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affectations of coquetry, which are im- | she received it, and took away his life with proved into charms by his own fond ima- a courtesy. gination, the very laying before himself the cause of his distemper may be sufficient to effect the cure of it.

It is in this view that I have looked over the several bundles of letters which I have received from dying people, and composed out of them the following bill of mortality, which I shall lay before my reader without any farther preface, as hoping that it may be useful to him in discovering those several places where there is most danger, and those fatal arts which are made use of to destroy the heedless and unwary.

Lysander, slain at a puppet-show on the third of September.

Thyrsis, shot from a casement in Picca

dilly.

John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was despatched by a smile.

Strephon, killed by Clarinda as she looked down into the pit.

Charles Careless, shot flying by a girl of fifteen, who unexpectedly popped her head upon him out of a coach.

Josiah Wither, aged three score and three, sent to his long home by Elizabeth Jetwell, spinster.

Jack Freelove murdered by Melissa in her hair.

William Wiseacre, gent. drowned in a flood of tears by Moll Common.

John Pleadwell, esq. of the Middle Tem

T. S. wounded by Zelinda's scarlet stock-ple, barrister at law, assassinated in his ing, as she was stepping out of a coach.

Will Simple, smitten at the opera by the glance of an eye that was aimed at one who stood by him.

Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball.

Tim. Tattle, killed by the tap of a fan on his left shoulder, by Coquetilla, as he was talking carelessly with her in a bowwindow.

Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the playhouse in Drury-lane by a frown. Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora, as she was adjusting her tucker.

Ralph Gapley, esq. hit by a random-shot at the ring.

F. R. caught his death upon the water, April the 1st.

W. W. killed by an unknown hand, that was playing with the glove off upon the side of the front-box in Drury-lane.

Sir Christopher Crazy, bart. hurt by the brush of a whale-bone petticoat. Sylvius, shot through the sticks of a fan at St. James's church.

Damon, struck through the heart by a diamond necklace.

Thomas Trusty, Francis Goosequill, William Meanwell, Edward Callow, esqrs. standing in a row, fell all four at the same time, by an ogle of the widow Trapland. Tom Rattle, chancing to tread upon a lady's tail as he came out of the play-house, she turned full upon him, and laid him dead upon the spot.

Dick Taste well, slain by a blush from the queen's box in the third act of the Trip to

the Jubilee.

Samuel Felt, haberdasher, wounded in his walks to Islington, by Mrs. Susanna Cross-stitch, as she was clambering over a stile.

R. F., T. W., S. I., M. P. &c. put to death in the last birth-day massacre. Roger Blinko, cut off in the twenty-first year of his age by a white-wash.

Musidorus, slain by an arrow that flew out of a dimple in Belinda's left cheek. Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove (which she had dropped on purpose) VOL. II.

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chambers the 6th instant, by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come to him for his advice.

No. 378.] Wednesday, May 14, 1712. Aggredere, O magnos! aderit jam tempus honores. Virg. Ecl. iv. 48. Mature in years, to ready honours move.-Dryden.

I WILL make no apology for entertaining the reader with the following poem, which is written by a great genius, a friend of mine* in the country, who is not ashamed to employ his wit in the praise of his Maker,

MESSIAH:

A SACRED ECLOGUE.

Composed of several passages of Isaiah the Prophet.
Written in Imitation of Virgil's Pollio.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more.-O Thou my voice inspire,
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

Isa. xi. 1.

Rapt into future times, the bard begun, A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: Th' æthereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic dove.

And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!

xlv. 8.

Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, xxv. 4

From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.

All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail;
Returning justice lift aloft her scale:

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd Innocence from heav'n descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn!
See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born!
With all the incense of the breathing spring:

See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance,

see spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,

And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers:
Prepare the way a God, a God appears;
A God! a God the vocal hills reply,

The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.

Lo earth receives him from the bending skies!

Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys rise!

Pope. See No. 534.

ix. 7.

XXXV. 2.

xi. 3, 4.

xl. 11.

communicates what he knows to any one besides.' There is certainly no more sensible pleasure to a good-natured man, than if he can by any means gratify or inform the mind of another. I might add that this virtue naturally carries its own reward along with it, since it is almost impossible it should be exercised without the imXXV. 8. provement of the person who practises it. The reading of books and the daily occurrences of life, are continually furnishing us with matter for thought and reflection. It is extremely natural for us to desire to see such our thoughts put in the dress of words, without which, indeed, we can scarce have a clear and distinct idea of ix. 6. them ourselves. When they are thus clothed in expressions, nothing so truly shows us whether they are just or false, as those effects which they produce in the minds of others.

With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay;
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold!
Hear him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold! Isa. xlii. 18.
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, xxxv. 5. 6.
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day.
"Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear;
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe:
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear,
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pastures and the purest air,
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects,
The tender lamb he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms;
Mankind shall thus his guardian care engage,
The promis'd father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more;
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what the short-liv'd sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise,
And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear;
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.

ii. 4.

lxv. 21, 22.

I am apt to flatter myself, that, in the course of these my speculations, I have treated of several subjects, and laid down many XXXV. 1. 7. such rules for the conduct of a man's life, which my readers were either wholly ignorant of before, or which at least those few who were acquainted with them looked out for the conduct of themselves, but were upon as so many secrets they have found resolved never to have made public.

Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, xli. 19,
The spiry fur and shapely box adorn: [& Iv. 13.
The leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed.

I am the more confirmed in this opinion

The lambs with wolves shall grace the verdant mead, xl. from my having received several letters,

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet:
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake-
Pleas'd the green lustre of the scales survey,

[6, 7, 8.

wherein I am censured for having prostituted learning to the embraces of the vulgar, and made her, as one of my correspondents phrases it, a common strumpet. I am charged by another with laying open the arcana or secrets of prudence to the Ix. 4. eyes of every reader.

[play.

lx. 1.

And with their forked tongue, and pointless sting shall
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn!
See future sons and daughters yet unborn
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barb'rous nations at thy gate attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee with a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn,
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,

Ix.

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze,

O'erflow thy courts: the Light Himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!

Ix. 3.

Ix. 6.

Ix.

19, 20.

li. 6.

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, li. 6, &

The narrow spirit which appears in the letters of these my correspondents, is the less surprising, as it has shown itself in all ages; there is still extant an epistle written by Alexander the Great, to his tutor Aristotle, upon that philosopher's publishing some part of his writings; in which the prince complains of his having made known to all the world those secrets in learning which he had before communicated to him in private lectures; concluding that he had rather excel the rest of mankind in knowledge than in power.

Louisa de Padilla, a lady of great learn

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; [Ivi. 10. ing, and countess of Aranda, was in like

But fix'd His word, His saving power remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns.

No. 379.] Thursday, May 15, 1712.

T.

Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter.
Pers. Sat. i. 27.

-Science is not science till reveal'd.-Dryden.

manner angry with the famous Gratian, upon his publishing his treatise of the Discreto, wherein she fancied that he had laid open those maxims to common readers, which ought only to have been reserved for the knowledge of the great.

These objections are thought by many of so much weight, that they often defend the above-mentioned authors by affirming I HAVE often wondered at that ill-natured they have affected such an obscurity in position which has been sometimes main- their style and manner of writing, that, tained in the schools, and is comprised though every one may read their works, in an old Latin verse, namely, that A there will be but very few who can comman's knowledge is worth nothing if he prehend their meaning.

Persius, the Latin satirist, affected ob- | country people soon came with lights to scurity for another reason; with which, the sepulchre, and discovered that the stahowever, Mr. Cowley is so offended, that, tue, which was made of brass, was nothing writing to one of his friends, 'You,' says more than a piece of clock-work; that the he, 'tell me that you do not know whether floor of the vault was all loose, and underPersius be a good poet or no, because you laid with several springs, which upon any cannot understand him; for which very man's entering, naturally produced that reason I affirm that he is not so. which had happened.'

However, this art of writing unintelligibly has been very much improved, and followed by several of the moderns, who, observing the general inclination of mankind to dive into a secret, and the reputation many have acquired by concealing their meaning under obscure terms and phrases, resolve, that they may be still more abstruse, to write without any mean- No. 380.] Friday, May 16, 1712. ing at all. This art, as it is at present practised by many eminent authors, consists in throwing so many words at a venture into different periods, and leaving the curious reader to find the meaning of them.

Rosicrusius, say his disciples, made use of this method to show the world that he had reinvented the ever-burning lamps of the ancients, though he was resolved no one should reap any advantage from the X. discovery.

The Egyptians, who made use of hieroglyphics to signify several things, expressed a man who confined his knowledge and discoveries altogether within himself by the figure of a dark lantern closed on all sides; which, though it was illuminated within, afforded no manner of light or advantage to such as stood by it. For my own part, as I shall from time to time communicate to the public whatever discoveries I happen to make, I should much rather be compared to an ordinary lamp, which consumes and wastes itself for the benefit of

Rivalem patienter habe.

Ovid. Ars Am. ii. 538. With patience bear a rival in thy love.

Thursday, May 8, 1712. 'SIR,-The character you have in the world of being the ladies' philosopher, and the pretty advice I have seen you give to others in your papers, make me address myself to you in this abrupt manner, and to desire your opinion of what in this age a woman may call a lover. I have lately had a gentleman that I thought made pretensions to me, insomuch that most of my friends took notice of it, and thought we were really married. I did not take much pains to undeceive them, and especially a young gentlewoman of my particular acI shall conclude this paper with the story quaintance, who was then in the country. of Rosicrusius's sepulchre. I suppose I She coming to town, and seeing our intineed not inform my readers that this man macy so great, she gave herself the liberty was the author of the Rosicrusian sect, and of taking me to task concerning it. I ingethat his disciples still pretend to new dis-nuously told her we were not married, but coveries, which they are never to communicate to the rest of mankind.*

every passenger.

A certain person having occasion to dig somewhat deep in the ground, where this philosopher lay interred, met with a small door, having a wall on each side of it. His curiosity, and the hopes of finding some hidden treasure, soon prompted him to force open the door. He was immediately surprised by a sudden blaze of light, and discovered a very fair vault. At the upper end of it was a statue of a man in armour, sitting by a table, and leaning on his left arm. He held a truncheon in his right hand, and had a lamp burning before him. The man had no sooner set one foot within the vault, than the statue erected itself from its leaning posture, stood bolt upright, and, upon the fellow's advancing another step, lifted up the truncheon in his right hand. The man still ventured a third step, when the statue, with a furious blow, broke the lamp into a thousand pieces, and left his guest in a sudden darkness.

I did not know what might be the event. She soon got acquainted with the gentleman, and was pleased to take upon her to examine him about it. Now, whether a new face had made a greater conquest than the old I will leave you to judge. I am informed that he utterly denied all pretensions to courtship, but withal professed a sincere friendship for me; but, whether marriages are proposed by way of friendship or not, is what I desire to know, and what I may really call a lover? There are so many who talk in a language fit only for that character, and yet guard themselves against speaking in direct terms to the point, that it is impossible to distinguish between courtship and conversation. I hope you will do me justice both upon my lover and my friend, if they provoke me further. In the mean time I carry it with so equal a behaviour, that the nymph and the swain too are mightily at a loss: each believes I, who know them both well, think myself revenged in their love to one another, which creates an irreconcilable jealousy. If all comes right again, you shall hear fur*See Comte de Gabalis, par l'Abbe Villars. Warburther from, sir, your most obedient servant, 'MYRTILLA,' ton's Pope. vol. i. p. 109, 12mo.

Upon the report of this adventure, the

'April 28, 1712.

him a courtesy, and went my way. He followed me, and, finding I was going about my business, he came up with me, and told me plainly that he gave me the guinea with no other intent but to purchase my person for an hour. "Did you so, sir?" says I; "you gave it me then to make me wicked; I will keep it to make me honest; however, you I will lay it out in a couple of rings, and wear them for your sake." I am so just sir, besides, as to give every body that asks how I came by my rings, this account of my benefactor; but to save me the trouble of telling my tale over and over again, I humbly beg the favour of you to tell it once for all, and you will extremely oblige your humble servant,

MR.SPECTATOR,Your observations on persons that have behaved themselves irreverently at church, I doubt not have had a good effect on some that have read them; but there is another fault which has hitherto escaped your notice; I mean of such persons as are there very zealous and punctual to perform an ejaculation that is only pre-not to be in the least ungrateful, I promise paratory to the service of the church, and yet neglect to join in the service itself. There is an instance of this in a friend of Will Honeycomb's, who sits opposite to me. He seldom comes in till the prayers are about half over: and when he has entered his seat, (instead of joining with the congregation,) he devoutly holds his hat before his face for three or four moments, then bows to all his acquaintance, sits down, takes a pinch of snuff, (if it be the evening service, perhaps takes a nap,) and spends the remaining time in surveying the congregation. Now, sir, what I would desire is, that you would animadvert a little on this gentleman's practice. In my opinion, this gentleman's devotion, cap in hand, is only a compliance to the custom of the place, and goes no farther than a little ecclesiastical good-breeding. If you will not pretend to tell us the motives that bring such trifles to solemn assemblies, yet let me desire that you will give this letter a place in your paper, and I shall remain, sir, your obliged humble servant, J. S.'

May the 5th.

MR. SPECTATOR,-The conversation at a club of which I am a member, last night, falling upon vanity and the desire of being admired, put me in mind of relating how agreeably I was entertained at my own door last Thursday, by a clean fresh

'BETTY LEMON."

'St. Bride's, May 15, 1712. 'SIR, 'Tis a great deal of pleasure to me, and I dare say will be no less satisfactory to you, that I have an opportunity of informing you, that the gentlemen and others of the parish of St. Bride's, have raised a charity-school of fifty girls, as before of fifty boys. You were so kind to recommend the boys to the charitable world; and the other sex hope you will do them the same favour in Friday's Spectator for Sunday next, when they are to appear with their humble airs at the parish church of Saint Bride's. Sir, the mention of this may possibly be serviceable to the children; and sure no one will omit a good action attended with no expense. I am, sir, your very humble servant,

T.

THE SEXTON.'

coloured girl, under the most elegant and No. 381.] Saturday, May 17, 1712.

the best furnished milk-pail I had ever observed. I was glad of such an opportunity of seeing the behaviour of a coquette in low life, and how she received the extraordinary notice that was taken of her; which I found had affected every muscle of her face, in the same manner as it does the features of a first-rate toast at a play or in an assembly. This hint of mine made the discourse turn upon the sense of pleasure; which ended in a general resolution, that the milk-maid enjoys her vanity as exquisitely as the woman of quality. I think it would not be an improper subject for you to examine this frailty, and trace it to all conditions of life; which is recommended to you as an occasion of obliging many of your readers, among the rest, your most humble servant,

T. B.'

'May 12, 1712.

'SIR,-Coming last weck into a coffeehouse, not far from the Exchange, with my basket under my arm, a Jew, of considerable note, as I am informed, takes half a dozen oranges of me, and at the same time slides a guinea into my hand; I made

Equam memento rebus in arduis
Servare mentem, non secus in bonis
Ab insolenti temperatam
Lætitia, moriture Deli.

Hor. Od. 3. 1. 2. v. I.

Be calm, my Delius, and serene,
However fortune change the scene:
In thy most dejected state,
Sink not underneath the weight;
Nor yet, when happy days begin,
And the full tide comes rolling in
Let a fierce, unruly joy,

The settled quiet of thy mind destroy. Anon.

I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy. On the contrary, cheerfulness though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the Sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection, was never seen to laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is of a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as among those who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians.

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of his soul. His imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude. He comes with relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation, which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall him.

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging; but raises the same good-humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion. It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of the divine will in his conduct towards man.

There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence can have no title to that ev enness and tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and

the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness.

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever titles it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of; and such a truth as we neet with in every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we g nerally find they are made up of pride, sp'een, and cavil. It is indeed no wonder, that men who are uneasy to themselves should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire existence, and dropping into nothing?

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good humour, and enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation; of being miserable, or of not being at all.

After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive of cheerfulness, in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age, nay, death itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has a dependance. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally rise in the mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improvable faculties which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which

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