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tions grow thin, and the stars go out one after another, till the whole hemisphere is extinguished; such was the vanishing of the dess; and not only of the goddess herself ut of the whole army that attended her, which sympathized with their leader, and shrunk into nothing, in proportion as the goddess disappeared. At the same time the whole temple sunk, the fish betook themselves to the streams, and the wild beasts to the woods, the fountains recovered their murmurs, the birds their voices, the trees their leaves, the flowers their scents, and the whole face of nature its true and genuine appearance. Though I still continued asleep, I fancied myself as it were awakened out of a dream, when I saw this region of H. restored to woods and rivers, fields and meadows. the removal of that wild scene of wonders, which had very much disturbed my imagination, I took a full survey of the persons of Wit and Truth; for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first, without seeing the other at the same time. There was behind them a strong compact body of figures. The genius of Heroic Poetry appeared with a sword in her hand, and a laurel on her head: Tragedy was crowned with cypress, and covered with robes dipped in blood. Satire had smiles in her look, and a dagger under her garment. Rhetoric was known by her thunderbolt; and Comedy by her mask. After several other figures, Epigram marched up in the rear, who had been ted there at the beginning of the expedition, that he might not revolt to the enemy, whom he was suspected to favour in his heart. I was very much awed and delighted with the appearance of the god of Wit; there was something so amiable, and yet so piercing in his looks, as inspired me at once with love and terror. As I was gazing on him, to my unspeakable joy he took a quiver of arrows from his shoulder, in order to make me a present of it; but as I was reaching out my hand to receive it of him, I knocked it against a chair, and by that means awaked. C.

No. 64.] Monday, May 14, 1711.

Hic vivimus ambitiosa Paupertate omnes— Juv. Sat. iii. 183.

The face of wealth in poverty we wear.

THE most improper things we commit in the conduct of our lives, we are led into by the force of fashion. Instances might be given, in which a prevailing custom makes us act against the rules of nature, law, and common sense; but at present I shall confine my consideration to the effect it has "upon men's minds, by looking into our behaviour when it is the fashion to go into o The custom of representing the grief we have for the loss of the dead by our habits, certainly had its rise

much distressed to take the proper care they ought of their dress. By degrees it prevailed, that such as had this inward oppression upon their minds, made an apolo: for not joining with the rest of the world in their ordinary diversions by a dress suited to their condition. This therefore was at first assumed by such only as were under real distress; to whom it was relief that they had nothing about them so light and gay as to be irksome to the gloom and melancholy of their inward reflections, or that might misrepresent them to others. In process of time this laudable distinction of the sorrowful was lost, and mourning is now worn by heirs and widows. You see nothing but magnificence and solemnity in the equipage of the relict, and an air of release from servitude in the pomp of a son who has lost a wealthy father. This fashion of sorrow is now become a generous part of the ceremonial between princes and sovereigns, who, in the language of all nations, are styled brothers to each other, and put on the purple" upon the death of any potentate with whom they live in amity. Courtiers, and all who wish themselves such, are immediately seized with grief from head to foot upon this disaster to their prince; so that one may know by the very buckles of a gentleman-usher what degree of friendship any deceased monarch maintained with the court to which he belongs. A good courtier's habit and behaviour is hieroglyphical on these occasions. He deals much in whispers, and you may see he dresses according to the best intelligence. The general affectation among men, of appearing greater than they are, makes the whole world run into the habit of the court. You see the lady, who the day before was as various as a rainbow, upon the time appointed for beginning to mourn, as dark as a cloud. This humour does not prevail only on those whose fortunes can support any change in their equipage, nor on those only whose incomes demand the wantonness of new appearances; but on such also who have just enough to clothe them. An old acquaintance of mine, of ninety pounds a year, who has naturally the vanity of being a man of fashion deep at his heart, is very much put to it to bear the mortality of princes. He made a new black suit upon the death of the King of Spain, he turned it for the King of Portugal, and he now keeps his chamber while it is scouring for the Emperor. He is a good economist in his extravagance, and makes only a fresh black button on his iron-gray suit for any potentate of small territories; he indeed adds his crape hatband for a prince whose exploits he has admired in the gazette. But whatever compliments may be made on these occasions, the true mourners are

* Royal and princely mourners were usually clad in

from the real sorrow of such as were tool purple.

the mercers, silkmen, lacemen, and milliners. A prince of a merciful and royal disposition would reflect with great anxiety upon the prospect of his death if he considered what numbers would be reduced to misery by that accident only. He would think it of moment enough to direct, that in the notification of his departure, the honour done to him might be restrained to those of the household of the prince to whom it should be signified. e would think a general mourning to be in a less de

the same ceremony which is practised in barbarous nations, of killing their slaves to attend the obsequies of their

ngs. I had been wonderfully at a loss for many months together, to guess at the character of a man who came now and then to our coffee-house. He ever ended a newspaper with this reflection, “Well, I see all the foreign princes are in good health.” If you asked, ‘Pray, sir, what says the Postman from Vienna?” He answered, “Make us thankful, the German Princes are all well.’--‘What does he say from Barcelona?” “He does not speak but that the country agrees very well with the new Queen.” After very much inquiry, I found this man of universal loyalty was a wholesale dealer in silks and ribands. His way is, it seems, if he hires a weaver or workman, to have it inserted in his articles, “that all this shall be well and truly performed, provided no foreign potentate shall depart this life within the time above-mentioned.” It happens in all public mournings that the many trades which depend upon our habits, are during that folly either pinched with present want, or terrified with the apparent approach of it. All the atonement which men can make for wanton expenses (which is a sort of insulting the scarcity under which others labour) is, that the superfluities of the wealthy give supplies to the necessities of the poor; but instead of any other good arising from the affectation of being in courtly habits of mourning, all order seems to be destroyed by it; and the true honour which one court does to another on that occasion, loses its force and efficacy. When a foreign minister beholds the court of a nation (which flourishes in riches and plenty) lay aside . the loss of his master, all marks of splendour and magnificence, though the head of such a - people, he will conceive a greater dea of the honour done to his master, than when he sees the generality of the people in the same habit. When one is afraid to ask the wife of a tradesman whom she has lost of her family; and after some preparation endeavours to know whom she mourns for; how ridiculous it is to hear her explain herself, “That we have lost one of the house of Austria!’ Princes are elevated so highly above the rest of mankind, that it is a presumptuous distinction to take a part ino done to their memo

ries, except we have authority for it, by being related in a particular manner to the court which pays the veneration to their friendship, and seems to express on such an occasion the sense of the uncertainty of human life in general, by assuming the habit of sorrow, though in the full possession of triumph and royalty. R.

No 65.] Tuesday, May 15, 1711.

—Demetri, teque, Tigelli,
Discipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.
Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. x.90.

Demetrius and Tigellius, know your place; Go hence, and whine among the school-boy race. AFTER having at large explained what wit is, and described the false appearances of it, all that labour seems but an useless inquiry, without some time be spent in considering the application of it. The seat of wit, when one speaks as a man of the town and the world, is the playhouse; I shall therefore fill this paper with reflections .. the use of it, in that place. The application of wit in the theatre has as strong an effect upon the manners of our gentlemen, as the taste of it has upon the writings of our authors. It may, R. look like a very presumptuous work, though not foreign from the duty of a Spectator, to tax the writings of such as have long had the general applause of a nation; but I shall always make reason, truth, and nature the measures of praise and dispraise; if those are for me, the generality of opinion is of no consequence against me; if they are against me, the general opinion cannot long *Won: Ine. ithout further preface, I am going to look into some of our most applauded plays, and see whether they deserve the figure they at present bear in the imaginations of men or not. In reflecting upon these works, I shall chiefly dwell upon that for which each respective play is most celebrated. The resent §. shall be employed upon Sir opling Flutter.” The received character of this play is, that it is the pattern of genteel comedy. Dorimant and Harriot are the characters of greatest consequence, and if these are low and mean, the reputation of the play is very unjust. I will take for granted, that a fine gentleman should be honest in his actions and refined in his language. Instead of this, our hero in this piece is a direct knave in his designs, and a clown in his language. Bellair is his admirer and friend; in return for which, because he is forsooth a greater wit than his said friend, he thinks it reasonable

• The Man of Mode, or Sir Fopling Flutter, a come. dy, by Sir George Etheridge. The character of Sir Fopling was that of Beau Hewit, son of Sir Thomas Hewit, of Pishiobury, in Hertfordshire; of Dorimant, that of Wilmot earl of Rochester; and Bellair, that of the author himself.

to persuade him to marry, a young lady, whose virtue, he thinks, will last no longer than till she is a wife, and then she cannot but fall to his share as he is an irresistible fine gentleman. The falsehood to Mrs. Loveit, and the barbarity of triumphing over her anguish for losing him, is another instance of his honesty, as well as his good nature. As to his fine language; he calls the orange-woman, who, it seems, is inclined to grow fat, “An overgrown jade, with a flasket of guts before her;’ and salutes her with a pretty phrase of “How now, Double Tripe?’. Upon the mention of a country gentlewoman, whom he knows nothing of (no one can imagine why) “he will lay his life she is some awkward ill-fashioned country toad, who not having above four dozen of hairs on her head, has adorned her baldness with a large white fruz, that she may look sparkishly in the fore-front of the king's box at an old play.’ Unnatural mixture of senseless common-place! As to the generosity of his temper, he tells his poor footman, “If he did not wait better,’ he would turn him away, in the insolent phrase of, “I’ll uncase you.' ' Now for Mrs. Harriot. She laughs at obedience to an absent mother, whose tenderness Busy describes to be very exquisite, for that “she is so pleased with finding Harriot again that she cannot chide her for being out of the way.” This witty daughter and fine lady has so little respect for this good woman, that she ridicules her air in taking leave, and cries, “In what struggle is my poor mother yonder! See, see, her head tottering, her eyes staring, and her under-lip trembling.” But all this is atoned for, because “she has more wit than is usual in her sex, and as much malice, though she is as wild as you could wish her, and has a demureness in her looks that makes it so surprising.” Then to recommend her as a fit spouse for his hero, the poet makes her speak her sense of marriage very ingenuously: “I think,’ says she, ‘I might be brought to endure him, and that is all a reasonable woman should expect in a husband.” It is methinks unnatural, that we are not made to understand, how she that was bred under a silly pious old mother, that would never trust §: out of her sight, came to be so polite. It cannot be denied, but that the negligence of every thing which engages the attention of the sober and valuable part of ind, appears véry well drawn in this piece. But it is denied, that it is necessary to the character of a fine gentleman, that he should in that manner trample upon all order and decency. As for the character of Dorimant, it is more of a coxcomb than that of Fopling. He says of one of his companions, that a good correspondence between them is their mutual interest. Speaking of that friend, he declares, their being much together, “makes the women §§ the better of his understanding, and

judge more favourably of my reputation. t makes him pass upon some for a man of very good sense, and me upon others for a very civil person.” his whole celebrated piece is a perfect contradiction to good manners, good sense, and common honesty; and as there is nothing in it but what is built upon the ruin of virtue and innocence, according to the notion of merit in this comedy, I take the shoemaker to be in reality the fine gentleman of the play: for it seems he is an atheist, if we may depend upon his character as given by the orange-woman, who is herself far from being the lowest in the play. She says, of a fine man who is Dorimant’s comanion, “There is not such another heathen in the town except the shoemaker.” His pretension to be the hero of the drama apo: still more in his own description of his way of living with his lady. “There is,” says he, “never a man in town lives more like a gentleman with his wife than I do; I never mind her motions; she never inquires into mine. We speak to one another civilly, hate one another heartily; and because it is vulgar to lie and soak together, we have each of us our several settle-bed.” That of “soaking together' is as good as if Dorimant had spoken it himself; and I think, since he puts human nature in as ugly a form as the circumstance will bear, and is a staunch unbeliever, he is very much wronged in having no part of the good fortune bestowed in the last act. To speak plain of this whole work, I think nothing but being lost to a sense of innocence and virtue, can make any one see this comedy, without observing more frequent occasion to move sorrow and indignation, than mirth and laughter. At the same time I allow it to be nature, but it is nature in its utmost corruption and degeneracy. R.

No. 66.] Wednesday, May 16, 1711.

Motus doceri gaudet Ionicos
Matura virgo, et fingitur artibus
Jam nunc, et incestos amores
De tenero meditatur ungui.
Hor. Lib. 3. Od. vi. 21.

Behold a ripe and melting maid Bound 'prentice to the wanton trade: Ionian artists, at a mighty price, Instruct her in the mysteries of vice, What nets to spread, where subtle baits to lay; And with an early hand they form the temper'd clay. roscommon. THE two following letters are upon a subject of very great importance, though expressed without any air of gravity. To the Shectator. ‘SIR,--I take the freedom of asking your advice in behalf of a young country kinswoman of mine who is lately come to town, and under my care for her education. She is very pretty, but you cannot imagine how unformed a creature it is, She comes to

my hands just as nature left her, half finished, and without any acquired improvements. When I look on her I often think of the Belle Sauvage mentioned in one of your papers. Dear Mr. Spectator, help me to make her comprehend the visible graces of speech, and the dumb eloquence of motion; for she is at present a perfect stranger to both. She knows no way to express herself but by her tongue, and that always to signify her meaning. Her eyes serve her yet only to see with, and she is utterly a

years is out of fashion and neglected. The boy I shall consider upon some other occasion, and at present stick to the girl: and I am the more inclined to this, because I have several letters which complain to me, that my female readers have not understood me for some days last past, and take themselves to be unconcerned in the present turn of my writing. When a girl is safely brought from her nurse, before she is capable of forming one single notion of any thing in life, she is delivered to the hands of her

foreigner to the language of looks and dancing-master, and with a collar round glances. In this I fancy you could help her neck, the pretty wild thing is taught a

her better than any body. two months in teaching her to sigh when she is not concerned, and to smile when she

I have bestowed fantastical gravity of behaviour, and forced

to a particular way of holding her head, heaving her breast, and moving with her

is not pleased, and am ashamed to own she whole body; and all this under pain of never makes little or no improvement. Then she having a husband, if she steps, looks, or is no more able now to walk, than she was moves awry. This gives a young lady wonto go at a year old. By walking, you will derful workings of imagination, what is to easily know I mean that regular but easy pass between her and this husband, that

motion which gives our persons so irresistible a grace as if we moved to music, and is a kind of disengaged figure; or, if I may so speak, recitative dancing. But the want of this I cannot blame in her, for I find she has no ear, and means nothing by walking but to change her place. I could pardon too her blushing, if she knew how to carry herself in it, and it did not manifestly injure her complexion. “They tell me you are a person who have seen the world, and are a judge of fine breeding; which makes me ambitious of some instructions from you for her improvement; which when you have favoured me with, I shall further advise with vou about the disposal of this fair forester in marriage; for I will make it no secret to you, that her person and education are to be her fortune. I am, sir, your very humble servant,

• CELIMENE.”

“SIR,-Being employed by Celimene to make up and send to you her letter, I make bold to recommend the case therein mentioned to your consideration, because she and I happen to differ a little in our notions. I who am a rough man, am afraid the young girl is in a fair way to be spoiled: therefore, pray, Mr. Spectator, let us have your opinion of this fine thing called fine breeding; for I am afraid it differs too much from that plain thing called good breeding.

“Your most humble servant.”

The general mistake among us in the educating our children is, that in our daughters we take care of their persons, and neglect their minds; in our sons we are so intent upon adorning their minds, that we wholly neglect their bodies. It is from this that you shall see a young lady celebrated and admired in all the assemblies about town, when her elder brother is afraid to come into a room. From this ill management it arises, that we frequently observe a man's life is half spent, before he is taken notice of; and a woman in the prime of her

she is every moment told of, and for whom she seems to be educated. Thus her fancy is engaged to turn all her endeavours to the ornament of her person, as what must determine her good and ill in this life; and she naturally thinks, if she is tall enough, she is wise enough for anything for which her education makes her think she is designed. To make her an agreeable person is the main purpose of her parents; to that is all their cost, to that all their care directed; and from this general folly of parents we owe our present numerous race of coquettes. These reflections puzzle me, when I think of giving my advice on the subject of managing the wild thing mentioned in the letter of my correspondent. But sure there is a middle way to be followed; the management of a young lady’s person is not to be overlooked, but the erudition of her mind is much more to be regarded. According as this is managed, you will see the mind follow the appetites of the §: or the body express the virtues of the mln Cleomira dances with all the elegance of motion imaginable: but her eyes are so chastised with the simplicity and innocence of her thoughts, that she raises in her beholders admiration and good-will, but no loose hope or wild imagination. The true art in this case is, to make the mind and body improve together; and, if possible, to make gesture follow thought, and not let thought be employed upon gesture.

No. 67.] Thursday, May 17, 1711.

Saltare elegantius quam necesse est probe. Szil

Too fine a dancer for a virtuous woman.

LuciaN, in one of his dialogues, introduces a philosopher chiding his friend for his being a lover of dancing, and a frequenter of balls. The other undertakes the defence of his favourite diversion, which, he says, was at first invented by the goddess Rhea, and preserved the life of Jupiter himself, from the cruelty of his father Saturn. He proceeds to show, that it had been approved by the greatest men in all ages; that Homer calls Merion a fine dancer; and says, that the graceful mien and great agility which he had ol. by that exercise, distinguished him above the rest in the armies both of Greeks and Trojans. He adds, that Pyrrhus gained more reputation by inventing the dance which is called after his name, than by all his other actions: that the Lacedemonians, who were the bravest people in Greece, gave great encouragement to this diversion, and made their Hormus (a dance much resembling the French Brawl) famous over all Asia: that there were still extant some Thessalian statues erected to the honour of their best dancers; and that he wondered how his brother philosopher could declare himself inst the opinions of those two persons, whom he professed so much to admire, Homer and Hesiod; the latter of which compares valour and dancing together, and says, that “the gods have bestowed fortitude on some men, and on others a disposition for dancing.” Lastly, he puts him in mind that Socrates, (who, in the judgment of Apollo, was the wisest of men) was not only a professed admirer of this exercise in others, but learned it himself when he was an old man. The morose philosopher is so much affected by these and some other authorities, that he becomes a convert to his friend, and desires he would take him with him when he went to his next ball. I love to shelter myself under the examples of great men; and, I think, I have sufficiently showed that it is not below the dignity of these my speculations to take notice of the following letter, which, I suppose, is sent me by some substantial tradesman about 'Change.

“SIR,--I am a man in years, and by an honest industry in the world have acquired enough to give my children a liberal education, though I was an utter stranger to it myself. My eldest daughter, a girl of sixteen, has for some time been under the tuition of Monsieur Rigadoon, a dancingmaster in the city; and I was prevailed upon by her and her mother to go last night to one of his balls. I must own to you, sir, that having never been to any such place ore, I was very much pleased and surprised with that part of his entertainment which he called French dancing. There were several young men and women, whose limbs seemed to have no other motion but purely what the music gave them. After this part was over, they began a diversion which they call country dancing, and wherein there were also somethings not disagreeable, and divers emblematical figures, composed, as I guess, by wise men, for the instruction of youth.

“Among the rest, Lobserved one, which I think they call “Hunt the Squirrel,” in which while the woman flies the man pursues her; but as soon as she turns, he runs away, and she is obliged to follow. “The moral of this dance does, I think, very aptly recommend modesty and discretion to the female sex. “But as the best institutions are liable to corruptions, so, sir, I must acquaint you, that very great abuses are crept into this entertainment. I was amazed to see my girl handed by, and handing, young fellows with so much familiarity; and I could not have thought it had been in the child. They very often made use of a most impudent and lascivious step, called “Setting,” which I know not how to describe to you, but by telling you that it is the very reverse of “back to back.” At last an impudent young dog bid the fiddlers play a dance called “Moll Pately,” and after having made two or three capers, ran to his partner, locked his arm in hers, and whisked her round cleverly above ground in such a manner, that I, who sat upon one of the lowest benches, saw further above her shoe than I can think fit to acquaint you with. I could no longer endure these enormities: wherefore, just as my girl was going to be made a whirligig, I ran in, seized on the child, and carried her home. *Sir, I am not yet old enough to be a fool. I suppose this diversion . t at first be invented to keep a good understanding between young men and women, and so far I am not against it; but I shall never allow of these things. I know not what you will say to this case at present, but am sure, had you been with me, you would have seen matter of great speculation. ‘I am yours, &c.”

I must confess I am afraid that my correspondent had too much reason to be a little out of humour at the treatment of his daughter, but I conclude that he would have been much more so, had he seen one of those kissing dances, in which, Will Honeycomb assures me, . are obliged to dwell almost a minute on the fair one’s lips, or they will be too quick for the music, and dance quite out of time. I am not able, however, to give my final sentence against this diversion; and am of Mr. Cowley's opinion, that so much of dancing, at least, as belongs to the behaviour and a handsome carriage of the body, is extremely useful, if not absolutely necesSarv. We generally form such ideas of people at first sight, as we are hardly ever persuaded to § aside afterwards: for this reason, a man would wish to have nothing disagreeable or uncomely in his approaches, and to be able to enter a room with a good grace. I might add, that a moderate knowledge in the little rules of good-breeding, gives a

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