave to the heart of a true _Englishman._

After some short pause, the old knight turning about his head twice or
thrice, to take a survey of this great metropolis, bid me observe how
thick the city was set with churches, and that there was scarce a single
steeple on this side _Temple-Bar_. _A most heathenish sight!_
says Sir Roger: _There is no religion at this end of the town. The
fifty new churches will very much mend the prospect; but church-work is
slow, church-work is slow!_

I do not remember I have any where mentioned in Sir Roger's character,
his custom of saluting every body that passes by him with a good-morrow
or a good-night. This the old man does out of the overflowings of his
humanity, though at the same time it renders him so popular among all
his country neighbours, that it is thought to have gone a good way in
making him once or twice Knight of the shire. He cannot forbear this
exercise of benevolence even in town, when he meets with any one in his
morning or evening walk. It broke from him to several boats that passed
by us upon the water; but to the Knight's great surprise, as he gave the
good-night to two or three young fellows a little before our landing,
one of them, instead of returning the civility, asked us, what queer old
put we had in the boat? with a great deal of the like _Thames_
ribaldry. Sir Roger seemed a little shocked at first, but at length
assuming a face of magistracy, told us, _That if he were a_
Middlesex _justice, he would make such vagrants know that her
Majesty's subjects were no more to be abused by water than by land._

We were now arrived at _Spring-Garden_, which is exquisitely
pleasant at this time of the year. When I considered the fragrancy of
the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees,
and the loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I could
not but look upon the place as a kind of _Mahometan_ paradise. Sir
Roger told me it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the
country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales.
_You must understand,_ says the Knight, _there is nothing in the
world that pleases a man in love so much as your nightingale. Ah, Mr.
SPECTATOR! the many moonlight nights that I have walked by myself, and
thought on the widow by the musick of the nightingale!_ He here
fetched a deep sigh, and was falling into a fit of musing, when a mask,
who came behind him, gave him a gentle tap upon the shoulder, and asked
him if he would drink a bottle of mead with her? But the Knight, being
startled at so unexpected a familiarity, and displeased to be
interrupted in his thoughts of the widow, told her, _She was a wanton
baggage_, and bid her go about her business.

We concluded our walk with a glass of _Burton_ ale, and a slice of
hung beef. When we had done eating ourselves, the Knight called a waiter
to him, and bid him carry the remainder to the waterman that had but one
leg. I perceived the fellow stared upon him at the oddness of the
message, and was going to be saucy; upon which I ratified the Knight's
commands with a peremptory look.

As we were going out of the garden, my old friend thinking himself
obliged, as a member of the _Quorum_, to animadvert upon the morals
of the place, told the mistress of the house, who sat at the bar, that
he should be a better customer to her garden, if there were more
nightingales, and fewer strumpets.




No. 517. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23.

  _Heu pietas! heu prisca fides!_
    VIRG. AEn. vi. ver. 878.

  Mirrour of ancient faith!
  Undaunted worth! Inviolable truth!
    DRYDEN.


We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which very
sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers
themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer
in suspense, Sir ROGER DE COVERLEY _is dead_. He departed this life
at his house in the country, after a few weeks sickness. Sir ANDREW
FREEPORT has a letter from one of his correspondents in those parts,
that informs him the old man caught a cold at the country-sessions, as
he was very warmly promoting an address of his own penning, in which he
succeeded according to his wishes. But this particular comes from a whig
justice of peace, who was always Sir ROGER'S enemy and antagonist. I
have letters both from the Chaplain and Captain SENTRY, which mention
nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars to the honour of the
good old man. I have likewise a letter from the butler, who took so much
care of me last summer when I was at the Knight's house. As my friend
the butler mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several
circumstances the others have passed over in silence, I shall give my
reader a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminution.

'HONOURED SIR,

'KNOWING that you was my old master's good friend, I could not forbear
sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has afflicted the
whole country, as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say,
better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last
country-sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow
woman and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a
neighbouring gentleman; for you know, Sir, my good master was always the
poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made
was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a
sirloin, which was served up according to custom; and you know he used
to take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew worse and
worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed we were once in
great hope of his recovery, upon a kind message that was sent him from
the Widow Lady whom he had made love to the forty last years of his
life; but this only proved a lightning before death. He has bequeathed
to this Lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a
couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my good
old Lady his mother: He has bequeathed the fine white gelding, that he
used to ride a-hunting upon, to his Chaplain, because he thought he
would be kind to him; and has left you all his books. He has, moreover,
bequeathed to the Chaplain a very pretty tenement with good lands about
it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for
mourning, to every man in the parish, a great frieze coat, and to every
woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see him take
leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst
we were not able to speak a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown
gray-headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pensions and
legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of
our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which is not
yet come to my knowledge, and it is peremptorily said in the parish,
that he has left money to build a steeple to the church; for he was
heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two years longer,
_Coverley_ church should have a steeple to it. The Chaplain tells
every body that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without
tears. He was buried according to his own directions, among the family
of the COVERLEYS, on the left hand of his father Sir _Arthur_. The
coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held by six of
the _Quorum_: The whole parish followed the corpse with heavy
hearts, and in their mourning suits, the men in frieze, and the women in
riding-hoods. Captain SENTRY, my master's nephew, has taken possession
of the hall-house, and the whole estate. When my old master saw him, a
little before his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of
the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to make a good
use of it, and to pay the several legacies, and the gifts of charity
which he told him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate. The captain
truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes much of
those whom my master loved, and shews great kindnesses to the old house-
dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to
your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of
my master's death. He has never joyed himself since; no more has any of
us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened
in _Worcestershire_. This is all from,

'HONOURED SIR,

'Your most sorrowful servant,

'EDWARD BISCUIT.'

'_P. S._ My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book
which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir ANDREW
FREEPORT, in his name.'

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing it,
gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the reading of it
there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir ANDREW opening the book, found
it to be a collection of acts of parliament. There was in particular the
Act of Uniformity, with some passages in it marked by Sir ROGER'S own
hand. Sir ANDREW found that they related to two or three points, which
he had disputed with Sir ROGER the last time he appeared at the club.
Sir ANDREW, who would have been merry at such an incident on another
occasion, at the sight of the old man's hand-writing burst into tears,
and put the book into his pocket. Captain SENTRY informs me, that the
Knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the club.




NOTES

SPECTATOR 1.

Page 1.

9. _black_. Dark. Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet cxxvii:

  In the old days black was not counted fair,

or _Love's Labour's Lost_, iv, iii. 265:

  Paints itself black to imitate her brow.

Page 2.

6. _depending_. Undetermined. In law, pending. Cf.
Shakespeare, _Cymbeline_, iv. iii. 23:

  We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy
  Does yet depend.

24. _public exercises_. Academic discussions maintained by candidates
for degrees at the older universities. Traces appear in the term
'Wrangler' (Cambridge) and in the supplementary viva voce examination.

Page 3.

5-10. _I made ... satisfaction_. Addison is alluding to John
Greaves, who journeyed to Egypt in 1638 and published a learned work
entitled _Pyramidographia_.

17 et seq. _Will's_, v. Appendix I, On Coffee-houses. Also for
Child's (3. 19), St. James's (22), the Grecian (25), the Cocoa-Tree
(25), and Jonathan's (29).

20. _the Postman_, edited by a Frenchman, M. Fonvive, is mentioned
in a contemporary account by John Dunton as the best of the newspapers.
It was published weekly.

23. _politics_ was frequently used for _politicians_. Perhaps
so used here.

26. _Drury-Lane_ theatre was built in 1674 and burnt down in 1809.

_the Hay-Market_ theatre took its name from the street in which it
was situated, which was the site of a market for hay and straw from the
reign of Elizabeth till the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was
built in 1705.

27. _the Exchange_ is at the east end of the Poultry. It was built
by Sir Thomas Gresham and opened by Queen Elizabeth in 1571. It was
destroyed by the Great Fire of 1666, and has since been twice rebuilt.

Page 4.

5. _blots_. In backgammon to expose a man to capture is called
leaving a _blot_.

23. _so many ... which_. Mixed construction: _the many ... which
or so many ... as_.

32. _spoken to_. Obsolete in ordinary speaking and writing;
survives in oratory.

34. _my lodgings_. The Spectator discourses on this subject in No.
12.

Page 5.

10. _complexion_. Aspect, appearance. Cf. Shakespeare, _Richard
II_., III. ii. 194:

  Men judge by the complexion of the sky
  The state and inclination of the day.

12. _discoveries_. Revelations, disclosures. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Rape of Lucrece_, 1314:

  She dares not thereof make discovery.

14. _having been thus particular upon_. Having related so many
details concerning.

18. For the prevalence of clubs v. _Spectator_ 9.

19. _engaged me_. Made me undertake.

21. _Mr. Buckley's_. The printer of the _Spectator_.

_Little Britain_, formerly the mansion of the Duke of Bretagne,
near Aldersgate Street, was the regular booksellers' quarter.


SPECTATOR 2.

Page 6.

5. _Sir Roger de Coverley_. For a discussion of the identity
of Sir Roger and the other characters v. Appendix II, On the Spectator's
Acquaintance. The name was suggested by Swift (Elwin).

7. _that famous country-dance_. Originated by the minstrels of Sir
Roger of Calverley in the reign of Richard I. (Wills).

8. _parts_. Qualifications, capacities. Cf. Shakespeare, _King
Lear_, i. iv. 285:

  My train are men of choice and rarest parts.

17. _Soho-Square_, south of Oxford Street, was a fashionable place
of residence. The name is derived from the cry 'So Hoe' in use when the
Mayor and Corporation hunted the hare over the fields of that district.

In _Spectator_ 329 Sir Roger says that he is staying in Norfolk-
Buildings.

19. _a perverse beautiful widow_. v. Appendix II.

22. _Lord Rochester_, the poet-wit, who died in 1680, was notorious
as a leader of fashionable dissipation. In this connexion he is
mentioned by Evelyn and Pepys.

_Sir George Etherege_, author of _The Man of Mode_ and two
other comedies, was the companion of Rochester in dissipation and
notoriety. He died in 1691.

23. _Bully Dawson_. A notorious ruffian and sharper.

29. _doublet_. A coat reaching just below the waist, introduced
from France in the fourteenth century.

Page 7.

9. _justice of the Quorum_. County justice, magistrate. _Quorum_
was a prominent word in their commission of appointment.

10. _quarter-session_. The quarterly meeting of magistrates, at
which cases sent up from petty sessions are tried. The word is now
always used in the plural form, _sessions_, as in _Spectator_
126.

12. _the game-act_ originated in the Game Laws of William the
Conqueror. The first Game Act was passed in 1496, and the one in force
at the time of Addison's writing in the reign of Anne. By these
enactments a man was qualified to take out a licence to kill game by his
birth or estate. The usual qualification was the possession of land to
the value of 100 pounds per annum.

14. _the Inner-Temple_ was originally the property of the Knights
Templars. It was converted into Inns of Court in 1311, after the
suppression of the military knighthoods.

17. _humoursome_. Whimsical, capricious. Cf. Shakespeare, 2
_Henry IV_., IV. iv. 34, 'As humorous as winter.'

20. _the house_. The fraternity of lawyers.

_Aristotle and Longinus_. Aristotle's _Poetics_ and the essay
'_On the Sublime_' of Longinus are the basis of all classical
criticism. Longinus was a critic of the third century. Addison probably
knew him in Boileau's famous translation of 1674.

21. _Littleton_. Author of a famous book on Tenures. He died in
1481.

_Coke_. The famous seventeenth century jurist and Chief Justice. He
is best known by his commentary on Littleton's _Tenures_.

28. _Demosthenes_. The famous Athenian orator of the fourth century
B.C.

29. _Tully_. Marcus Tullius Cicero, the great Roman orator of the
last century B.C.

31. _wit_. Understanding, perception. 'True wit consists in the
resemblance of ideas' when that resemblance is 'such an one that gives
delight and surprise to the reader.' (Dryden.) Cf. Shakespeare,
_Julius Caesar_, III. ii. 225:

  I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth.

32. _turn_. Bent, proclivity.

34. _taste of_. Obsolete. Modern English, taste in.

Page 8.

5. _the time of the play_ varied from about five o'clock to
half-past six. Cf. _Spectator_ 335, where Sir Roger leaves Norfolk
Street at four o'clock for the play.

6. _New-Inn_. A square in Lincoln's Inn. _Russel-Court_. A
turning out of Drury Lane.

7. _turn_. Short time.

8. _periwig_. The long curled dress wig introduced at the
Restoration.

9. _the Rose_ was the actors' tavern in Covent Garden.

18. _the British common_. The sea stands to Britain in the relation
that the village common does to the village community.

Page 9.

5. _Captain Sentry_. v. Appendix II.

19. _left the world_. Retired from public life.

32. _his own vindication_. The claim he makes for himself.

Page 10.

9. _humourists._ Eccentrics. Cf. Ben Jonson, Prologue to _The
Alchemist:_

  Many persons more
  Whose manners, now call'd humours, feed the stage.


11. _Will Honeycomb_. v. Appendix II.

20. _habits_. Clothes. Cf. Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, I. iii.
70:

  Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy.

30. _the Duke of Monmouth_ was the natural son of Charles II.,
and was famous for his personal beauty and fine manners. He was executed
in 1685 for pretending to the crown. Mention is made of him in the
diaries of Evelyn and Pepys.

Page 11.

22. _chamber-counsellor_. A consulting lawyer, who does not conduct
cases in the courts.

26. _gone_. Advanced.


SPECTATOR 106.

Page 12.

13. _humour_. Disposition. Cf. Shakespeare, _2 Henry IV._,
II. iv. 256, 'What humour's the prince of?--A good shallow young fellow.'

31. _pad_. A horse of easy paces. Obsolete.

Page 13.

13. _engages_. Binds in affection.

14. _is pleasant upon_. Jests concerning. Cf. Shakespeare, _Taming
of the Shrew_, III. i. 58:

  Take it not unkindly, pray,
  That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

30. _conversation_. v. note on p. 23, 1. 16.

34. _in several of my papers_. Once only, p. 6, 1. 10.

Page 14.

22. The meaning of this hint is explained in _Spectator_ 517.

Page 15.

8 et seq. All contemporary or recently dead divines.


SPECTATOR 107.

Page 16.

12. _family_. Household. Obsolete. Cf. Shakespeare, _Othello_,
I. 1. 84:

  Signior, is all your family within?

Page 17.

1. _stripped_, of his livery, i.e. discharged. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Othello_, II. i. 173, 'Such tricks as these strip you out of your
lieutenantry.'

17. _cast_. Discarded. Cf. old saw:

  Ne'er cast a clout till May be out.

29. _in bestowing_. Elliptical. Sc. _which consist_ before
_in bestowing_.

32. _husband_. Manager. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry VIII_., III.
ii. 142:

  Your earthly audit; sure, in that
  I deem you an ill husband.

35. _fine when a tenement falls_. When a tenement became vacant,
the incoming tenant paid dues to the landlord.

Page 18.

18. _manumission_. Release. The word is derived from the process
of freeing a Roman slave--_manumissio_.

28. _that fortune was all the difference between them_. That their
inferior position did not imply an inferiority of nature.

Page 19.

1. _prentice_. Shortened form of apprentice. Cf. Shakespeare,
2 _Henry IV._, II. ii. 194, 'From a prince to a prentice.'


SPECTATOR 108.

Page 20.

2. _Mr. William Wimble_, v. Appendix II.

8. _jack_. Pike.

32. _angle-rods_. Fishing-rods. Cf. Shakespeare, _Antony and
Cleopatra_, II. v. 10:

  Give me mine angle,--we'll to the river.

_officious_. Serviceable, ready to do things for other people.
The word is now restricted to its bad sense of meddlesome. Cf.
Shakespeare, _Titus Andronicus_, v. ii. 202:

  Come, come, be every one officious
  To make this banquet.

35. _correspondence_. Communication.

36. _a tulip-root_. William III. brought to England the passion for
tulip-growing which originated in Holland. At this time it was already
on the wane in England.

Page 21.

5. _setting dog_. Setter.

_made_. Trained.

10. _humours_. Pleasantries.

Page 22.

4. _played with it_. Now _played it_.

9. _quail-pipe_. A pipe with which quails are lured to the nets.

26. _humour_. Whim, notion. Cf. Shakespeare, I _Henry IV_,
III. i. 237, 'You are altogether governed by humours.'

Page 23.

4. _turned_. Adapted.

8. _my twenty-first speculation_ argues that it is better for a
man to go into trade than to enter an over-crowded profession, and
reproves 'parents who will not rather choose to place their sons in a
way of life where an honest industry cannot but thrive, than in stations
where the greatest probity, learning, and good sense may miscarry.'


SPECTATOR 109.

Page 23.

16. _conversation_. Intercourse, behaviour. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Antony and Cleopatra_, II. vi. 131, 'Octavia is of a holy, cold,
and still conversation.'

Page 24.

1. _jetting_. Projecting. Cf. Shakespeare, _Titus Andronicus,_
II. i. 64:

  How dangerous
  It is to jet upon a prince's right.

_habit_. v. note on p. 10, 1. 20.

2. The bonnet of the Yeomen of the Guard is a round cap of black velvet
with a gold band.

10. _the tilt-yard_. Formerly the yard of St. James's Palace.

11. _Whitehall_ was formerly a royal palace. It was almost entirely
destroyed in the two fires of 1691 and 1697.

14. _target_. Small shield. Cf. Shakespeare, 3 Henry VI., II i. 40:

  Bear
  Upon my target three fair-shining suns.

16. _pommel_. Rim in front of saddle.

17. _rid_. Obsolete. Now _rode_.

_tournament_. Here used for lists.

24. _the coffee-house_, v. Appendix I.

27. _bass-viol_. A large fiddle-shaped instrument held between the
legs. It was very fashionable in the eighteenth century, and was
generally to be found in the sitting-rooms of the upper classes for the
use of any guests who could perform on it. It is the viol-de-gamboys of
Sir Andrew Aguecheek (_Twelfth Night_, i. iii. 27).

28. _basket-hilt_. Steel hilt shaped like a basket.

Page 25.

1. _go-cart_. A sort of cage on small wheels for teaching children
to walk.

5. _hasty-pudding_. A kind of batter made of flour or meal and
water.

6. _white-pot_. A very rich Devonshire dish.

20. _slashes_. Slits to show the lining of a garment.

Page 26.

18. _knight of this shire_. Member of Parliament for this county.

30. _such_. Such and such, a certain. Cf. Shakespeare, _Merchant
of Venice_, I. iii. 128, 'You spurned me such a day.'

Page 27.

2. _discourse of_. Discourse concerning. Cf. Shakespeare, _Two
Gentlemen of Verona_, II. iv. 140:

  Now no discourse, except it be of love.

6. _the battle of Worcester_, 1651, was the final defeat of Charles
II. by Cromwell.

7. _whim_. Whimsical idea.


SPECTATOR 110.

Page 27.

22. Psalm cxlvii. 9, 'He giveth to the beast his food, and to the young
ravens which cry.'

Page 28.

25. _Locke_. The author of the _Essay on the Human Understanding_
died in 1704. The reference is to II. xxxiii. 10.

26. _curious_. Elaborate, minutely detailed. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Cymbeline_, V. v. 361:

  A most curious mantle, wrought by the hand
  Of his queen mother.

Page 29.

14. _by that means_. On that account. Cf. Shakespeare, 2 _Henry
VI._, II. i. 178:

  By this means
  Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

Page 30.

8. _Lucretius_. Poet and philosopher of the last century B.C.
His opinion on this point is expressed in _De Rerum Natura_, IV. 29,
33, et seq.

13. _pressed_. Impressed, constrained.

27. _Antiquities of the Jews_, XVII. xv. 415.


SPECTATOR 112.

Page 33.

27. _do_. Strictly _does_.

Page 34.

3. _incumbent_. Occupant (of the clerk's place).

13. _tithe-stealers_. The tithes being paid in kind, it was easy to
cheat the parson out of some portion of them.

16. _his patron_. The squire, who gave him his living.


SPECTATOR 113.

Page 35.

11. _settled_. Salmon thinks that the walk was not actually settled
upon the widow as her property, but that it was indissolubly connected
with her in Sir Roger's mind.

20. Cf. Orlando in _As You Like It_, III. ii. 10:

  Carve on every tree
  The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

Page 36.

17. _rid_. v. note on p. 24, 1. 17.

19. _bitted_. Trained to carry their heads well with a bearing
rein.

22. _assizes_. Sessions of the court.

Page 37.

20. _far gone_. Deeply experienced. For this use of _gone_, cf.
Keats, _On a Lock of Milton's Hair_, 25, 'Grey gone in passion.'

21. _confident_. Now _confidant_.

28. _humane_. Human, civilized.

34. _pretended_. Presumed, attempted. Cf. Shakespeare, I Henry VI.,
IV. i. 6:

  And none your foes but such as shall pretend
  Malicious practices against his state.

Page 38.

7. _go on with_. Continue to charm you with, proceed with.

20. _discovered_, v. note on p. 5, 1, 12.

31. _last_. Most extreme.

Page 39.

9. _the sphinx_. The monster which continued to oppress Thebes until
such time as one of her victims should be able to answer the riddle she
put to him. Oedipus answered her, and she destroyed herself.

21. _a publick table_. When away from home, it was usual for a
traveller to dine, not at his lodgings, but at a _public table_ or
_ordinary_.

22. _tansy_. A very popular dish of the seventeenth century, a kind
of rich, spiced custard.

Page 40.

3. _Martial_. A Latin poet of the first century of our era. i. 69.


SPECTATOR 114.

Page 40.

24. _pretending_. Pretentious.

_in both cases._ In both particulars, i.e. fortune and conversation.

Page 41.

12. _dipped_. Mortgaged.

32. _personate_. Appear the possessor of.

Page 42.

7, 13. _Laertes and Irus_. Laertes was king of Ithaca and father
of Ulysses; Irus, or properly Arnaeus, a beggar who kept watch over
Penelope's suitors. Their names are here introduced as typical of the
rich and the poor man.

10. _four shillings in the pound_. The amount of the land tax.

19. _way_. If the verb is correctly _are_, _way_ should
be written in the plural.

Page 43.

11. _Cowley_, the poet and essayist, who died in 1667.

14. _author who published his works_. Dr. Sprat, Bishop of Rochester,
published Cowley's works in 1688.

18. _face_. Appearance. Cf. Shakespeare, _Tempest_, 1. ii.
104, 'The outward face of royalty.'

_great Vulgar_. Cowley concludes his Sixth Essay, Of Greatness,
with a translation of Horace, Book III, _Ode_ i, commencing:

  Hence, ye profane, I hate ye all,
  Both the great vulgar, and the small.

25. _lately mentioned_. In Steele's last paper, _Spectator_
109, p. 26, 1. 29.

26. _point_. Appoint. Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet xiv. 6:

  Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind.

Page 44.

2. _being_. Existence, state of being. Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet lxxxi.
II:

  Tongues to be your being shall rehearse.

7. _relish_. Taste, enjoyment. Cf. Shakespeare, _Troilus and
Cressida_, III. ii. 20:

  The imaginary relish is so sweet

10. _mansions_. Abiding-places. Cf. St. John, xiv. 2, 'In my
Father's house are many mansions.'

13. Quoted from an earlier passage in the same essay (v. note on p. 43,
1. 18).


SPECTATOR 115.

Page 45.

26. _the spleen_. Melancholy disposition, not the organ of that name.
Cf. Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, iv. i. 217, 'Begot of thought,
conceived of spleen.'

27. _the vapours_. Moods of depression. Cf. Fielding, _Amelia_,
iii. 7, 'Some call it the fever on the spirits, some a nervous fever, some
the vapours, some the hysterics.'

29 et seq. The argument runs: nature has adapted the body to exercise,
therefore exercise is necessary to our well-being. This is sound only on
the assumptions that everything which nature performs is based on
necessity, and that the body has been made in such a way as to secure
our well-being.

30. _proper_. Fit. Cf. Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, II. i. 114:

  It is as proper to our age
  To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions.

Page 46.

8. _laboured_. Worked, tilled. The verb is no longer used
transitively.

14. _condition_. State of prosperity, material circumstances. Cf.
Shakespeare, 2 _Henry VI_, v. i. 64, 'One so rude and of so mean
condition.'

22. _chace_. The substantive was distinguished from the verb by its
spelling. Cf. modern _practice_, _practise_.

34. _patched_. Perhaps with reference to the black patches worn on
the face to enhance its beauty; perhaps merely covered here and there,
studded.

Page 47.

1. _distinction sake_. The _'s_ of the possessive is omitted
before the initial _s_ of _sake_.

6. _The perverse widow_, v. _Spectator_ 113.

8. _amours_. Used of a single love-affair.

12. _sits_. Couches in her form or seat.

18. _Doctor Sydenham_, the celebrated physician, who died in 1689.

22. _Medicina Gymnastica_, by Francis Fuller, was printed in 1705.

24. _dumb bell_. An apparatus resembling that used for ringing a
church bell, but wanting the bell itself. The use of the modern form of
dumb-bell was introduced into England in Elizabeth's reign. It is
described in the next paragraph under the name of _skiomachia_.

33. _a Latin treatise_. Artis Gymnastica apud Antiquos, by
Hieronymus Mercurialis, 1569.

Page 48.

2. _loaden_. The verb has now become weak; loaded.

9. _uneasy_. Troublesome.


SPECTATOR 116.

Page 48.

25. _the Bastile_. The State prison in Paris, which was destroyed
by the mob in 1789 (v. Coleridge's poem on this subject, and the stirring
description in Dickens' _Tale of Two Cities_, II. xxi.).

Page 49.

20. Budgell has somewhat defaced the character of Sir Roger by this touch,
and by the inhuman humanity of p. 52, 1. 18.

24. _managed_. Broken in. Cf. Shakespeare, _Richard II_., III.
iii. 179:

  Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

25. _stone-horse_. Stallion.

26. _staked himself_. Impaled himself on a stake in jumping.

29. _beagles_. Small hounds formerly employed in hunting the hare.
Cf. White's _Selborne_, Letter VI, 'One solitary grey hen was
sprung by some beagles in beating for a hare.' They are now superseded
by harriers, which are still sometimes called by their name.

30. _Stop-hounds_. So called because when one of them found the
scent he stopped and squatted 'to impart more effect to his deep tones,
and to get wind for a fresh start' (Wills).

32. _mouths_. Voices. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry V_., II. iv. 70:

  For coward dogs
  Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten
  Runs far before them.

33. _cry_. Pack. Cf. Shakespeare, _Coriolanus_, III. iii. 120,

  'You common cry of curs.'

34. _nice_. Fastidious. Cf. Shakespeare, _Love's Labour's
Lost_, v. ii. 219, 'We'll not be nice; take hands.'

Page 50.

5. _counter-tenor_. Alto.

8. iv. i. 124. Shakespeare was not in Budgell's day so common a reservoir
of quotations as he has since become. Dryden had appreciated him, but he
was in general very little known, even among men of letters.

15. Hunting in July must have entailed great loss on the farmers before
it was forbidden by the Game Laws of 1831.

17. _pad_. v. note on p. 12, 1. 31.

19. _rid_. v. note on p. 24, 1. 17.

20. _benevolence_. In its literal meaning of _goodwill_.

25. _rid_. Now obsolete: _ridden_.

Page 51.

7. _chace_. v. note on p. 46, 1. 22.

35. _took_. Betook herself to. Cf. Shakespeare, _Comedy of
Errors_, v. i. 36:

  Run, master, run; for God's sake, take a house!

Page 52.

2. _chiding_. Barking. Cf. Shakespeare, _Midsummer Night's
Dream_, iv. i. 120:

  Never did I hear
  Such gallant chiding.

10. _his pole_. The huntsman followed on foot, carrying a long
leaping-pole, which permitted him to keep a straighter course than he
could have done on horseback, owing to the state of the country.

26. _Monsieur Paschal_, the great French philosopher of the
seventeenth century, who died in 1662.

Page 53.

12. _habit_. State, condition.

17. But the Spectator's hunting has only consisted of watching the chase
from a rising ground!

24. _Epistle to John Dryden_, 73-4, 88-95.


SPECTATOR 117.

Page 54.

4. _neuter_. Neutral, Cf. Shakespeare, _Richard II_., II. iii.
159, 'Be it known to you I do remain as neuter.'

_engaging_. Pledging. Cf. Shakespeare, _Merchant of Venice_,
III. ii. 264:

  I have engaged myself to a dear friend.

6. _determination_. Decision. Cf. Shakespeare, _Measure for
Measure_, III. ii. 258, 'He humbles himself to the determination of
justice.'

15. _particular_. Individual. Cf. Shakespeare, _All's Well that
Ends Well_, I. i. 97:

  That I should love a bright particular star.

Page 65.

7. _applied herself_. Cf. Shakespeare, _Antony and Cleopatra_,
v. 2. 126:

  If you apply yourself to our intents,

where the word is used in a somewhat different sense. It is now used
reflexively only in the sense of applying oneself to the performance of
an action.

8. _Otway_, the poet and playwright, died in 1685. The quotation is
from his play of _The Orphan_, II. i. The first line should run:

  Through a close lane....

36. _palmed_. Foisted, falsely attributed.

Page 60.

16. _tabby_. Brindled or sometimes female, as opposed to tom-cat.
The meaning is derived from the word _tabby_, a name for watered
silk.

28. _a bounty_. The concrete sense of this word has been lost.

33. _trying experiments with her_. Testing her by ordeal.

Page 57.

1. Sir Roger's doubtfulness on the subject of witchcraft was not
exceptional. In 1664 Sir Thomas Browne had assisted in the condemnation
of a witch. In 1711 there were two executions for witchcraft, and in
1712 Jane Wenham was sentenced, but afterwards pardoned. In 1716 there
were again two executions, and although the Act was repealed in 1736,
an old woman was done to death by the mob as late as 1751.

3. _bound her over to_. sc. appear at.

14. _commerce and familiarities_ with the devil or evil spirits.


SPECTATOR 118.

Page 68.

9. _of all others_. A classic construction. For a similar inaccurate
phrase cf. Milton, _Paradise Lost_, iv. 324, 'The fairest of her
daughters Eve.' The phrase occurs also on p. 41, 1. 33.

24. _salute_. Kiss. Cf. Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, III.
ii. 50,

  You salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands.

33. _set a mark upon_, in order to know and to shun them.

35. _pleasant_. Amusing, ridiculous. Cf. Shakespeare, _Taming of
the Shrew,_ Induction, ii. 132, 'Play a pleasant comedy.'

Page 59.

13. _conduct_. Guidance. Cf. Shakespeare, 2 _Henry IV.,_ V. ii.
36: Led by the impartial conduct of my soul.

19. _is addressed to_. Has addresses paid to her.

_presented_. Given presents. The verb is not now used without the
indirect completion, 'to be presented with a thing.'

26. _personated_. Affected, feigned. Cf. _Spectator_ 555, 'A
personated character.'

Page 60.

24. _honest_. Honourable. Cf. Shakespeare, _Othello,_ III. iii.
225: I do not think but Desdemona's honest.

Page 61.

23. _reads upon_. Reads on the subject of.

26. _policies_. Arrangements, economy, administration.


SPECTATOR 119

Page 62.

7. _manners_. Customs, habits. Cf. Shakespeare, _Comedy of
Errors_, I. ii. 12, 'I'll view the manners of the town.'

12. _article_. Particular. Cf. Shakespeare, _Othello,_ III.
iii. 22:

  I'll perform it
  To the last article.

Now concrete in sense: a material object.

23. _Conversation_. v. note on p. 23, 1. 16.

30. _modish._ Fashionable. Sc p. 64, 1. 2, 'Men of mode,' and p.
63, 1, 3, 'People of mode.'

Page 64.

31. _the country are_. Properly _is_.

Page 65.

3. _upon the western circuit_. As judge.


SPECTATOR 120.

Page 65.

29. _demonstrative._ Conclusive. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry V._,
II. iv. 89: In every branch truly demonstrative.

Page 66.

11. _the leaving a posterity_. Mixed construction. _Leaving_
should be used either as a gerund, _leaving a posterity,_ or as a
verbal noun, _the leaving of a posterity._

14. _nicer_. More delicate.

17. _birth_. That which they bear, their offspring. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Othello_, I. iii. 410:

  Hell and night
  Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.

30. _temper_. Temperature.

Page 67.

34. _which_. sc. a circumstance which.

Page 68.

1. _as it spreads_. To the degree in which it spreads.

16. _Take a brute out of his instinct_. Consider an animal in matters
outside the range of his instinct.

Page 69.

18. _do not carry an immediate regard to_. Have no immediate bearing
on.


SPECTATOR 121.

Page 70.

7. _stepmother_. Properly foster-mother.

17. _A modern philosopher_. M. Bernard, who quotes the Latin saw,
is himself quoted by Bayle in a long discussion appended to the articles
on _Pereira_ and _Rosarius_ in his Historical Dictionary, a
translation of which was printed in 1710. Jacob Tonson, the publisher,
declares that the Dictionary was Addison's constant companion.

26. _Dampier_, the great navigator, printed in 1691 a book entitled
_A New Voyage round the World_.

Page 72.

4. _Mr. Locke_. v. note on p. 28, 1. 25. The reference is to ii. 9,
13.

19. _Dr. More_ was one of the original members of the Royal Society.
He died in 1687.

_Cardan_ or Cardano, was an Italian philosopher of the sixteenth
century. The citation is from _De Rerum Subtilitate_, x.

Page 73.

13. _Mr. Boyle_. A famous natural philosopher, and member of the
Royal Society, who died in 1691. The citation is from _A Disquisition
about the Final Causes of Natural Things_.

18. _one humour_. The typical eye of the higher animals consists of
a lens and two humours or fluids, known as the aqueous and the vitreous.

33. _our Royal Society_. Founded in 1662.

Page 74.

2. _original_. Origin. Cf. Shakespeare, _2 Henry IV_, I. ii. 131,
'It hath its original from much grief.'

3. _policies_. v. note on p. 61, 1. 26.

14. _Howling Wilderness and Great Deep_. Deuteronomy, xxxii. 10,
'He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness.'
Psalm li. 10, 'The waters of the great deep.'

25. _Tully_. v. note on p. 7, 1. 29.

29. _nice_. Accurate, precise. Cf. Shakespeare, _Much Ado about
Nothing_, v. i. 75:

  Despite his nice fence and his active practice.


SPECTATOR 122.

Page 75.

8. _approbations_. Not now used in the plural.

21. _assizes_, v. note on p. 36, 1. 22.

23. _rid_. v. note on p. 24, 1. 17.

28. _the game-act_, v. note on p. 7, 1. 12.

Page 76.

3. _shoots flying_. This accomplishment was just coming into fashion,
and was not yet common.

4. _the petty-jury_, which actually gives a verdict on cases tried.
The _grand jury_ decides whether cases shall be sent up for trial.

8. _quarter-sessions_, v. note on p. 7, 1. 10.

14. _cast and been cast_. To defeat or be defeated or condemned in
a trial or law-suit. Cf. Milton, _Eikonoklastes_, 'The Commons by
far the greatest number cast him.'

34. _was sat_. Was seated.

Page 77.

2. _for_. For the sake of, in order to enhance.

Page 78.

11. _be at the charge_. Bear the expense.

29. _conjuring_. Urging. Cf. Shakespeare, _Comedy of Errors_,
iv. iii. 68:

  I conjure you to leave me and be gone.


SPECTATOR 123.

Page 80.

8. _a novel_ at this time meant a short fictitious tale, generally
of love.

9. _Eudoxus and Leontine_. This charming story is reminiscent of
Shakespeare's _Winter's Tale_. Leontine, the friend who has a
daughter, may well trace his descent from Leontes, King of Sicilia.
Eudoxus must stand for Polixenes, King of Bohemia, since his son Florio
is certainly the shadow of Prince Florizel. The plot hinges on the fact
that both of the children, like the daughter of Leontine's prototype,
grow up in ignorance of their parentage, and in both cases there is an
apparent inequality of fortune between the lovers.

In a letter of the same date addressed to Mr. Wortley, Addison writes:
'When you have a son I shall be glad to be his Leontine, as my
circumstances will probably be like his.' He had just sustained heavy
losses.

32. _turned of_. We should now say _turned_.

33. Cowley, Essay X, 'But there is no fooling with life when it is once
turned beyond forty.'

Page 81.

1. _In order to this_. In order to accomplish this.

Page 82.

1. _dictated_. Dictated to, counselled. Not now used transitively
of persons.

Page 83.

26. _relish_, v. note on p. 44, 1. 7.

30. _discoveries_, v. note on p. 5, 1. 12.


SPECTATOR 125.

Page 84.

19. _St. Anne's Lane_. Turning out of Aldersgate Street.

24. _prickeared_. A contemptuous term applied to Roundheads, in
allusion to the effect produced by the shortness of their hair, and
borrowed from its ordinary use as applied to mongrel dogs.

Page 85.

7. _prejudice of the land-tax_. The land-tax was first levied in
1699 to pay for the French War. It was carried by Whig feeling in
opposition to the Tory landholders.

_the destruction of the game_, which would proceed while the country
gentlemen were occupied with their party differences.

19. _sinks_. Used transitively, _lowers, diminishes_. Cf.
Shakespeare, _Henry VIII_., iii. ii. 383, 'A load would sink a
navy.'

28. _Plutarch_, the great Greek moralist and biographer of the
first century of our era. The quotation is from _De Inimicorum
Utilitate_.

Page 86.

2. _that great rule_. St. Luke, vi. 27, 'Love your enemies, do good
to them which hate you.'

10. _the regard of_. A regard for.

19. _an object seen in two different mediums_. For instance, a
straight stick partly immersed in water appears as if bent at the point
at which it enters the water. The rays of light reflected from the
position under water, by which we see that portion, are bent when they
leave the water and enter the air in such a way as to make that part of
the stick appear nearer to our eye than it would appear in air.

Page 87.

4. _postulatums_. The word has now become Anglicized in a different
form, _postulate_, plural _postulates_.

15. _Guelfes and Gibellines_. The opposing political parties in
Germany and Italy from the twelfth to the fifteenth century. In Italy
they were the adherents of the Pope and the Emperor respectively.

16. _the League_. The Holy League, formed in 1576, in the Roman
Catholic interest.

17. _unhappy_. Unfortunate. Cf. Shakespeare, _Comedy of Errors_,
IV. iv. 126, 'O most unhappy day!'


SPECTATOR 126.

Page 89.

7. _such persons, that_. Mixed construction: _all persons that_
or _such persons as_. Frequent in Shakespeare; cf. _Measure for
Measure_, II. ii. 147:

  Such things
  That want no ear but yours.

16. _retainers_. Followers, adherents.

28. _Diodorus Siculus_, a Greek historian of the last century B.C.
The citation is from his universal history, a work in forty books, i.
35. 7.

30. _Ichneumon_. An animal belonging to the same family as the
civets. The Egyptian ichneumon, known also as Pharaoh's cat, was held
sacred among the ancient Egyptians because of its propensity for
destroying crocodiles' eggs, but unfortunately for Addison's
illustration, it is now proved that the degenerate ichneumon does
actually 'find his account' in feeding upon the eggs which he breaks,
whether they be those of crocodiles or merely of the barn-door fowl.

34. _finds his account_. Receives any recompense or advantage.

Page 90.

8. _the wild Tartars_. The Tartars are a race of Russians, of Turkish
and Mongolian origin. Some of them adhere to the religion of the Greek
church, some are Moslems, and some Shamanites. The reference is probably
to some Shaman belief, for magic and the spirits of the dead play a very
large part in this religion.

12. _of course_. In due course, in consequence. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Measure for Measure_, III. i. 259, 'This being granted in course,
now follows all.'

27. _cock-match_. Match between fighting-cocks.

_humour_, v. note on p. 22, 1. 26.

30. _quarter-sessions_, v. note on p. 7, 1. 10.

34. _the landed and ... the monied interest_. The land-owner would
naturally be a Tory, and the merchant a Whig.

Page 91.

6. _interest_. Political position, by virtue of which he was returned
for his county.

11. _such an one_. v. note on p. 26, 1. 30. Here, the Tory candidate
for the district.

19. _take up with_. Put up with.

30. _a very fair bettor_. Quite a good bettor or better.

32. _disagreeable_. Unpleasing, unpopular.

34. _correspondence_. v. note on p. 20, 1. 35.

Page 92.

10. _fanatick_. A madman. Will Wimble suspects the Spectator of
unsoundness in politics, that is, of not being of the Tory persuasion.


SPECTATOR 127.

Page 92.

24. _the post_ would have reached Sir Roger in Worcester twice a week,
on Thursdays and Saturdays (Report for 1809.)

25. _Dyer's letter_. Dyer's _News Letter_ was published three
times a week. It dealt more in domestic news than did the regular
newspapers, such as _The Postman_, and was sometimes driven to fill
up space by relating fictitious events. Cf. _Tatler_ 18, in which
Steele and Addison declare that Dyer is famous for whales in the Thames!

29. _under the quality of_. In the office of. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Henry V_., III. vi. 146, 'What is thy name? I know thy quality.'

Page 93.

2. _ordinary_. Used as an adverb.

5. _expence_. Now expense, v. note on _chace_, p. 46, 1. 22.

13. _You praised them_. v. _Spectator_ 98, On Ladies'
Headdresses.

14. _the humour_. The fluid which causes the disease.

30. _Sir George Etherege_. v. note on p. 6, 1. 22. His first
comedy, 1664, was entitled _The Comical Revenge, or Love in a Tub_.
The reference is to IV. vi.

Page 94.

2. _the farthingale_ was a framework for extending the skirt of a
woman's dress. It was introduced in 1545, and finally assumed a perfectly
cylindrical shape.

_the ruin of the Spanish monarchy_. The defeat and dispersal of the
Armada in 1558.

5. _the tail of a blazing star_. Comets have always been held to
foretell disaster.

11. _into meetings and conventicles_. That is, to Dissent.

12. _trunk-breeches_. Very full, short breeches, reaching to the
knee or half-way down the thigh.

16. _it is recorded of Alexander the Great_ in Plutarch's _Lives
of the Noble Grecians and Romans_. 'He first contrived many vain and
sophistical things to serve the purposes of fame; among which were arms
much bigger than his men could use ... left scattered up and down.' This
report is probably baseless, as it is opposed to the magnanimity of
Alexander's character.

28. _Rotunda_. A building of circular shape both outside and
inside, such as the Pantheon in Rome.

31. _a little black monkey enshrined_. Each Egyptian village had
its sacred animal or fetish.

Page 95.

8. _the sensitive plant_. _Mimosa pudica_, whose leaflets fold
together at a touch.


SPECTATOR 128.

Page 96.

9. _from thence_. A redundant expression. _Thence_ is in itself
equivalent to _from there_. Cf. Shakespeare, _Comedy of Errors_,
IV. iv. 79, 'Did not I in rage depart from thence?'

Page 97.

4. _carries it_. Succeeds. Cf. Shakespeare, _Troilus and Cressida_,
II. iii. 228, 'Shall pride carry it?'

Page 98.

3. _the younger Faustina_, the profligate wife of Marcus Aurelius
Antoninus.

25. _your_ was frequently used instead of _the_ in naming an
object as typical of its class, especially when the speech carries any
flavour of pleasantry. Cf. Shakespeare, _Measure for Measure_, IV.
ii. 46, 'Every true man's apparel fits your thief.'

Page 99.

1. _Aristus_. aristos, best.

_Aspasia_. The mistress of Pericles, and the inspiration of his
greatness.


SPECTATOR 129.

Page 99.

17. _periwig_. v. note on p. 8, 1. 8.

Page 100.

1. _habits_, v. note on p. 10, 1. 20.

5. _the mode_. v. note on p. 62, 1. 30.

12. _engage_. Undertake.

23. _circuit_. v. note on p. 65, 1. 3.

28. _Stains_, now spelt _Staines_, in Middlesex, ten miles
from London.

29. _commode_. A wire erection to raise the front of the hair and
the cap. First worn by Mlle. Fontange, at the court of Louis XIV. In
_Spectator_ 98, Addison notes that head-dresses have diminished in
height.

33. _the Ramilie cock._ A particular way of folding back the flaps
of a cocked hat invented after Marlborough's victory at Ramillies, 1706.

Page 101.

10. _a Friezland hen._ Probably _frizzled hen_ (_Gallus
crispus_) whose feathers stand outward from the body, giving it a much
beruffled aspect.

15. _retrenching_. Cutting back, diminishing. Cf. Milton, _Paradise
Regained_, i. 454:

  But this thy glory shall be soon retrenched.

18. _franked by a parliament-man_. Members of Parliament were
privileged to send and receive postal matter free of charge. The custom
began in 1660, and was regulated by law in 1764. Until 1837 the member
had simply to write his name on the corner of the envelope, and often
presented his friends with parcels of franked envelopes. The privilege
was abolished in 1840.

22. _next_. Most recent, last. Obsolete in this sense. Cf.
Shakespeare, _Henry VIII_., I. i. 17, 'Each following day became
the next day's master.'

26. _in buckle_. In curl.

Page 102.

4. _astonishments_. The plural form is not now in use.

7. _bob-wig_. A wig with short curls or _bobs_, to imitate
natural curly hair.

18. _Monmouth cock_. Another fashion of cocking the hat, named
after the Duke of Monmouth. v. note on p. 10, 1. 30.

23. _night-cap wig_. A periwig with a short tie and a small round
head.

Page 103.

1. _the Steenkirk_ was a black silk cravat, tied so as to produce
an effect of negligence, in imitation of the victorious French generals,
when a sudden attack summoned them hastily to the field at the battle of
Steinkirk. v. note on _Spectator_ 335.


SPECTATOR 130.

Page 103.

10. _exert the Justice of the Peace_. Exercise the authority of a
justice of the peace.

Page 104.

15. _A Cassandra_. A prophetess. Cassandra, daughter of Priam, King
of Troy, was inspired by Apollo with the divine frenzy.

17. _in a corner_. Secretly. Cf. Acts of the Apostles, xxvi. 26,
'This thing was not done in a corner.'

Page 105.

21. _our monthly accounts about twenty years ago_. From 1681 monthly
publications began to appear, the most notable being _The Gentleman's
Journal_, issued by Peter Mottuex, 1691-4, which proved to be the germ
of our entire magazine literature.

22. _Trekschuyt_. Literally _draw-boat_.

_hackney-boat_. Boat plying for hire.

Page 106.

4. _gave him for_. Gave him up for. Cf. Shakespeare, _The Winter's
Tale_, III. ii. 96:

  Your favour
  I do give lost.


SPECTATOR 131.

Page 107.

17. _a month's excursion_. In the _Spectator_ for July 2 Addison
writes that he went 'last week' to Sir Roger's country-house.

Page 108.

10. _killed a man_. In a duel. Duelling was still the one way of
repudiating an insult. The crusade against it was on foot, but it died
hard.

11. _visit ... to Moll White_, v. _Spectator_ 117.

13. _cunning_. Learned in magic. Cf. _Spectator_ 505, 'Wizards,
gypsies, and cunning men.'

16. _a White Witch_ is a witch who can do no harm, and who sometimes
performs beneficent actions. Cf. the use of _white_ in such phrases
as _white lie._

21. _harbour a Jesuit_. The last order for the expulsion of the
Jesuits was issued in 1602. Those who harboured them in defiance of this
order were liable to very heavy penalties.

28. _discarded Whig_, as Salmon points out, is an exact description
of Addison at this time.

29. _out of place_. Deprived of his post or office.

31. _disaffected_, to the sovereign.

Page 109.

3. _discovers_, v. note on p. 5, 1. 12.

7. _temper_. Temperament, disposition. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry
V_., V. ii. 153, 'A fellow of this temper.'

26. _picking of_. As if the gerund, _a-picking of_.

27. _smelling to_. Now _smelling at_.

33. _stories of a cock and a bull_. Now condensed to _cock-and-
bull stories_. Cf. Burton, _Anatomy of Melancholy_, II. 11. iv.
274.

Page 110.

6. _commonwealth's men_. Republicans.


SPECTATOR 132.

Page 110.

23. _chamberlain_. Servant who attends the bedchambers. Cf. Milton,
_On the University Carrier_, 1. 14, 'In the kind office of a
chamberlin.'

25. _Mrs._ was the early abbreviation of _mistress_, which we
have now unhappily abbreviated to _miss_.

Page 111.

8. _half-pike_. A kind of short lance, the weapon of an infantry
officer.

10. _equipage_. Train, following.

12. _cloak-bag_. Portmanteau. Cf. Shakespeare, _Cymbeline_,
III. iv. 172:

  'Tis in my cloak-bag-doublet, hat, hose, all.

_in the seat_. Under the actual seat, in the well of the coach.

Page 112.

1. _the brideman_. Now called the _best man_.

8. _the giving her_. The giving of her.

11. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry V._, IV. iv. 73, 'The saying is true,--
the empty vessel makes the greatest sound.'

19. _countenance_. In its original meaning of bearing, behaviour.
Cf. Shakespeare, _Taming of the Shrew_, i. i. 234:

  Puts my apparel and my countenance on.

22. _fleer_. Gibe. Cf. Shakespeare, _Much Ado about Nothing_,
V. i. 58, 'Never fleer and jest at me.'

28. _hasped up_. Shut up.

30. _Ephraim_ was a generic name for Quakers, given them because
they refused to fight, v. Psalm lxxviii. 9, 'The children of Ephraim
being armed and carrying bows turned back in the day of battle.'

35. _smoky_. The current slang for shrewd. To _smoke_ a plot
or a trick was to detect it; in modern slang to _smell a rat_.

Page 113.

4. _ruffle_. Disturbance, commotion.

7. _conduct._ Cf. note on p. 59, 1. 13.

11. _taking place_ of other vehicles was an important privilege,
for the road was generally practicable only for one vehicle at a time,
so that the displaced one would have to stop till the road should be
clear again.

25. _inward_. Pious, earnest. Cf. Thomas a Kempis, _De Imitatione
Christi_, II. i. 41, 'a very inward man:' also Penn, _Rise and
Progress of the Quakers_, 1690, 'more religious, inward, still.'

32. _thee and I_. The Friends generally employ _thee_ for
_thou_. So too in p. 114, 1. 2.

Page 114.

3. _affections_. Dispositions, feelings. Cf. Shakespeare, _Measure
for Measure_, II. iv. 168:

  By the affection that now guides me most.


SPECTATOR 269.

Page 114.

19. _Gray's Inn Walks_ are said to have been planted by Bacon. They
are situated on the north side of Holborn, and were the regular promenade
of people of fashion in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, for the
air blew straight over from Hampstead, unimpeded by the houses which have
since sprung up.

22. _Eugene_, Prince of Savoy, had arrived in London three days
before the date of this paper. He had been Marlborough's colleague in
the War of the Spanish Succession, and he had come over in order to
attempt to repair the overthrow of Marlborough and to prevent the Tory
government from concluding peace with France on ruinous and disgraceful
terms.

27. _Eugenio_ was regularly employed by Prince Eugene as his
signature, in recognition of his Italian family.

28. _Scanderbeg_ was the great Albanian prince and commander of the
fifteenth century, who freed his country from the dominion of Turkey.

Page 115.

15. _made_. Preached, delivered.

16. _Dr. Barrow_, v. p. 15, 1. 12.

18. _thirty merks_. Twenty pounds. A merk or mark was worth
13s 4d. It was not a coin, but only a convenient name, as _guinea_
is now.

21. _fob_. A small pocket, usually intended to hold a watch.

22. _tobacco-stopper_. A small plug for pressing down the tobacco
in the bowl of the pipe.

28. _Tom Touchy_. v. _Spectator_ 122.

31. _Moll White_. v. _Spectator_ 117.

Page 116.

8. _hogs-puddings_. Large sausage-shaped bags stuffed with minced
pork.

18. _for twelve days_, that is, till Twelfth Night, January 6,
which puts an end to the Christmas festivities.

22. _smutting_. A trick, the victim of which is made unconsciously
to blacken his own face. Cf. Goldsmith:

  The swain mistrustless of his smutted face
  While secret laughter tittered round the place.

27. _the late act of Parliament for securing the Church of England_.
The Act of Occasional Uniformity, 1710, attempted to exclude Dissenters
from political power and office by strengthening the Test Act of 1673.
Dissenters who had once taken the sacrament in order to qualify for civil,
military, or magisterial office, were prohibited under very severe
penalties from appearing afterwards in sectarian places of worship.

28. _securing_. Making safe. Cf. Shakespeare, _Tempest_, II.
i. 310, 'We stood here securing your repose.'

Page 117.

6. _the Pope's procession_ was a Whig demonstration performed
annually on November 17, the anniversary of the accession of Queen
Elizabeth, to relieve the feelings of the Anti-Papal party. This
year a particularly riotous procession had been prepared, but it was
prevented by the seizure of all the images and accessories by the police
in the middle of the preceding night.

17. _Baker's Chronicle_. Sir Richard Baker, who died in 1645, was
the author of _A Chronicle of the Kings of England_. The
observations which Sir Roger applied to Prince Eugene had not, of
course, been written with regard to him.

23. _Squire's_. v. Appendix I.

25. _waited on_. Attended. Cf. Shakespeare, _Two Gentlemen of
Verona_, III. ii. 96:

  We'll wait upon your grace till after supper.

30. _the Supplement_ was 'an alternative edition of _The
Postboy_, by Jacob Abellius, a postscriptorian, otherwise Boyer.'
(Fox Bourne.)


SPECTATOR 329.

Page 118.

5. _my paper upon Westminster Abbey_. _Spectator_ 26.

8. _promised another paper upon the Tombs_. 'I have left the
repository of our English kings for the contemplation of another day.'

Page 119.

3. _the sickness_. The plague, which was at Dantzick in 1709.

5. _a hackney-coach_. A coach let out on hire, the precursor of the
modern cab. The hackney-coach was introduced into London in 1625, and in
1715 their number had to be restricted to seven hundred. Cf. p. 105, 1.
22, _hackney-boat_.

15. _engaged_ in my affections, not betrothed. Cf. p. 13, 1. 13.

34. _Sir Cloudesly Shovel_, the admiral, who was wrecked off the
Scilly Isles in 1707.

Page 120.

2. _Dr. Busby_, the famous flogging head master, who ruled Westminster
School for fifty-five years, 1640-95.

6. _the little chapel on the right hand_. St. Edmund's Chapel.

9. _the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head_, or who was
supposed to have done so on the evidence of his crest.

'a Moor's head orientally crowned,' was Sir Bernard Brocas, a knight of
the fourteenth century.

12. _the statesman Cecil_, in the Chapel of St. Nicholas. Lord
Burleigh was Secretary of State to Edward VI., and Lord High Treasurer
to Queen Elizabeth.

14. _that martyr to good housewifery, who died by the prick of a
needle_. Elizabeth Russell, whose effigy is sculptured with one
finger extended, in reality to direct attention to the death's-head at
her feet. Cf. Goldsmith, _The Citizen of the World_, Letter xiii.,
in which the guide to the Abbey 'talked of a lady who died by pricking
her finger; of a king with a golden head, and twenty such pieces of
absurdity'.

21. _the two coronation chairs_. The ancient chair was made for
Edward I. to enclose the stone of Scone, which he had brought from
Scotland. It was the sacred coronation stone of the Scottish kings, and
was supposed to have come originally from Palestine. Unfortunately for
this theory it consists of Scotch sandstone, and, as Wills remarks, 'Sir
Roger's question was extremely pertinent.' All succeeding sovereigns
have been crowned on this chair and stone. It is now railed in, but in
Addison's time it was a source of revenue to the guides, who demanded a
fine of any person who should sit in it. The second chair was made for
the coronation of William III. and Mary.

24. _Jacob's pillar_, or pillow, v. Genesis, xxviii. 11, 18, and
22.

30. _trepanned_. In the two earliest editions spelt _trapanned_,
that is, _entrapped_. In later editions its spelling was influenced
by the word _trepan_, a surgical operation.

Page 121.

1. _Edward the Third's sword_. A mighty weapon, seven feet long and
weighing eighteen pounds, in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor.

8. _touched for the evil_. _The evil_ is scrofula. Cf. the use
of _the sickness_, p. 119, 1. 3, for the plague. It was long held
to be cured by the royal touch. Dr. Johnson remembered being taken to
London to be touched by Queen Anne when he was a small child. She was
the last sovereign who practised touching for the evil. Cf. _Macbeth_,
IV. iii. 140-56.

_Henry the Fourth's_ tomb is at Canterbury Cathedral, Henry III. is
probably intended.

10. _fine reading in the casualties of that reign_. In Baker's
_Chronicle_ the chapter on _The Reign of King Henry IV_ contains
a paragraph entitled _Casualties happening in his time_, relating the
appearance of a 'blazing star', a visit of the Devil 'in the likeness of a
Gray Friar', a flood, a fire, and finally a winter so severe 'that almost
all small birds died through hunger'.

12. _the figure of one of our English kings without an head_. The
effigy of Henry V. was made of oak covered with silver, but the head was
of solid silver, and was stolen at the time of the dissolution of the
monasteries, 1536-9.

33. _Norfolk-Buildings_, in Norfolk Street, Strand, were originally
the property of the Howards. For Sir Roger's residence, v. also
_Spectator_ 2, p. 6, 1. 17.


SPECTATOR 335.

Page 122.

9. _the Committee_ was a play by Sir Robert Howard, 1662, the motive
of which is ridicule of the Puritans.

12. _Distressed Mother_, an adaptation by Ambrose Philips of Racine's
_Andromaque_, had been produced on March 17.

15. _at the end of the dictionary_, where biographical notices of
famous persons used to be inserted.

18. _the Mohocks_. Ever since the Restoration the streets of London
had been infested at night with bands of dissolute young men who
assaulted and injured men and women by wounding and beating them. No
sort of mischief came amiss to them; they effected endless damage by the
breaking of windows, and so forth, and a favourite diversion consisted
in binding a woman in a barrel, and rolling it down Snow Hill or Ludgate
Hill. Their name was derived from the Mohawks, a tribe of North American
Indians, and was used to denote savages in general. An especially
flagrant outbreak of this Hooliganism was in progress at this time (v,
_Spectator_ 324, 332), and on March 17 a royal proclamation against
the Mohocks had been issued.

20. _black_, v. note on p. 1, 1. 9.

21. _Fleet Street_ ran beside the river Fleet, which is now covered
over.

22. _put on_. Hastened.

24. _to hunt me_. The View Hallo was a favourite and doubtless a
very amusing pastime of the Mohocks. The person elected to share in the
game was run down and surrounded by a circle of sportsmen, who kept him
rotating like a top by pricking him with their swords. Cf. _Spectator_
332.

26. _in King Charles the Second's time_ the marauders were known as
Muns and Tityre-Tus.

Page 123.

8. _about four o'clock_. For the time of the play, v. note on p. 8,
1. 5.

14. _the battle of Steenkirk_, 1692, in which the French defeated
the allies under William III.

16. _oaken plants_. Cudgels.

22. _the pit_ was the resort of the critics and people of fashion.

30. _Pyrrhus_, son of Achilles, was one of the warriors who entered
Troy in the wooden horse. He killed Priam, and was given Andromache, the
widow of Hector, as his share of the spoil. The play goes on to depict
how Hermione, daughter of Menelaus and Helen, was forced by her parents
to marry him, and how in consequence her lover Orestes raised the
Delphians and killed him.

31. _the King of France_, whom Sir Roger regards as the leader of
fashion.

32. _a better strut_. By reference to an advertisement of the play
in the _Spectator_ for March 17, we learn that the happy possessor
of this strut was a certain Mr. Booth.

Page 124.

9. _Pyrrhus his_. This form of the possessive was in frequent use,
especially after proper names ending in _s_.

21. _begun_. Obsolete in prose; now _began_.

25. _the widow_. Andromache.

27. _Astyanax_, the son of Hector and Andromache.

35. _a very remarkable silence_. For an account of the talking and
disturbance that usually went on, v. _Spectator_ 45 and 240.

Page 125.

6. _Pylades_, the close friend of Orestes.

9. _the old fellow in whiskers_. Phoenix, counsellor to Pyrrhus, a
minor character.

12. _smoke_, make a butt of, amuse themselves with. Cf. modern
schoolboy slang, _roast_.

26. _justling_. Hustling, jostling. Cf. Shakespeare, _Tempest_,
III. ii. 29, 'I am in case to justle a constable.'


SPECTATOR 359.

Page 126.

16. _that once_. We should say _that for once_.

Page 127.

13. _I had formerly boarded with a surgeon_, and so was presumably
not a strong man.

14. _Put_. A Devonshire word, the old _wretch_.

19. _waited upon_. Visited.

22. _Lion's-Inn_. An old Inn of Court, destroyed in 1863.

Page 128.

5. _spindle_. Thin like the stick with which the thread is twisted
in spinning.

21. _the book I had considered last Saturday_. The Tenth Book of
_Paradise Lost_. Addison's famous criticism of this poem, which
appeared in the Saturday issue of the _Spectator_ from January 5 to
May 3, 1712, was written before Milton had come into his kingdom.

23. _the following lines_. _Paradise Lost_, x. 888-908.


SPECTATOR 383.

Page 129.

20. _bounces_. Rough, disorderly knocks.

26. _Spring-Garden_, The new gardens at Vauxhall, not the old
Spring Gardens in Whitehall. They are mentioned by Pepys as a place of
bad repute.

Page 130.

7. _The Temple Stairs_ were the landing stairs in the grounds of the
Temple. Although there was much wheeled traffic in London the river
remained a very favourite highway.

14. _bate him_. Let him off, remit him. Cf. Shakespeare, _Tempest_,
I. ii. 250:

  Thou didst promise
  To bate me a full year.

22. _Faux-Hall_. The new Spring-Garden took this name from Foukes
de Breant, who married the Countess of Albemarle. It is the scene of the
matchless Letter XLVI in Fanny Burney's _Evelina_, and the subject
of many allusions in literature.

24. _at La Hogue_. The original issue reads in _Bantry Bay_,
where the French fleet defeated the English in 1689. The memory of La
Hogue, where the French were defeated in 1692 by the English and Dutch,
would be more pleasing to the public.

31. _London Bridge_. Not the bridge now standing, which dates from
1825, but the old bridge built in the thirteenth century.

32. _the seven wonders_. The Pyramids, the walls and hanging
gardens of Babylon, the tomb of Mausolus at Halicarnassus, the temple of
Diana at Ephesus, the Colossus of Rhodes, the statue of Jupiter by
Phidias at Olympia, and the Pharos of Alexandria.

33. _true Englishman_. A phrase made popular by Defoe's _True-
born Englishman_, 1701.

Page 131.

4. _Temple-Bar_. The old gateway between the Strand and Fleet Street,
where traitors' heads used to be exhibited. _On this side_ would be
the western side, outside the city.

6. _the fifty new churches_. By the Act of 1710 a duty was imposed
on coal for this and other purposes.

15. _knight of the shire_, v. note on p. 26, 1. 18.

22. _put_. v. note on p. 127, 1. 14.

23. _Thames ribaldry_. The waterway was famous for its verbal
interchange, some of which has been recorded by Taylor the Water-Poet,
Tom Brown, Swift and Dr. Johnson, and of which the amenities of our
omnibus-drivers are but a Bowdlerized version.

34. _Mahometan paradise_. A paradise of the senses.

Page 132.

4. _your nightingale_, v. note on p. 98, 1. 25.

8. _a mask_. A woman in a mask.

16. _hung beef_. Beef preserved in salt or spices


SPECTATOR 517.

Page 133.

5. _sensibly_. Keenly. Cf. Shakespeare, _Hamlet_ IV. v. 150:

  And am most sensibly in grief for it.

13-14. _promoting an address ... in which he succeeded_. Urging the
adoption of an address which actually was adopted.

27. _you was_. A very frequent use.

29. _country_. Country-side, neighbourhood. Cf. Shakespeare, _Merry
Wives of Windsor:_

  He's a justice of peace in his country.

Page 134.

14. _a lightning before death_. These words occur in Shakespeare,
_Romeo and Juliet_, V. iii. 90.

33. _peremptorily_. Authoritatively, positively. Cf. Shakespeare, I
_Henry IV_, II. iv. 472:

  Peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff.

Page 135.

7. _Quorum_, v. note on p. 7, 1. 9.

16. _quit-rents_. Charges on the estate.

23. _joyed himself_. Enjoyed himself, been cheerful.

Page 136.

3. _Act of Uniformity_. Acts of Uniformity were passed in 1549, 1558,
1662, and 1706.




APPENDIX I

ON COFFEE-HOUSES


The first English coffee-house was opened in Oxford in 1650, and by the
beginning of the eighteenth century the coffee-house had become the
regular resort of every Londoner who could afford to pay the twopence
for the dish of the beverage which admitted him to its society. Men of
similar tastes assembled at the same house, so that gradually each of
the principal coffee-houses became a centre for a particular kind of
society. Thus _Will's_ (p. 3, 1. 17), at the corner of Russell
Street and Bow Street, Covent Garden, which had been Dryden's favourite
coffee-house, became the haunt of the wits and men of letters; it was
from here that Steele dated his articles on poetry for the
_Tatler_. _St. James's_ (p. 3, 1. 22) in St. James's Street,
was frequented by politicians and men of fashion; it was a Whig house,
and the head quarters of the _Tatler's_ foreign and domestic news
(cf. _Spectator_ 403). _The Grecian_ (p. 3, 1. 25), Devereux
Court, Temple, was the oldest of all the London coffee-houses; here
gathered the barristers of the Temple, and here the _Tatler_ finds
the material of his papers on learning, while men from the Exchange
assembled at _Jonathan's_ (p. 3, 1. 29) in Exchange Alley, and
doctors, clerics, and men of science from the Royal Society at
_Child's_ (p. 3, 1. 19), in St. Paul's Churchyard. Coffee-houses
were very numerous; we find mention within the limits of these papers of
two others, _Jenny Mann's_ (p. 24, 1. 24), in the Tilt-Yard,
Charing-Cross, and _Squire's_ (p. 117, 1. 23), in Fulwood's Rents,
Holborn, and Ashton gives the names of between four and five hundred,
while three thousand are known to have existed in 1708.

There were also a few chocolate-houses, notably _White's_ and the
_Cocoa-Tree_ (p. 3, 1. 25), the Tory centre, both in St. James's
Street. _White's_ was a great gambling-house; Steele dated from it
his articles on Gallantry, Pleasure, and Entertainment, and its
destruction by fire, which took place in 1723, is depicted as the scene
of Plate VI of Hogarth's _The Rake's Progress_, in which the Rake
ruins himself by gaming.




APPENDIX II

ON THE _SPECTATOR'S_ ACQUAINTANCE


Various suggestions have been made concerning the identity of the
characters drawn in these papers. Tradition reported that Sir Roger was
drawn from Sir John Pakington or Packington, Knight of Worcester. This
theory was maintained by Tyers in 1783, but has been conclusively
disproved by Wills. Mr. R. E. H. Duke has made an exhaustive study to
show that his original was Richard Duke, of Bulford, near Milston, where
Addison's early years were spent.

For the prototype of Sir Andrew Freeport Mr. Henry Martin has been
suggested. He was one of the authors of _The British Merchant_; he
contributed No. 180, and probably other papers, to the _Spectator_.

Rumour has also identified Will Honeycomb with Pope's friend, Colonel
Cleland; Captain Sentry with Colonel Kempenfeldt, father of Admiral
Kempenfeldt of the Royal George; and Will Wimble with Thomas Morecraft,
a Yorkshire gentleman introduced to Addison by Steele. Will Wimble
seems, however, to be more nearly akin to the Hon. Thomas Gules of the
_Tatler_ (256), who 'produced several witnesses that he had never
employed himself beyond the twisting of a whip, or the making of a pair
of nut-crackers, in which he only worked for his diversion, in order to
make a present now and then to his friends'; [Footnote: Cf. p. 20, I, 13
and p. 21, II, 2-11.] and the imaginary nature of Will Honeycomb's
existence is sufficiently indicated by the style in which Addison's
eighth and supplementary volume of the _Spectator_ is dedicated to
him.

The same questionable authority has given to the perverse widow the name
of Mrs. Catharine Bovey, or Boevey, of Flaxley Abbey, Gloucestershire,
to whom Steele dedicated the second volume of the Ladies' Library.

It is, however, very doubtful that the characters of the
_Spectator_ were drawn from individual persons. Budgell certainly
says of Theophrastus that he 'was the Spectator of the age he lived in;
he drew the pictures of particular men', but Tickell, who was Addison's
friend and literary executor, speaks expressly of 'the feigned person of
the Author, and of the several characters that compose his club', and
the Spectator himself in two papers exhorts every reader 'never to think
of himself or any one of his friends or enemies aimed at in what is
said', [Footnote: _Spectator_ 34] for 'when I draw a faulty
character I ... take care to dash it with such particular circumstances
as may prevent all such ill-natured applications.' [Footnote:
_Spectator_ 262] The characters are almost certainly created by the
Spectator's genius out of the material gathered from his observation of
many men.




APPENDIX III

ON THE DEATH OF SIR ROGER


After Sir Roger's visit to town we hear no more of him until the club
is startled by the receipt of his butler's letter announcing his death.
Some of his admirers have devised a sentimental reason for his decease.
In Budgell's _Bee_ we read that "Mr. Addison was so fond of this
character that a little before he laid down the _Spectator_
(foreseeing that some nimble gentleman would catch up his pen the moment
he quitted it) he said to our intimate friend with a certain warmth in
his expression, which he was not often guilty of, 'I'll kill Sir Roger
that nobody else may murder him'" Dr. Johnson follows Budgell, and
assigns to Addison Cervantes' reason, who finds himself obliged to kill
Don Quixote, 'being of opinion that they were born for one another, and
that any other hand would do him wrong.'

But there was a more inevitable reason for the death of the knight. Six
more weeks saw the end of the original _Spectator_, the joint
production of Addison and Steele, and their creators were now engaged in
disposing of their characters in various ways. Chalmers remarks that
'The killing of Sir Roger was sufficiently accounted for without
supposing that Addison despatched him in a fit of anger; for the work
was about to close, and it appeared necessary to close the club.'




APPENDIX IV

ON THE _SPECTATOR'S_ POPULARITY


The great vogue of the _Spectator_ gives some measure of its
extraordinary influence. Already in the tenth number we read that the
daily circulation is three thousand, and later, in _Spectator_ 124,
Addison writes: 'My bookseller tells me the demand for these my papers
increases daily.' Of particular papers we know that twenty or thirty
thousand were sold, and Mr. Forster estimates that these numbers must be
multiplied by six to represent a corresponding popularity in our day.

On July 31, 1712, Addison wrote: 'This is the day on which many eminent
authors will probably publish their last words.' On August 1 the Stamp
Tax came into operation, and every half-sheet periodical paid a duty of
a half-penny. The price of the _Spectator_ rose to twopence, and
only half the former number of copies were sold, yet towards the close
of the seventh volume about ten thousand copies were being issued daily.

After publication the papers were collected and issued in eight volumes,
and nine or ten thousand copies of this first edition were sold at the
price of a guinea a volume.







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Coverley Papers, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COVERLEY PAPERS ***

This file should be named 6482.txt or 6482.zip

Produced by Tonya Allen, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
https://gutenberg.org or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

https://www.gutenberg.org/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*