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THE 
 
 MIRROR. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VELUTI IN SPE6UL0. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL F. BRADFORD, 
 NO. 4, SOUTH THIRD STREET. 
 
 1803. 
 
THE 
 
 MIRROR. 
 
 No. I. SATURDAY, JANUARY 23, 1779. 
 
 Quis novus hie hospes ? Vine. 
 
 WHEN a stranger is introduced into a numerous 
 company, he is scarcely seated before every body 
 present begins to form some notion of his character. 
 ■The gay, the sprightly, and the inconsiderate, judge 
 of him by the cut of his coat, the fashion of his peri- 
 wig, and the ease or awkwardness of his bow. The 
 cautious citizen, and the proud country gentleman, va- 
 lue Siim according to the opinion they chance to adopt, 
 the one, of the extent of his rent-roll, the other, of the 
 length of his pedigree; and all estimate his merit, in 
 proportion as he seems to possess, or to want, those 
 qualities :or which themselves wish to be ad in red. 
 If, in the course of conversation, they chance to disco- 
 ver, that he is in use to make one in the polite circles 
 of the metropolis; that he is familiar with the great, 
 and sometimes closeted with the minister ; whatever 
 contempt or indifference they may at' first have 
 shewn, or ftlc themselves disposed to shew, they at 
 once g-ive up their own judgment ; every one pays a 
 compliment to his own sagacity, by assuming the me- 
 rit of hannj, discovered that this stranger had the air 
 of a man of fashion ; and all vie in. their attention and 
 
 VOL. I. & 
 
4 THE MIRROR. 
 
 civility, in hopes of establishing a more intimate ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 An anonymous periodical writer, when he first 
 gives his works to the public, is pretty much in the 
 situation of the stranger. If he endeavour to amuse 
 the young and the lively, by the sprightliness of his 
 wit, or the sallies of his imagination, the grave and 
 the sedate throw aside his works as trifling and con- 
 temptible. The reader of romance and sentiment 
 finds no pleasure but in some eventful story, suited 
 to his taste and disposition : while, with him who 
 aims at instruction in politics, religion or morality, 
 nothing is relished that has not a relation to the ob- 
 ject he pursues. But, no sooner is the public inform*' 
 ed, that this unknown author has already figured in 
 the world as a poet, historian or essayist ; that his 
 writings are read and admired by the Shaftsburies, 
 the Addisons, and the Chesterfields of the age, than 
 beauties are discovered in every line ; he is extolled 
 as a man of universal talents, who can laugh with 
 the merry, and be serious with the grave ; who, at 
 one time, can animate his reader with the glowing 
 sentiments of virtue and compassion, and at another, 
 carry him through the calm disquisitions of science 
 and philosophy. 
 
 Nor is the world to be blamed for this general mode 
 of judging. Before an individual can form an opini- 
 on for himself, he is under a necessity of reading 
 with attention, of examining whether the style and 
 manner of the author be suited to his subject, if his 
 thoughts and images be natural, his observations 
 just, his arguments conclusive : and though all this 
 may be done with moderate talents, and without any 
 extraordinary share of what is commonly called 
 learning ; yet it is a much more compendious me- 
 thod, and saves much time, and labour, and reflec- 
 tion, to follow the crowd, and to re-echo the opinions 
 ef the critics. 
 
THE MIRROR. 5 
 
 There is, however, one subject, on which every 
 man thinks himselt qualified to decide, namely the 
 representation of his own character, of the characters 
 of those around him, and of the age in which he 
 lives ; and, as I propose, in the following papers, 
 " to hold, as it were the Mirror up to nature, to 
 " shew Virtue her own features, Vice her own image, 
 u and the very age and body of the time his form 
 " and pressure/' my readers will judge for them_ 
 selves, independent of names and authority, whethe 
 the picture be a just one. This is a field, which 
 however extensively and judiciously cultivated by my' 
 predecessors, may still produce something new. The 
 follies, the fashions, and the vices of mankind, are 
 in constant fluctuation ; and these, in their turn, 
 bring to light new virtues, or modifications of virtues, 
 which formerly lay hid in the human soul, for want 
 of opportunities to exert them. Time alone can 
 shew whether I be qualified for the task I have un- 
 dertaken. No man, without a trial, can judge of 
 his ability to please the public ; and prudence for- 
 bids him to trust the applauses of partial friendship. 
 
 It may be proper, however, without meaning to 
 anticipate the opinion of the reader, to give him some 
 of the outlines of my past life and education. 
 
 I am the only son of a gentleman of moderate for- 
 tune. My parents died when I was an infant, leav- 
 ing me under the guardianship of an eminent coun- 
 sellor, who came annually to visit an estate he had 
 in the neighbourhood of my father's, and of the cler- 
 gyman of the parish, both of them men of distin- 
 guished probity and honour. They took particular care 
 of my education, intending me for one of the learned 
 professions. At the age of twenty I had completed 
 my studies, and was preparing to enter upon the thea 
 tre of the world, when the death of a distant relation* 
 in the metropolis left me possessed of a handsome 
 fortune. I soon after set out on the tour of Europe ; 
 
> THE MIRROR. 
 
 and having passed five years in visiting the different 
 courts on the Continent, and examining the manners, 
 with, at least, as much attention as the pictures and 
 buildings of the kingdoms through which I passed, I 
 returned to my native country ; where a misfortune 
 of the tenderest kind threw me, for some time, into 
 retirement. 
 
 By the assiduities of some friends, who have pro- 
 mised to assist me in the present publication, I was 
 prevented from falling a sacrifice to that languid in- 
 activity which a depression of spirits never fails to 
 produce. Without seeming to do so, they engaged 
 me by degrees to divide my time between study and 
 society ; restoring, by that means, a relish for both. 
 2 once more took a share in the busy, and, sometimes, 
 in the idle scenes of life. But a mind, habituated to 
 reflection, though it may seem occupied with the oc- 
 currences of the day, (a tax which politeness exacts, 
 which every benevolent heart cheerfully pays,) will 
 cften, at the same time, be employed in endeavour- 
 ing to discover the springs and motives of action, 
 which are sometimes hid from the actors themselves ; 
 to trace the progress of character through the mazes 
 in which it is involved by education or habit ; to mark 
 those approaches to error into which unsuspecting 
 innocence and integrity are too apt to be led ; and, 
 in general, to investigate those passions and affections 
 of the mind which have the chief influence on the 
 happiness of individuals, or of society. 
 
 If the sentiments and observations to which this 
 train of thinking will naturally give rise, can be exhi- 
 bited in this paper, in such a dress and manner as to 
 afford amusement, it will, at least, be an innocent 
 one ; and, though instruction is, perhaps, hardly to 
 be expected from such desultory sketches, yet their 
 general tendency shall be, to cultivate taste, and im- 
 prove the heart. 
 
 T 
 
THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. II. SATURDAY, JANUARY 30. 
 
 NO child ever heard from its nurse the story of 
 Jack the Giant-killer's cap of darkness, without envy- 
 ing the pleasures of invisibility ; and the idea of 
 Gyges's ring has made, I believe, many a grave 
 mouth water. 
 
 This power is, in some degree, possessed by the 
 writer of an anonymous paper. He can at least ex- 
 ercise it for a purpose for which people would be most 
 apt to use the privilege of being invisible, to wit, 
 that of hearing what is said of himself. 
 
 A few hours after the publication of my first num- 
 ber, I sallied forth, with all the advantages of invisi- 
 bility, to hear an account of myself and my paper. 
 I must confess, however, that, for some time ; I was 
 mortified by hearing no such account at all ; the first 
 company I visited being dull enough to talk of last 
 night's Advertiser, instead of the Mirror ; and the 
 second, which consisted of ladies, to whom I ven- 
 tured to mention the appearance of my first number, 
 making a sudden digression to the price of a new- 
 fashioned lutestring, and the colour of the trimming 
 with which it would be proper to make it up into a 
 gown. Nor was 1 more fortunate in the third place 
 where I contrived to introduce the subject of my 
 publication, though it was a coffee-house, where it 
 is actually taken in for the use of the customers ; a 
 set of old gentlemen, at one table, throwing it aside 
 to talk over a bargain ; and a company of young 
 ones, at another, breaking off in the middle to decide 
 a match at billiards. 
 
 It was not till I arrived at the place of its birth 
 that I met with any traces of its fame. In the well- 
 known shop of my editor I found it the subject of 
 conversation ; though I must own, that, even here, 
 sfome little quackery was used for the purpose, as he 
 
 b 2 
 
I THE MIRROR. 
 
 had taken care to have several copies lying open on 
 the table, besides the conspicuous appearance of the 
 subscription-paper hung up fronting the door, with 
 the word mirror a-top, printed in large capitals. 
 
 The first question I found agitated was concerning 
 the author, that being a point within the reach of eve- 
 ry capacity. Mr. Creech, though much importuned 
 on this head, knew his business better than to satisfy 
 their curiosity : so the hounds were cast off to find 
 him, and many a different scent they hit on. Firsfc> 
 he was a Clergyman, then a Professor, then a Play- 
 er, then a Gentleman of the Exchequer who writes 
 plays, then a Lawyer, a Doctor of Laws, a Com- 
 missioner of the Customs, a Baron of the Exchequer, 
 a Lord of Session, a Peer of the Realm. A critic, 
 who talked much about style, was positive as to the 
 sex of the writer, and declared it to be female, 
 strengthening his conjecture by the name of the pa- 
 per, which, he said, would not readily have occurred 
 to a man. He added, ihat it was full of Scotticisms, 
 which sufficiently marked it to be a " home produc- 
 « tion." 
 
 This led to animadversions on the work itself ; 
 which were begun by an observation of my own, that 
 it seemed, from the slight perusal I had given it, to 
 be tolerably well written. The critic above-mention- 
 ed strenuously supported the contrary opinion ; and 
 concluded his strictures on this particular publication, 
 with a general remark on all modern ones, that there 
 was no force of thought, nor beauty of composition, 
 to be found in them. 
 
 An elderly gentleman, who said he had a guess at 
 the author, prognosticated, that the paper would be 
 used as the vehicle of a system of scepticism, and 
 that he had very little doubt of seeing Mr. Hume's 
 posthumous works introduced in it. A short, squat 
 man, with a carbuncled face, maintained, that it was 
 designed to propagate methodism ; and said, he be- 
 
THE MIRROR. § 
 
 lieved it to be the production of a disciple of Mr. 
 John Wesley. A gentleman in a gold chain differed 
 from both ; and told us, he had been informed, from 
 very good authority, that the paper was intended for 
 political purposes. 
 
 A smart-looking young man, in green, said, he 
 was sure it would be very satirical : his companion, 
 in scarlet, was equally certain that it would be very 
 stupid. But with this last prediction I was not much 
 offended, when I discovered that its author had not 
 read the first number, but only enquired of Mr. 
 Creech where it was published. 
 
 A plump round figure, near the fire, who had just 
 put on his spectacles to examine the paper, closed 
 the debate, by observing, with a grave aspect, that 
 as the author was anonymous, it was proper to be 
 very cautious in talking of the performance. After 
 glancing over the pages, he said, he could have wish- 
 ed they had set apart a corner for intelligence from 
 America : but, having taken off his spectacles, wiped 
 and put them into their case, he said, with a tone of 
 discovery, he had found out the reason why there 
 was nothing of that sort in the mirror ; it was in 
 order to save the tax upon newspapers. 
 
 Upon getting home to my lodgings, and reflecting 
 on what I had heard, I was for some time in doubt, 
 whether I should not put an end to these questions 
 at once, by openly publishing my name and intentions 
 to the world. But I am prevented from discovering 
 the first by a certain bashfulness, of which even my 
 travels have not been able to cure me ; from declar- 
 ing the last, by being really unable to declare them. 
 The complexion of my paper will depend on a thou- 
 sand circumstances which it is impossible to foresee. 
 Besides these little changes, to which every one is 
 liable from external circumstances, I must fairly ac- 
 knowledge, that my mind is naturally much more 
 various than my situation. The disposition of the 
 
10 tHE MIRROR. 
 
 author will not always correspond with the temper of 
 the man : in the first character I may sometimes in- 
 dulge a sportiveness to which I am a stranger in the 
 latter, and escape from a train of very different 
 thoughts, into the occasional gaiety of the mirror. 
 
 The general tendency of my lucubrations, how- 
 ever, I have signified in my first number, in allusion 
 to my title : I mean to shew the world what it is, 
 and will sometimes endeavour to point out what it 
 should be. 
 
 Somebody has compared the publisher of a perio- 
 dical paper of this kind to the owner of a stage-coach, 
 who is obliged to run his vehicle with or without pas- 
 sengers. One might carry on the allusion through 
 various points of similarity. I must confess to my 
 customers, that the road we are to pass together is 
 not a new one ; that it has been travelled again and 
 again, and that too in much better carriages than 
 mine. I would only insinuate, that, though the great 
 objects are still the same, there are certain little 
 edifices, some beautiful, some grotesque, and some 
 ridiculous, which people, on every side of the read, 
 are daily building, in the prospect of which we may 
 find some amusement. Their fellow-passengers will 
 sometimes be persons of high, and sometimes of low 
 rank, as in other stage-coaches ; like them, too, 
 sometimes grave, sometimes facetious ; but that la- 
 dies and men of delicacy, may not be afraid to take 
 places, they may be assured, that no scurrilous or 
 indecent company will ever be admitted. 
 
THE MIRROR. H 
 
 No. III. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 2. 
 
 Formam qudidem ipsam et faciem honesti vides, quae, si oculis 
 cerneretur, mirabiles amores exciraret sapiential. Cic 
 
 THE philosopher, and the mere man of taste, 
 differ from vach other chiefly in this, that the latter 
 is satisfied with the pleasure he receives from objects, 
 without enquiring into the principles or causes from 
 which that pleasure proceeds ; but the philosophical 
 enquirer, not satisfied witn the effect which objects 
 viewed by him, produce, endeavours to discover the 
 reasons why some of those objects give pleasure, and 
 others disgust; why one composition is agreeable, 
 and another the reverse. Hence have arisen the va- 
 rious systems with regard to the principles of beauty; 
 and hence the rules, which, deduced from those prin- 
 ciples, have been established by the critic. 
 
 In the course of these investigations, various theo- 
 ries have been invented to explain the different qua- 
 lities, which when assembled together, constitute 
 beauty, and produce that feeling which arises in 
 the mind from the sight of a beautiful object. 
 Some philosophers have said, that this feeling arises 
 from the sight or examination of an object in which 
 there is a proper mixture of uniformity and variety ; 
 others have thought, that, beside uniformity and va- 
 riety, a number of other qualities enter into the 
 composition of an object that is termed beautiful. 
 
 To engage in an examination of those different 
 systems, or to give any opinion of my own with re- 
 gard to them, would involve me in a discussion too 
 abstruse for a paper of this kind. I shall, however, 
 beg leave to present my readers with a quotation from 
 a treatise, intitled, " An Inquiry into the Original of 
 " our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue."* Speaking of the 
 
 * By Dr. Hutcheson. 
 
12 THE MIRROR. 
 
 effect which the beauty of the human figure has upoia 
 our minds, the author expresses himself in the follow- 
 ing words. 
 
 " There is a farther consideration, which must not 
 44 be passed over, concerning the external beauty of 
 44 persons, which all allow to have great power over 
 44 human minds. Now, it is some apprehended mo- 
 44 rality, some natural or imagined indication of con- 
 44 comitant virtue, which gives it this powerful charm 
 44 above all other kinds of beauty. Let us consider 
 44 the characters of beauty which are commonly ad- 
 44 mired in countenances, and we shall find them to 
 44 be sweetness, mildness, majesty, dignity, vivacity, 
 44 humility, tenderness, good-nature ; that is, cer- 
 44 tain airs, proportions, 4 je ne scai quois,' are natu- 
 44 ral indications of such virtues, or of abilities or dis- 
 44 positions towards them. As we observed above, of 
 44 misery or distress appearing «in countenances; so, 
 <4 it is certain, almost all habitual dispositions of mind 
 <f form the countenance, in such a manner as to give 
 44 some indications to the spectator. Our violent 
 * passions are obvious, at first view, in the counte- 
 44 nance, so that sometimes no art can conceal them ; 
 44 and smaller degrees of them give some less ob- 
 44 vious turns to the face, which an accurate eye will 
 « observe." 
 
 What an important lesson may be drawn by my 
 fair countrywomen from the observations contained 
 in this passage ! Nature has given to their sex beauty 
 of external form greatly superior to that of the 
 other ; the power which this gives them over our 
 hearts they well know, and they need no instructor 
 how to exercise it ; but whoever can give any pre- 
 scription by which that beauty may be increased, or 
 its decay retarded, is a useful monitor, and a bene- 
 volent friend. 
 
 Now I am inclined to think, that a prescription may 
 
THE MIRROR. 15 
 
 be extracted from the unfashionable philosopher a- 
 bove quoted, which will be more effectual in height- 
 ening and preserving the beauty of the ladies, than all 
 the pearl powder, or other cosmetics of the perfumer's 
 shop. I hope I shall not be misunderstood, and I 
 beg my fair readers may not think me so ill-bred, or 
 so ignorant of the world, as to recommend the quali- 
 ties mentioned in the above passage, on account of 
 their having any intrinsic value. To recommend to 
 the world to embrace virtue for its own sake, should 
 be left to such antiquated fellows as the heathen phi- 
 losopher from whom I have taken the motto of this 
 number, or the modern philosopher who has borrowed 
 much from his writings ; bu* I would not wish to 
 sully my paper, or to prevent its currency in the 
 fashionable circle, by such obsolete doctrines. 
 
 Far be it from me, therefore, so much as to hint 
 to a fine lady, that she should sometimes stay at 
 home, or retire to the country with, that dullest of all 
 dull companions, a husband, because it is the duty 
 of a wife to pay attention to her spouse ; that she 
 should speak civilly to her servants, because it is 
 agreeable to the fitness of things ; that people under 
 us should be well treated ; that she should give up 
 play, or late hours upon Sunday, because the parson 
 says Sunday should be devoted to religion. I know 
 well, that nothing is so unfashionable as for a husband 
 and wife to be often together ; that it is beneath a 
 fine lady to give attention to domestic economy, or 
 to demean herself so far as to consider servants to be 
 of the same species with their mistresses ; and tkat 
 going to church is fit only for fools and old women. 
 But though I do not recommend the above, or the 
 like practices, on their own account, and in so far 
 must differ from the philosophical gentlemen I have 
 referred to ; yet, I think, what they recommend ought 
 to be attended to, for the good effects it may have 
 on female beauty. Though I am aware, that every 
 
14 THE MIRROR. 
 
 fine lady is apt, like Lady Townly, to faint at the rery- 
 description of the pleasures of the country ; yet she 
 ought to be induced to spend some of her time there, 
 even though it should be her husband's principal 
 place of residence ; because the tranquillity, and fresh 
 air of the country, may repair some of the devasta- 
 tions t*hich a winter-campaign in town may have 
 made upon her cheeks. Though I knew also, that 
 spending Sunday like a good Christian is the most 
 tiresome and unfashionable of ail things ; yet, per- 
 haps, some observance of the sabbath, and a iiitle 
 regularity on that day, by going to church, and get- 
 ting early to bed, may smooth those wrinkles which 
 the late hours of the other six are apt to produce : 
 and though economy, or attention to a husband's af- 
 fairs, is, 1 allow, a mean and vulgar tiling in itself; 
 yet, possibly ^ it should be so far attended to as to 
 prevent that busband's total ruin ; because duns, and 
 the other impertinent concomitants of bankruptcy, 
 are apt, from the trouble they occasion, to spoil a 
 fine face before its time. In like manner, though I 
 grant it is below a fine lady to cultivate the qualities 
 of sweetness, mildness, humility, tenderness, or good- 
 nature, because she is taught that it is hei duty to 
 do so ; I would nevertheless, humbly propose to the 
 ladies, to be good-humoured* to be mild to their do- 
 mestics, nay, to be complaisant even to their hus- 
 bands ; because good humour, mildness and com- 
 plaisance, are good for their faces. Attention to 
 these qualities, I am inclined to believe, will do more 
 for their beauty than the finest paint the most skil- 
 fully laid on : the culture of them will give a higher 
 lustre to their complexion, without any danger of this 
 colouring, being rubbed off, or the natural fineness 
 of the skin being hurt by its use. 
 
 Let every bay, therefore, consider that whenever 
 
 ys or does a ^o^d-humoured thing, she adds a 
 
 ;'i„ ^..auty to her countenance ; that by giving some 
 
THE MIRROR. 15 
 
 attention to the affairs of her family, and now and 
 then living regularly, and abstaining from the late 
 hours of dissipation, she will keep off, somewhat 
 longer than otherwise, the wrinkles of age : and I 
 would hope the prescription I have given may, 
 amidst the more important cares of pleasure, appear 
 deserving of her attention. 
 
 This prescription must, from its nature, hi con- 
 fined to the ladies, beauty in perfection being their 
 prerogative. To recommend virtue to our fine gen- 
 tlemen, because vice may hurt their shapes, or spoil 
 their faces, might appear somewhat like irony, which, 
 on so serious a subject, I would wish to avoid. Some 
 considerations may, however, be suggested, why 
 even a fine gentleman may find his account in an 
 occasional practice of virtue, without derogating from 
 the dignity of that character which it costs him so 
 much labour to attain ; and these may perhaps be 
 the subject of a future paper. 
 
 No. IV. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 6. 
 
 Meliora pii docuere parentes. Hoa. 
 
 THE following letter I received from an unknown 
 correspondent. The subject of it is so important, 
 that I shall probably take some future opportunity of 
 giving my sentiments on it to the public : in the mean 
 time I am persuaded it will afford matter of much 
 serious consideration to many of my readers. 
 
 To the Author of tlie Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 AT the age of twenty-five I succeeded to an estate 
 of 15001 a year by the death of a father, by whom I 
 vol. i. c 
 
16 THE MIRROR. 
 
 was tenderly beloved, and for whose memory I stiH 
 retain the most sincere regard. Not long after I 
 married a lady, to whom I had for some time; been 
 'warmly attached. As neither of us were fond of the 
 bustle of the world, and as we found it every day 
 become more irksome, we took the resolution of 
 quitting it altogether ; and soon after retired to a 
 family-seat, which has been the favourite residence 
 of my ancestors for many successive generations. 
 
 There I passed my days in as perfect happiness 
 as any reasonable man can expect to find in this 
 world. My affection and esteem for my wife in- 
 creased daily ; and as she brought me three fine 
 children, two boys and a girl, their prattle afforded 
 a new fund cf amusement. There were, likewise, in 
 our neighbourhood several families that might have 
 adorned any society, with whom we lived on an easy, 
 friendly fooling, free from the restraints of ceremony, 
 which, in the great world, may, perhaps, be neces- 
 sary, but, in private life, are the bane of all social in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 There is no state, however, entirely free from care 
 and uneasiness. My solicitude about my children in- 
 creased with their years. My boys, in particular, 
 gave me a thousand anxious thoughts. Many plans 
 of education were proposed for them, of which the ad- 
 vantages and disadvantages were so equally balanced, 
 as to render the choice of any one a matter of no 
 small perplexity. 
 
 Meantime the boys grew up ; and the eldest, who 
 was a year older than his brother, had entered his 
 tenth year, when an uncle of my wife, who, by his 
 services in parliament, and an assiduous attendance 
 at court, had obtained a very considerable office under 
 government, honoured us with a visit. He seemed 
 much pleased with the locks, the spirit., and promis- 
 ing appearance of my sons ; he paid me many com- 
 pliments on the occasion, and I listened to him with 
 
Ttt£ MIRROR. IT 
 
 all the pleasure a fond parent feels in hearing the' 
 praises of his children. 
 
 After he had been some days with us, he asked me 
 in what manner I proposed to educate the boys, and 
 what my views were as to their establishment in the 
 world ? I told him all my doubts and perplexities. 
 He enlarged on the absurdity of the old fashioned 
 system of education, as he termed it, and talked much 
 of the folly of sending a boy to Eton or Westminster, 
 to waste the most precious years of his life in ac- 
 quiring languages of little or no real use in the world ;■ 
 and begged leave to suggest a plan, which, he said, 
 had been attended with the greatest success in a va- 
 riety of instances that had fallen within his own par- 
 ticular knowledge. 
 
 His scheme was to send my sons for two or three 
 years to a private school in t'ne neighbourhood of Lon- 
 don, where they might get rid of their provincial dia- 
 lect, which* he observed; would be alone sufficient to 
 disappoint all hopes of their future advancement. He 
 proposed co send theiri afterwards to an academy at 
 Paris, to acquire the French language, with avevy 
 other accomplishment necessary to fit them for the 
 world, " When your eldest son," added he, '• is 
 thus qualified, it will be easy for me to get him ap- 
 pointed secretary to an embassy ; and if he shall then 
 possess those abilities of which he has now every ap- 
 pearance, I make no doubt I shall be able to procure 
 him a seat in parliament ; and there will be no office 
 in the state to which he may not aspire. As to your 
 secbnd son, give him the same education you give 
 his brother ; and when he is of a proper age, get him 
 a commission in the army, and push him on in that 
 line as fast as possible." 
 
 Though I saw some objections to this scheme, 
 yet, I must confess, the flattering prospect of ambi- 
 tion it opened, had a considerable effect upon my 
 mind j and' as my wife, who had been taught to re- 
 
?8 THE MIRROR. 
 
 ceive the opinions of her kinsman with the utmost 
 deference, warmly seconded his proposal, I at length, 
 though not without reluctance, gave my assent to it. 
 When the day cf departure came, I accompanied 
 my boys part of the way ; and, at taking leave of 
 them, felt a pang I then endeavoured to conceal, and 
 which I need not now attempt to describe. 
 
 I had the satisfaction to receive, from time to time, 
 the most pleasing accounts of their progress ; and, 
 after they went to Paris, I was still more and more 
 flattered with what I heard of their improvement. 
 
 At length the wished for period of their return ap- 
 proached : I heard of their arrival in Britain, and 
 that, by a certain day, we might expect to see them 
 at home. We were all impatience : my daughter, 
 in particular, did nothing but count the hours and 
 minutes, and hardly shut her eyes the night pre- 
 ceding the day on which her brothers were expected : 
 her mother and I, though we showed it less, felt, I 
 believe, equal anxiety. 
 
 When the day came, my girl, who had been con- 
 stantly on the look-out, ran to tell me she saw a post- 
 chaise driving to the gate. We hurried down to re- 
 ceive the boys. But, judge of my astonishment, 
 when I saw two pale emaciated figures get out of the 
 carriage, in their dress and looks resembling mon- 
 kies rather than human creatures. What was still 
 worse, their manners were more displeasing than 
 their appearance. When my daughter ran up, with 
 tears cf joy in her eyes, to embrace her brother, he 
 held her from him, and burst into an immoderate fit 
 of laughter at something in her dress that appeared 
 to him ridiculous. He was joined in the laugh by his 
 younger brother, who was pleased, however, to say, 
 that the girl was not ill-looking, and, when taught 
 to put on her cloaths, and to use a little rouge, would 
 fee tolerable. 
 
THE MIRROR. 19 
 
 Mortified as I was at this impertinence, the parti- 
 ality of a parent led me to impute it, in a great mea- 
 sure to the levity of youth ; and I still flattered my* 
 self that matters were not so bad as they appeared to 
 be. In these hopes I sat down to dinner. But there 
 the behaviour of the young gentlemen did not, by 
 any means tend to lessen my chagrin : there was no- 
 thing at table they could eat : they ran out in praise 
 of French cookery, and seemed even to be adepts in 
 the science ; they knew the component ingredients 
 of the most fashionable ragoos and fricandeaus, and 
 were acquainted with the names and characters of 
 the most celebrated practitioners of the art in Paris. 
 
 To stop this inundation of absurdity, and, at the 
 same time, to try the boys further, I introduced some 
 topics of conversation, on which they ought to have 
 been able to say something. But, on these subjects, 
 they were perfectly mute ; and I could plainly see 
 their silence did not proceed from the modesty and 
 diffidence natural to youth, but from the most per- 
 fect and profound ignorance. They soon, however, 
 took their revenge for the restraint thus imposed on 
 them. In their turn they began to talk of things, 
 which to the rest of the company, were altogether 
 unintelligible. After some conversation, the drift of 
 which we could not discover, they got into a keen de- 
 bate on the comparative merit of the " Dos de Puce," 
 and the " Puce en Couches ;" and, in the course of 
 their argument, used words and phrases which to us 
 were equally incomprehensible as the subject on 
 which they were employed. Not long after my poor 
 girl was covered with confusion, on her brother's 
 asking her, if she did not "think the * cuisse de la 
 " reine" the prettiest thing in the world ? 
 
 But, Sir, I should be feapp;*, were I able to say, 
 
 that ignorance and folly, bad as they are, were all I 
 
 had to complain of. I am sorry to add, that my 
 
 young men seem to have made an equal progress in 
 
 c 2 
 
20 THE MIRROR. 
 
 vice. It was but the other day I happened to observe 
 to the eldest, that it made me uneasy to see his bro- 
 ther look so very ill ; to which he replied, with an 
 air of the most easy indifference, that poor Charles 
 had been a little unfortunate in an affair with an ope- 
 ra-girl at Paris : but, for my part, added he, I never 
 ran those hazards, as I always confined my amours 
 to women of fashion. 
 
 In short, Sir, these unfortunate youths have re- 
 turned ignorant of every thing they ought to know ; 
 their minds corrupted, and their bodies debilitated, 
 by a couise of premature debauchery. I can easily 
 see that I do not possess either their confidence or 
 affection ; and they even seem to despise me for the 
 want of those frivolous accomplishments on which 
 they value themselves so highly. In this situation, 
 what is to be done ? Their vanity and conceit make 
 them incapable of listening to reason or advice ; and 
 to use the authority of a parent, would, probably, be 
 as ineffectual for their improvement, as to me it 
 would be unpleasant. 
 
 1 have thus, Sir, laid my case before you, in hopes 
 ©f being favoured with your sentiments upon it. Pos- 
 sibly it may be of some benefit to the public, by serv- 
 ing as a beacon to others in similar circumstances. 
 As to myself, I hardly expect you will be able to 
 point out a remedy for that affliction which preys 
 upon the mind, and, in all likelihood, will shorten 
 the days of 
 
 Your unfortunate, humble servant, 
 
 L. G. 
 
 NOTES TO CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 Vitreus's favours have been received, and shall 
 be duly attended to. 
 
 A letter signed A. Z. and an essay subscribed I>. 
 are under consideration. 
 
THE MIRROR. 21 
 
 On Wednesday next (Tuesday being appointed 
 for the day of the national fast) will be published 
 No. V. 
 
 No. V. WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10. 
 
 PEDANTRY, in the common sense of the word, 
 paeans an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness 
 of phraseology, proceeding from a misguided know- 
 ledge of books, and a total ignorance of men. 
 
 But I have often thought, that we might extend its 
 signification a good deal farther : and, in general, ap- 
 ply it to that failing which disposes a person to ob- 
 trude upon others, subjects of conversation relating 
 to his own business r studies, or amusement. 
 
 In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants 
 in every character and condition of life. Instead of a 
 black coat and plain shirt, we should often see pe- 
 dantry appear in an embroidered suit and Brussels 
 lace ; instead of being bedaubed with snuff, we should 
 find it breathing perfumes ; and, in place of a 
 book-worm, crawling through the gloomy cloisters 
 of an university, we should mark it in the state of a 
 gilded butterfly, buzzing through the gay region of 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Robert Daisey, esq. is a pedant of this last kind. 
 When he tells you, that his ruffles cost twenty gui- 
 neas a-pair ; that his buttons were the first of the 
 kind, made by one of the most eminent artists in 
 Birmingham ; that his buckles were procured by 
 means of a friend at Paris, and are the exact pattern 
 of those worn by the Comte d'Artois ; that the loop 
 of his hat was of his own contrivance, and has set 
 the fashion to half a dozen of the finest fellows in 
 
'2$ THE MIRROR. 
 
 town : when he descants on all these particulars, with 
 that smile of self complacency which sits for ever on 
 his cheek, he is as much a pedant as his quondam 
 tutor, who recites verses from Pindar, tells stories 
 out of Herodotus, and talks for an hour on the ener- 
 gy of the Greek particles. 
 
 But Mr. Daisey is struck dumb by the approach of 
 his brother Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch 
 higher, and pours out all the intelligence of France 
 and Italy, whence the young baronet is just returned, 
 after a tour of fifteen months over all the kingdoms 
 of the continent. Talk of music, he cuts you short 
 with the history of the first singer at Naples ; of 
 painting, he runs you down with a description of the 
 gallery at Florence ; of architecture, he overwhelms 
 you with the dimensions of St. Peter's } or the great 
 church at Antwerp ; or, if you leave the province of 
 art altogether, and introduce the name of a river or 
 hill, he instantly deluges you with the Rhine, or 
 makes you dizzy with the height of Etna, or Mont 
 Blanc. 
 
 Miss will have no difficulty of owning her great 
 aunt to be a pedant, when she talks all the time of 
 dinner on the composition of the pudding, or the 
 seasoning of the mince-pies ; or enters into a dis- 
 quisition ofi the figure of the damask table-cloth, with 
 a word or two on the thrift of making one's own 
 linen : but the young lady will be surprised when I 
 inform her, that her own history of last Thursday's 
 assembly, with the episode of Lady Di's feather, and 
 the digression to the qualities of Mr. Frizzle the hair- 
 dresser, was also a piece of downright pedantry. 
 
 Mrs. Caudle is guilty of the same weakness, when 
 she recounts the numberless witticisms of her daugh- 
 ter Emmy, describes the droll figure her little Bill 
 made yesterday at trying on his first pair of breeches, 
 and informs that Bobby has got seven teeth, and is 
 just cutting an eighth, though he will be but nine 
 
THE MIRROR. 2j 
 
 months old next Wednesday at six o'clock in the 
 evening. Nor is her pedantry less disgusting, when 
 she proceeds to enumerate the virtues and good qua- 
 lities of her husband ; though this last species is so 
 uncommon, that it may, perhaps, be admitted into 
 conversation for the sake of variety. 
 . Muckworm is the meanest of pedants when he tells 
 you of the scarcity of money at present, and that he 
 is amazed how people can afford to live as they do ; 
 that for his part though, he has a tolerable fortune, 
 he finds it exceedingly difficult to command cash for 
 his occasions ; that trade is so dead, and debts so ill 
 paid at present, that he was obliged to sell some 
 shares of bank-stock to make up the price of his last 
 purchase ; and had actually countermanded a service 
 of plate, else he should have been obliged to strike 
 several names out of the list of his weekly pension- 
 ers ; and that this apology was sustained the other 
 day by the noble company (giving you a list of three 
 or four peers, and their families) who did him the 
 honour to eat a bit of mutton with him. All this, 
 however, is true. As i& also another anecdote, which 
 Muckworm forgot to mention : his first cousin dined 
 that day with the servants, who took compassion on 
 the lad, after he had been turned down stairs, with a 
 refusal of twenty pounds to set him up in the trade 
 of a shoe-maker. 
 
 There is pedantry in every disquisition, however 
 masterly it may be, that stops the general conversa- 
 tion of the company. When Silius delivers that sort 
 of lecture he is apt to get into, though it is support- 
 ed by the most extensive information and the clearest 
 discernment, it is still pedantry ; and, while I admire 
 the talents of Silius, I cannot help being uneasy at 
 his exhibition of them. In the course of this disser- 
 tation, the farther a man proceeds, the more he 
 seems to acquire strength and inclination for the pro- 
 gress. Last night after supper, Silius began upon 
 
24 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Protestantism, proceeded to the Irish massacre, went 
 through the revolution, drew the character of King 
 William, repeated anecdotes of Schomberg, and end- 
 ed at a quarter past twelve, by delineating the course 
 of the Boyne, in half a bumper of port, upon my 
 best table ; which river, happening to overflow its 
 banks, did infinite damage to my cousin Sophy's, 
 white satin petticoat. 
 
 In short, everything, in this sense of the word, is 
 pedantry, which tends to destroy that equality of 
 conversation which is necessary to the perfect ease 
 and good humour of the company. Every one would 
 be struck with the unpoliteness of that person's be- 
 haviour, who should help himself to a whole plate 
 of pease or strawberries which some friend had sent 
 him for a rarity in the beginning of the season.— 
 Now, conversation is one of those good things of 
 which our guests or companions are equally intitled 
 to a share as of any other constituent part of the 
 entertainment ; and it is as essential a want of po- 
 liteness to engross the one, as to monopolize the 
 other. 
 
 Besides, it unfortunately happens, that we are very- 
 inadequate judges of tke value of our own discourse, 
 or the rate at which the dispositions of our compa- 
 ny will incline them to hold it. The reflections we 
 make, and the stories we tell, are to be judged of 
 by others, who may hold a very different opinion of 
 their acuteness or their humour. It will be prudent, 
 therefore, to consider, that the dish we bring to this 
 entertainment, however pleasing to our own taste, 
 may prove but moderately palatable to those we mean 
 to treat with it ; and that to every man, as well as 
 ourselves, (except a few very humble ones,) his own 
 conversation is the plate of pease or strawberries. 
 
THE MXHR0B. 35 
 
 No. VI. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13. 
 
 Nee excitatur classico miles true*, 
 
 Nee horret iratum mare ; 
 Forumque vitat, et ouperba civium 
 
 Potentiorum limina. Hor. 
 
 GREAT talents are usually attended with a pro- 
 portional desire of exerting them ; and, indeed, were 
 it otherwise, they would be, in a great measure, use- 
 less to those who possess them, as well as to society. 
 
 But, while this disposition generally leads men of 
 high parts and high spirit to take a share in active 
 life, by engaging in the pursuits of business or am- 
 bition, there are, amidst the variety of human cha- 
 racter, some instances, in which persons eminently 
 possessed of those qualities give way to a contrary 
 disposition. 
 
 A man of an aspiring mind and nice sensibility 
 may, from a wrong direction, or a romantic excess 
 of spirit, find it difficult to submit to the ordinary 
 pursuits of life. Filled with enthusiastic ideas of 
 the glory of a general, a senator, or a statesman, he 
 may look with indifference, or even with disgust, on 
 the less brilliant, though, perhaps, not less useful 
 occupations, of the physician, the lawyer, or the 
 trader. 
 
 My friend Mr. Umphraville is a remarkable in- 
 stance of great talents thus lost to himself and to 
 society. The singular opinions which have influ- 
 enced his conduct, I have often heard him attempt, 
 with great warmth, to defend. 
 
 " In the pursuit of an ordinary profession," wouLl 
 he say, " a man of spirit and sensibility, while he 
 «* is subjected to disgusting occupations, finds it ne- 
 " cessary to submit with patience, nay, often with 
 " the appearance of satisfaction, to what he will be 
 u apt to esteem dullness, folly, or impertinence, in 
 
26 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " those from whose countenance, or opinion, he 
 " hopes to derive success ; and, while he pines in 
 " secret at so irksome a situation, perhaps, amidst 
 " the crowds with whom he converses, he may not 
 " find a friend to whom he can communicate his 
 " sorrows. 
 
 " If, on the other hand," he would add, " he be- 
 " takes himself to retirement, it is true he cannot 
 " hope for an opportunity of performing splendid 
 " actions, or of gratifying a passion for glory ; but 
 H if he attain not all that he wishes, he avoids much 
 •* of what he hates. Within a certain range he will 
 " be master of his occupations and his company ; 
 " his books will, in part, supply the want of society ; 
 " and, in contemplation at least, he may often enjoy 
 " those pleasures from which fortune has precluded 
 " him. 
 
 " If the country, as will generally happen, be the 
 " place of his retirement, it will afford a variety of 
 H objects agreeable to his temper. In the prospect 
 " of a lofty mountain, an extensive plain, or the 
 •* unbounded ocean, he may gratify his taste for the 
 " sublime ; while the lonely vale, the hollow bank, 
 " or the shady wood, will present him a retreat 
 " suited to the thoughtfulness of his disposition.'* 
 
 Such are the sentiments which have formed the 
 character of Mr. Umphraville, which have regulated 
 the choice and tenor of his life. 
 
 His father, a man of generosity and expence be- 
 yond his fortune, though that had once been consi- 
 derable, left him, at the age of twenty-five, full of 
 the high sentiments natural, at these years, to a 
 young gentleman brought up as the heir of an an- 
 cient family, and a large estate, with a very incon- 
 siderable income to support them ; for though the 
 remaining part of the family -fortune still afforded 
 him a rent-roll of 10001. a-year, his clear revenue 
 could scarcely be estimated at 3001. 
 
THE MIRROR. 27 
 
 Mr. Umphravillej though he wanted not a relish 
 for polite company and elegant amusements, was 
 more distinguished for an ardent desire of know- 
 ledge ; in consequence of which he had made an un- 
 common progress in several branches of science. 
 The classical writers of ancient and modern times, 
 but especially the former, were those from whose 
 works he felt the highest pleasure ; yet he had, 
 among other branches of learning, obtained a con- 
 siderable knowledge of jurisprudence, and was a to- 
 lerable proficient in mathematics. 
 
 On these last circumstances his friends founded 
 their hopes of his rising in the world. One part of 
 them argued, from the progress he had made in ju- 
 risprudence, that he would prove an excellent law- 
 yer ; the other, that his turn for mathematics would 
 be an useful qualification in a military life ; and all 
 agreed in the necessity of his following some pro- 
 fession in which he might have an opportunity of 
 repairing his fortune. 
 
 Mr. Umphraville, however, had very different 
 sentiments. Though he had studied the science of 
 jurisprudence with pleasure, and would not have 
 declined the application of its principles, as a mem- 
 ber of the legislature, he felt no great inclination to 
 load his memory with the rules of our municipal 
 law, or to occupy himself in applying them to the 
 uninteresting disputes of individuals : and, though 
 he neither wanted a taste for the art, nor a passion 
 for the glory of a soldier, he was full as little dis- 
 posed to carry a pair of colours at a review, or to 
 line the streets in procession. Nor were his objec- 
 tions to other plans of bettering his fortune, either 
 at home or abroad, less unsurmountble. 
 
 In short, after deliberating on the propositions of 
 his friends, and comparing them with Ins own feel- 
 ings, Mr. Umphraville concluded, that, as he could 
 not enter into the world in a way suited to his in- 
 
 VOL. i. d 
 
28 THE MIRROR. 
 
 clination and temper, the quiet'and retirement of a 
 country-life, though with a narrow fortune, would 
 be more conducive to his happiness than the pursuit 
 of occupations to which he felt an aversion, even 
 should they be attended with a greater degree of suc- 
 cess than, from that circumstance, he judged to be 
 probable. 
 
 Agreeably to this opinion he took his resolution ; 
 and, notwithstanding the opposition of his friends, 
 retired, a few months after his father's death, to his 
 estate in the country, where he has lived upwards of 
 forty years ; his family, since the death of his mo- 
 ther, a lady of uncommon sense and virtue, who sur- 
 vived her husband some time, having consisted only 
 of himself, and an unmarried sister, of a disposition 
 similar to his own. 
 
 Neither his circumstances nor inclination led Mr. 
 Umphraville to partake much of the jollity of his 
 neighbours. His farm has never exceeded what he 
 found absolutely necessary for the conveniency of 
 his little family ; and though he employed himself 
 for a few years in extending his plantations over the 
 neighbouring grounds, even that branch of industry 
 he soon laid aside, from a habit of indolence, 
 which has daily grown upon him ; and since it has 
 been dropped, his books, and sometimes his gun, 
 with the conversation of his sister, and a few friends, 
 who now and then visit him, entirely occupy his 
 time. 
 
 In this situation, Mr. Umphraville has naturally 
 contracted several peculiarities, both of manner and 
 opinion. They are, however, of a kind which nei- 
 ther lessen the original politeness of the one, nor 
 weaken the natural force and spirit of the other. In 
 a word, though he has contracted rust, it is the rust 
 of a great mind, which, while it throws a certain 
 melancholy reverence, around its possessor, rather 
 
THE MIRROR. 29 
 
 enhances than detracts from the native beauty and 
 dignity of his character. 
 
 These particulars will suffice for introducing this 
 gentleman to my readers, and I may afterwards take 
 occasion to gratify such of them as wish to know 
 somewhat more of a life and opinions with which I 
 laave long been intimately acquainted. 
 
 No. VII. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY, 16. 
 
 Indocilis privata lcqui. Luc. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM a sort of retainer to the muses ; and, though 
 I cannot boast of much familiarity with themselves, 
 hold a subordinate intimacy with several branches of 
 their family. I never made verses, but I can re- 
 peat several thousands. Though I am not a writer, 
 I am reckoned a very ready expounder of enigmas ; 
 and I have given many good hints towards the com- 
 position of some favourite rebuses and charades. I 
 have also a very competent share of classical learn- 
 ing ; I can construe Latin when there is an English 
 version on the opposite column, and read the Greek 
 character with tolerable facility ; I speak a little 
 French, andean make shift to understand the subject 
 Italian opera. 
 
 With these qualifications, Sir, I am held in con- 
 siderable estimation by the wits of both sexes. I 
 am sometimes allowed to clap first at a play, and 
 pronounce a firm encore after a fashionable song. I 
 am consulted by several ladies before they stick 
 
oV -THE MIRROR. 
 
 their pin into the catalogue of the circulating library ,; 
 and have translated to some polite companies all the 
 mottos of your paper, except the last, which, being 
 somewhat crabbed, I did not chuse to risk my credit 
 by attempting. I have at last ventured to put my- 
 self into print in the Mirror : and send you infor- 
 mation of a scheme I have formed for making my 
 talents serviceable to the republic of letters. 
 
 Every one must have observed the utility of a pro- 
 per selection of names to a play or a novel. The 
 bare sounds of Monimia or Imoinda set a tender- 
 hearted lady a crying ; and a letter from Edward to 
 Maria contains a sentiment in the very title. 
 
 Were I to illustrate this by an opposite example, 
 as schoolmasters give exercises of bad Latin, the 
 truth of my assertion would appear in a still stronger 
 light. 
 
 Suppose, Sir, one had a mind to write a very pa- 
 thetic story of the disastrous loves of a young lady 
 and a young gentleman, the first of whom was called 
 Gubbins, and the latter Gubblestones, two very res- 
 pectable names in some parts of our neighbour- 
 country. The Gubbinses, from an ancient family 
 feud, had a mortal antipathy at the Gubblestoneses ; 
 this, however, did not prevent the attachment of 
 the heir of the last to the heiress of the former ; an 
 attachment begun by accident, increased by acquaint- 
 ance, and nourished by mutual excellence. But the 
 hatred of the fathers was unconquerable ; and old 
 Gubbins having intercepted a letter from young 
 Gubblestones, breathed the most horrid demmcia- 
 tioiis of vengeance against his daughter, if ever he 
 should discover the smallest intercourse between her 
 and the son of his enemy ; and, farther, effectually 
 to seclude any chance of an union with so hatred a 
 name, he instantly proposed a marriage between her 
 and a young gentleman' lately returned from his 
 travels, a Mr. Clutterbuck, who had seen her at a 
 
THE MIRROR. 3i 
 
 ball, and was deeply smitten with her beauty. On 
 being made acquainted with this intended match, 
 Gubblestones grew almost frantic with grief and 
 despair. Wandering round the house where his 
 loved Gubbins was, confined, he chanced to meet Mr* 
 Clutterbuck hasting to an interview with his destined 
 bride. Stung with jealousy and rage, reckless of 
 life, and regardless of the remonstrances of his rival, 
 he drew, and attacked him with desperate fury. — 
 Both swords were sheathed at once in the breasts of 
 the combatants. Clutterbuck died on the spot: his 
 antagonist lived but to be carried to the house of his 
 implacable enemy, and breathed his last at the feet 
 of his mistress. The dying words of Gubblestones, 
 the succeeding phrenzy and death of Gubbins, the 
 relenting sorrow of their parents, with the descrip- 
 tion of the tomb in which Gubbins, Gubblestones, 
 and Clutterbuck, were laid, finish the piece, and 
 would leave on the mind of the reader the highest 
 degree of melancholy and distress, were it not for 
 the unfortunate sounds which compose the names of 
 the actors in this eventful story ; yet these names, 
 Mr* Mirror, are really and truly right English 
 surnames, and have as good a title to be unfortunate 
 as those of Mordaunt, Montague, or Howard. 
 
 Nor is it only in the sublime or the pathetic that 
 a happy choice of names is essential to good writing. 
 Comedy is so much beholden to this article, that I 
 have known some with scarcely any wit ®r character 
 but what was contained in the Dramatis Persons. — ■ 
 Every other species of writing, in which humour or 
 character is to be personified, is in the same predic- 
 ament, and depends for great part of its applause on 
 the knack of hitting off a lucky allusion from the 
 name to the person. Your brother essayists have 
 been particularly indebted to this invention for sup- 
 plying them with a very necessary material in the 
 construction of their papers. In the Spectator, I 
 s 2 
 
32 THE MIRROR. 
 
 find, from an examination of my notes on the sub- 
 ject, there are 532 names of characters and corres- 
 pondents, 394 of which are descriptive and charac- 
 teristic. 
 
 Having thus shewn the importance of the art of 
 name-making, I proceed to inform you of my plan 
 for assisting authors in this particular, and saving 
 them that expence of time and study which the in- 
 vention of names proper for different purposes must 
 occasion. 
 
 I have, from a long course of useful and extensive 
 reading, joined to an uncommon strength of memory, 
 been enabled to form a kind of dictionary of names 
 for all sorts of subjects, pathetic, sentimental, seri- 
 ous, satyrical, or merry. For novelists, I have made 
 a collection of the best-sounding English, or English- 
 like, trench, or French-like names; I say, the best 
 sounding, sound being the only thing necessary in 
 that department. For comic writers, and essayists 
 of your tribe, Sir, I have made up, from the works 
 of former authors, as well as from my own invention, 
 a list of names, with the characters or subjects to 
 which they allude, prefixed. A learned friend has 
 furnished me with a parcel cf signatures for political, 
 philosophical, and religious essayists in the news- 
 papers, among which are no fewer than eighty-six 
 compounds beginning with Philo, which are all from 
 four to seven syllables long, and cannot fail to have 
 a powerful tendency towards the edification and con- 
 viction of country-readers. 
 
 For the use of serious poetry, I have a set of 
 names, tragic, elegiac, pastoral, and legendary ; for 
 songs, satires, and epigrams, I have a parcel pro- 
 perly corresponding to those departments. A column 
 is subjoined, shewing the number of feet whereof 
 they consist, that being a requisite chiefly to be at- 
 tended to, in names destined for the purposes of po- 
 etry. Some of them indeed, are so happUy contrived* 
 
THE MIRROR. 38 
 
 that, by means of an easy and natural contraction, 
 they can be shortened, or lengthened (like a pocket- 
 telescope), according to the structure of the line in 
 which they are to be introduced ; others, by the as- 
 sistance of proper interjections, are ready made into 
 smooth' flowing hexameters, and will be found ex- 
 tremely useful, particularly to our writers of tragedy. 
 All these, Sir, the fruits of several years labour 
 aild industry, I am ready to communicate for an ade- 
 quate consideration, to authors, or other persons 
 whom they may suit. Be pleased, therefore, to in- 
 form your correspondents, that, by applying to your 
 publisher, they may be informed, in the language of 
 Falstaff, " where a commodity of good names is to 
 " be bought." As for your own particular, Sir, I 
 am ready to attend you gratis, at any time you may 
 stand in need of my assistance ; or you may write 
 out your papers blank, and send them to me to fill 
 up the names of the parties. 
 
 I am yours, Sec. 
 
 NOMENCLATOR. 
 
 To Correspondents. 
 
 " The editor has to return thanks to numberless 
 correspondents for their favours lately received ; he 
 begs leave, at the same time, to acquaint them, that 
 as many inconveniencies would arise from a particu- 
 lar acknowledgment of every letter, he must hence- 
 forward be excused from making it; they may, how- 
 ever, rest assured of the strictest attention and im- 
 partiality in regard to their communications. — As to 
 the insertion of papers sent him, he will be allowed 
 to suggest, that, from the nature of his publication, 
 the acceptance or refusal of an essay is no criterion 
 of its merit, nor of the opinion in which it is held by 
 the editor. A performance may be improper for the 
 Mirror, as often on account of its rising above, as 
 
$4, THE MIRROR. 
 
 of its falling below the level of such a work, which 
 is peculiarly circumscribed, not only in its subjects, 
 but in the manner of treating them. The same cir- 
 cumstance will often render it necessary to alter or 
 abridge the productions of correspondents ; a liberty 
 for which the editor hopes their indulgence, and 
 which he will use with the utmost caution." 
 
 No. VIII. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 20. 
 
 Inspicere tanquam in speculum 
 
 Vkus omnium jubeo. Tbr. 
 
 IT was with regret that the editor found himself 
 under the necessity of abridging the following letter, 
 communicated by an unknown correspondent. 
 
 To the Editor of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 AS I was walking one afternoon, about thirty years 
 ago, by the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, in the 
 neighbourhood of Babelmandel, I accidentally met 
 with a Dervise. How we forthwith commenced ac- 
 quaintance ; how I went with him to his hermitage ; 
 how our acquaintance improved into intimacy, and 
 our intimacy into friendship ; how we conversed about 
 every thing, both in heaven above, and in the earth 
 beneath ; how the Dervise fell sick, and how I, hav- 
 ing some skill in medicine, administered to his reco- 
 very ; how this strengthened his former regard by 
 the additional tie of gratitude ; how, after a space, 
 I tired of wa Iking by the Red Sea in the neighbour- 
 hood of Babelmandel, and fancied I should walk with 
 more security and satisfaction by the side of Forth ; 
 
THE MIRROR* 35 
 
 are circumstances, that, after you shall be more in- 
 terested in my life and conversation, I may venture 
 lo lay before you. 
 
 In the mean while, suffice it to say, that my part- 
 ing with the Dervise was very tender ; and that, as 
 a memorial of his friendship, he presented me with 
 a mirror. I confess frankly, that considering the 
 poverty of my friend, and his unaffected manner cf 
 offering it, I supposed his present of little intrinsic 
 value. Yet, looking at it, and wishing to seem as 
 sensible of its worth as possible, " This," " said I, 
 may be a very useful mirror. " As it is of a con- 
 " venient size, I may carry it in my pocket ; and, 
 " if I should happen to be in a public company, it 
 u may enable me to wipe from my face any acci- 
 *' dental dust, or to adjust the posture of my peri- 
 " wig." For, Sir, at that time, in order to command 
 some respect among the Mussulmen, I wore a peri- 
 wig of three tails. 
 
 " That mirror," said the Dervise, looking at me 
 with great earnestness, " is of higher value than 
 " you suppose : and of this, by the following account 
 " of its nature and uses, I am sure you will be fully 
 " satisfied. Of mirrors, some are convex, and re- 
 " present their object of a size considerably dimi- 
 " nished : accordingly, the images they display are 
 " extremely beautiful. A company of people repre- 
 " sented by this mirror shall appear without spot or 
 u blemish, like a company of lovely Sylphs. Now, 
 " my good Christian friend, mine is not a convex 
 * ; mirror. Neither is it concave : for concave mir- 
 " rors have just an opposite effect ; and, by enlarg- 
 " ing the object they represent, would render even 
 " the Houri in Paradise as hideous as the witch of 
 M Endoiyor a Pagan fury. In short, it is a good 
 M plain mirror, intended to represent things just as 
 " they are, but with properties and varieties not to 
 M be met with in common {jlass,'' 
 
36 TttE MIRROR. 
 
 " Whenever," continued he, " you entertain any 
 " doubt concerning the propriety of your conduct, 
 " or have apprehensions that your motives arc not 
 " exactly what you conceive, or wish them to be, I 
 " advise you forthwith to consult the mirror. You 
 " will there see yourself without disguise ; and be 
 " enabled, not merely to wipe from your face any 
 " accidental dust, or to adjust your periwig of three 
 " tails, but to rectify your conduct, and adjust your 
 " deportment/* In truth, Sir, 1 have made this ex- 
 periment, according to the direction of the Dervise, 
 so oiun, and with such small satisfaction to myself, 
 that I am heartily sick of it, 1 have consulted my 
 mirror in the act of giving alms, expecting, no doubt, 
 to see myself charactered with the softest compas- 
 sion, and, behold 1 I was swollen and bloated with 
 ostentation. Glowing with indignation, as 1 conceiv- 
 ed, against the vices of mankind, and their blindness 
 to real merit, I have looked in the mirror, and seen 
 the redness of anger, the flushings of disappointed 
 ambition. Very lately, a' friend of mine read me an 
 essay he had written ; he seemed to me somewhat 
 conscious of its merit : he expected, and was intitled 
 to some applaur.e ; but, said I to myself, " I will ad- 
 " minister to no man's vanity, nor expose my friend 
 " by encouraging self-conceit ;" and so observed an 
 ojtetmate unyielding silence. I looked in the mirror, 
 and am ashamed to tell yen my motive was not so 
 pure. 
 
 But, instead of exposing my own infirmities, I 
 will, in perfect consistency with some of the most 
 powerful principles in our nature, and in a manner 
 much less exceptionable to myself, explain the pro- 
 perties of my mirror, by the views it gives me of 
 other men. 
 
 " Whenever," continued the Dervise, " you have 
 " any doubt concerning the conduct of another per- 
 " son, take an opportunity, and, when he is least 
 
THE MIRROR. 37 
 
 u aware, catch a copy of his face in your mirror." 
 It would do your heart good, Sir, if you delight in 
 that species of moral criticism which some people 
 denominate scandal, to see the discoveries 1 have 
 made. Many a grave physician have I seen laying 
 his head to one side, hxing his solemn eye on the 
 far corner of a room, or poring with steady gaze on 
 his watch, and seeming to count the beats of his pa- 
 tient's pulse, when, in fact, he was numbering in 
 his own mind the guineas accruing from his circle of 
 morning visits, or studying what fine speech he should 
 make to my lady duchess ; or, if patient were a fair 
 patient — But here I would look no longer. 
 
 I have often carried my mirror to church ; and, 
 sitting in a snug corner, have catched the flaming 
 orator of the pulpit in many a rare grimace, and ex- 
 pressive gesture ; expressive, not of humility, but 
 of pride ; not of any desire to communicate instruc- 
 tion, but to procure applause ; not to explain the gos- 
 pel, but to exhibit the preacher. 
 
 " This mirror," said the Mussulman, continuing 
 his valedictory speech, " will not only display your 
 " acquaintance as they really are, but as they wish 
 " to be : and, for this purpose," shewing me the 
 way, " you have only to hold it in a particular posi- 
 " tion." From the use of the mirror, holding it as 
 the Dervise desired me, I confess I have received 
 special amusement. How many persons hideously 
 deformed have appeared most divinely beautiful ; how 
 many dull fellows have become amazing clever ; how 
 many shrivelled cheeks have suddenly claimed a 
 youthful bloom ! Yet, I must confess, Low surprising 
 soever the confession may appear, that I have found 
 mankind, in general, very well satisfied with their 
 talents : and, as for as regards moral and religious 
 improvement, I recollect very few instances of per- 
 sons who wished for changes in their present con- 
 dition. On the contrary, I have met with other ex- 
 
38 THE MIRROR. 
 
 amples ; and have seen persons not a little solicitous 
 to acquire the use of some fashionable impieties and 
 immoralities. I have seen delicate females, to say- 
 nothing of dainty gentlemen, wishing to forget their 
 catechism ; striving to overcome their reluctances, 
 and meditating in their own minds the utterance of 
 some fashionable piece of raillery against religion ; 
 yet, like the amen of Macbeth, I have often seen it 
 stick in their throat. 
 
 " But,'* continued the Dervise, " if you hold this 
 11 mirror in a fit posture, it will not only shew you 
 " men as they are, or as they wish to be, but with 
 " the talents, with which they reckon themselves r^- 
 " tually possessed ; and in that very character or si- 
 « tuation which they hold most suited to their abili- 
 <« ties. Now this property of the Mussulman's 
 mirror has given me more amusement than any other. 
 By this means I have seen a whole company undergo 
 instantaneous and strange transformation. I have 
 seen the unwieldy burgess changed into a slender 
 gentleman ; the deep philosopher become a man of the 
 world ; the laborious merchant converted into a fox- 
 hunter ; the mechanic's wife in the guise of a coun- 
 tess ; and the pert scrivener become a cropped en- 
 sign. I have seen those grave personages, whom 
 you may observe daily issuing from their alleys at 
 noon with white wigs, black coats buttoned, and in- 
 clining to gray, with a cane in one hand, and the 
 ether stationed at their side-pocket, beating the streets 
 for political intelligence, and diving afterwards into 
 their native lanes, or rising in a coffee-house in the 
 full dignity of a spectacled nose ; I have seen them 
 moving in my mirror in the shape of statesmen, mi- 
 nisters at foreign courts, chancellors of England, 
 judges, justices of the peace, or chief magistrates 
 in electing boroughs. 
 
 Now, Sir, as you have engaged in the important 
 business of instructing the public, I reckon you a 
 
THE MIRROR. 39 
 
 much fitter person than me to be possessed of this 
 precious mirror. By these presents, therefore, along 
 with a paper of direction s r I consign it into your hands. 
 All that I demand of you in return, is to use this 
 extraordinary gift in a proper and becoming manner; 
 for, like every other excellent gift, it is liable to be 
 misused. Therefore be circumspect ; nor let any 
 person say of you, that you make use of a false glass, 
 or that the reflection is not just, or that the represen- 
 tation is partial ; or, lastly, that it exhibits broken, 
 distorted, or unnatural images. In full confidence 
 thaf it will be an instrument in your hands for the 
 most useful purposes, 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 Vitreus. 
 
 No. IX. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 23. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 SOME weeks ago I was called from my retreat in 
 the country, where I have passed the last twenty 
 years in the enjoyment of ease and tranquillity, by 
 an important family-concern which made it necessary 
 for me to come to town. 
 
 Last Thursday I was solicited by an old friend to 
 accompany him to the playhouse, to see the tragedy 
 of King Lear ; and, by way of inducement, he told 
 me, the part of Lear was to be performed by an ac- 
 tor who had studied the character under the English 
 Roscius, and was supposed to play it somewhat in 
 the manner of that great master. As the theatre 
 
 ▼ol. i. e 
 
40 THE MIRROR. 
 
 had always been my favourite amusement, I did not 
 long withstand the entreaties of my friend; and, when 
 I reflected that Mr. Garrick was now gone to " that 
 M undiscovered country, from whose bourn no tra- 
 u veller returns," I felt a sort of tender desire to 
 see even a copy of that great original, from whose 
 performances I had often, in the earlier part of my 
 life, received such exquisite pleasure. 
 
 As we understood the house was to be crowded, 
 we went at an early hour, and seated ourselves in the 
 middle of the pit, so as not only to see the play to 
 advantage, but also to have a full view of the" au- 
 dience, which, I have often thought, is not the least 
 pleasing part of a public entertainment. When the 
 boxes began to fill, I felt a secret satisfaction in con- 
 templating the beauties of the present times, and 
 amused myself with tracing in the daughters, those 
 features which, in the mothers and grandmothers, 
 had charmed me so often. 
 
 My friend pointed out to me, in different parts of 
 the house, some of the reigning toasts of our times, 
 but so changed, that, without, his assistance, I never 
 should have been able to find them out. I looked 
 in vain for that form, that complexion, and those 
 numberless graces, on which I had been accustomed 
 to gaze with admiration. But this change was not 
 more remarkable, than the effect it had upon the 
 beholders ; and I could not help thinking the silent 
 neglect with which those once celebrated beauties 
 were now treated, by much too severe a punishment 
 for that pride and haughtiness they had formerly as- 
 sumed. 
 
 Whilst 1 was amusing myself in this manner, I 
 observed, that some of the upper-boxes were filled 
 with ladies, whose appearance scon convinced mc 
 that they were of an order of females more desirous 
 of being distinguished for beauty than for virtue. I 
 could not refrain from expressing some disgust at see- 
 
THE MIRROR. 41 
 
 ing those unfortunate creatures sitting thus openly 
 mingled with women of the first rank and fashion. 
 " Poh I" said my friend, " that is thought nothing 
 " of now-a-days; and every body seems to be of the 
 u same opinion with the celebrated Countess of Dor- 
 " Chester, mistress of King James II. who having 
 u seated herself on the same bench with a lady of 
 " rigid virtue, the other immediately shrunk back, 
 " which the countess observing, said with a smile, 
 " don't be afraid, Madam ; gallantry is not catching/* 
 
 As I was going to reprove my friend for talking 
 with such levity of a matter that seemed to be of so 
 serious a nature, the curtain drew up, and the play 
 began. It is not my design, Sir, to trouble you with 
 any remarks on the performance ; the purpose of 
 this letter is to request of you to take some notice 
 of a species of indecorum, that appeared altogether 
 new to me, and which, I confess, it hurt me to ob- 
 serve. 
 
 Before the end of the first act, a number of young 
 men came in, and took their places in the upper 
 boxes, amidst those unhappy females I have already 
 mentioned. I concluded that these persons were as 
 destitute of any pretension to birth and fashion, as 
 they were void of decency of manners ; but 1 was 
 equally surprised and mortified to find, that many of 
 them were of the first families of the kingdom. You, 
 Sir, who have lived in the world, and seen the gra- 
 dual and almost imperceptible progress of manners, 
 will not, perhaps, be able to judge of my astonish- 
 ment, when I beheld these very gentlemen quit their 
 seats, and come down to pay their respects to the 
 ladies in the lower boxes. The gross impropriety of 
 this behaviour raised in me a degree of indignation 
 which I could not, without difficulty, restrain. I com- 
 forted myself, however, with the hopes,, that those 
 unthinking youths would meet with such a reception 
 from the women of honour, as would effectually check 
 
48 THE MIRROR. 
 
 this indecency ; but I am sorry to add, that I could 
 not discern, either in their looks or manner, those 
 marks of disapprobation which I had made my ac- 
 count with perceiving. Both the old and the young, 
 the mothers and the daughters, seemed rather pleased 
 when these young men of rank and fortune approach- 
 ed them. I am persuaded, at the same time, that, 
 were they to think but for a moment of the conse- 
 quences, they would be sensible of the impropriety 
 of their behaviour in this particular. I must, there- 
 fore intreat of you, Sir, to take the earliest oppor- 
 tunity in giving your sentiments on the subject. I 
 am, &c. 
 
 A. W. 
 
 The complaints of my correspondent are not with-* 
 out reason. The boundaries betwixt virtue and vice 
 cannot be too religiously maintained ; and every thing 
 that tends to lessen, in any degree, the respect due 
 to a woman of honour, ought ever to be guarded 
 against with the utmost caution. 
 
 When I was in France, I observed a propriety of 
 behaviour in the particular mentioned by Mr. A. W. 
 that pleased me much. Even in that country, looso 
 as we imagine the manners ihere to be, no body who 
 wishes to preserve the character of a well-bred gen- 
 tleman is ever seen at a place of public resort, in 
 company with those misguided fair-ones, who, how- 
 ever much they may be objects of pity and compas- 
 sion, have forfeited all title to respect and esteem. 
 I would recommend to our young men to follow, in 
 this, the example of our neighbours, whom they are 
 so ready to imitate in less laudable instances. To 
 consider it only in this view, there is certainly no 
 greater breach of politeness than that which has 
 given occasion to this letter. In other respects, the 
 consequences are truly alarming. When every dis- 
 tinction is removed between the woman of virtue and 
 
*8E MlRJtOl. 43 
 
 the prostitute ; when both are treated with equal 
 attention and observance ; are we to wonder if we 
 find an alteration of the manners of women in general, 
 and a proportional diminution of that delicacy which 
 forms the distinguishing characteristic of the respect- 
 able part of the sex ? 
 
 These considerations will, I hope, prove sufficient 
 to correct this abuse in our young gentlemen. As 
 to my fair country-women, it is ever with reluctance 
 that I am obliged to take notice of any little impro- 
 priety into which they inadvertently fall. Let them, 
 however, reflect, that a certain delicacy of sentiment 
 and of manners is the chief ornament of the female 
 character, and the best and surest guardian of female 
 honour. That once removed, there will remain, in 
 the opinion of the world, less difference than perhaps 
 they may be aware of, between them and the avow- 
 edly licentious. Let them also consider, that, as it 
 is unquestionably in their power to form and correct 
 the manners of the men, so they are, in some sort, 
 accountable, not for their own conduct only, but also 
 for that of their admirers. 
 
 To the Juthoj' of the Mirror. 
 
 I DO not mean to reflect, Mr. Mirror ; for that 
 is your business, not mine ; far less do I purpose to 
 pun, when I told you, that it might save some reflec- 
 tions upon yourself, did you take the trouble to trans- 
 late into good common English, those same Latin 
 scraps, or mottos, which you sometimes hang out by 
 way of sign-post inscription, at the top of your paper. 
 For, consider, Sir, who will be tempted to enter a 
 house of entertainment offered to the public, when 
 the majority can neither read nor understand the lan- 
 guage in which the bill of fare is drawn and held 
 out ? I am a Scotsman of a good plain stomach, who 
 ean eat and digest any thing ; yet would I like t» 
 £ 2 
 
44 TtfE Mirror. 
 
 have a guess at what was to be expected before I sit 
 down to table. Besides, the fair-sex, Mr. Mirror, 
 for whom you express so much respect, — What shall 
 they do ? Believe me, then, Sir, by complying with 
 this hint, you will not only please the ladies, but now 
 and then save a blush in their company to some 
 grown gentlemen, who have not the good fortune to 
 be so learned as yourself. Amongst the rest, you 
 will oblige one who has the honour to be 
 
 Your admirer and humble servant, 
 
 Ignoramus. 
 Edinburgh, Feb. 19, 1779. 
 
 Mr. Ignoramus (whom I take to be a wiser man 
 than he gives himself out for) must have often ob- 
 served many great personages contrive to be unin- 
 telligible in order to be respected. 
 
 E 
 
 No. X. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27. 
 
 ■Id arbitror 
 
 Adprime in vita esse utile, ne quid nimis. TtR. 
 
 REFINEMENT, and delicacy of taste, are the 
 productions of advanced society. They open to the 
 mind of persons possessed of them a field of elegant 
 enjoyment ; but they may be pushed to a dangerous 
 Extreme. By that excess of sensibility to which they 
 lead ; by that vanity which they flatter ; that idea of 
 superiority which they nourish ; they may unfit their 
 possessor for the common and ordinary enjoyments 
 of life ; and, by that over-niceness which they are apt 
 to create, they may mingle somewhat of disgust and 
 uneasiness, even in the highest and finest pleasures. 
 
THE MIRROR. 45 
 
 A person of such a mind will often miss happiness 
 where .nature intended it should be found, and seek 
 for it where it is not to be met with. Disgust and 
 chagrin will frequently be his companions, while fcess 
 cultivated minds are enjoying pleasure unmixed and 
 unalloyed. 
 
 I have ever considered my friend Charles Fleet- 
 wood to be a remarkable instance of such a charac- 
 ter. Mr. Fleetwood has been endowed by nature 
 with a most feeling and tender heart. Educated to 
 no particular profession, his natural sensibility has 
 been increased by a life of inactivity, chiefly employed 
 in reading, and the study of the polite arts, which has 
 given him that excess of refinement I have described 
 above, that injures while it captivates. 
 
 Last summer I accompanied him in an excursion 
 into the country. Our object was partly air and ex- 
 ercise, and partly to pay a visit to some of our friends. 
 
 Our first visit was to a college-acquaintance, re- 
 markable for that old-fashioned hospitality which still 
 prevails in some parts of the country, and which too 
 often degenerates into excess. Unfortunately for us, 
 we found with our friend a number of his jovial com- 
 panions, whose object of entertainment was very dif- 
 ferent from ours. Instead of wishing to enjoy the 
 pleasures of the country, they expressed their satis- 
 faction at the meeting of so many old acquaintance ; 
 because, they said, it would add to the mirth and 
 sociality of the party. Accordingly, after a long, and 
 somewhat noisy dinner, the table was covered with 
 bottles and glasses : the mirth of the company rose 
 higher at every new toast ; and, though their drinking 
 did not proceed quite the length of intoxication, the 
 convivial festivity was drawn out, with very little in- 
 termission, till it was time to go to bed. Mr. Fleet- 
 wood's politeness prevented him from leaving the 
 company ; but I, who knew him, saw he was inwardly 
 fretted at the manner in which his time was spent 
 
46 THE MIRR&R, 
 
 during a fine evening-, in one of the most beautiful 
 parts of the country. The mirth of the company* 
 winch was at least innocent, was lost upon him : their 
 jokes hardly produced a smile ; or, if they did, it was 
 a forced one : even the good humour of those around 
 him,^nstead of awakening his benevolence, and giv- 
 ing- him a philanthrcpical pleasure, increased his 
 chagrin ; and the louder the company laughed, the 
 graver did I think, Mr. Fleetwood's countenance 
 became. 
 
 After having remained here two days, our time 
 being spent pretty much in the manner I have de- 
 scribed, we went to the house of another gentleman 
 in the neighbourhood. A natural soberness of mind, 
 accompanied with a habit of industry, and great at- 
 tention to the management of his farm, would save 
 us, we knew, from any thing like riot or intemperance 
 in his family. But even here I found Mr. Fleetwood 
 not a whit more at his ease than in the 'last house. 
 Our landlord's ideas of politeness made him think it 
 would be want of respect to his guests if he did not 
 give them constant attendance. Breakfast, there- 
 fore, was no sooner removed, than, as he wished to 
 visit his farm, he proposed a walk : we set out ac- 
 cordingly ; and our whole morning was spent in cros- 
 sing dirty fields ; leaping ditches and hedges, and 
 hearing our landlord discourse on drilling and horse 
 hoeing ; of broadcast and summer-fallow ; of ma»ur- 
 ing, plowing, draining, Sec. Mr. Fleetwood, who had 
 scarcely ever read a theoretical book upon farming, 
 and was totally ignorant of the practice, was teazed 
 to death with this conversation ; and returned home, 
 covered with dirt, and worn out with fatigue. After 
 dinner, the family economy did not allow the least 
 approach to a debauch ; and, as our landlord had ex- 
 hausted his utmost stock of knowledge and conver- 
 sation in remarks upon his farm, while we were not 
 at all desirous of repeating the entertainment of the 
 
THE MIRRCK. 47 
 
 morning-, we passed a tasteless, lifeless, yawning af- 
 ternoon ; and, I believe, Mr. Fleetwood would have 
 willing-ly exchanged the dullness of his present com- 
 pany for the boisterous mirth of the last he had 
 been in. 
 
 Our next visit was to a gentleman of a liberal edu- 
 cation, and elegant manners, who, in the earlier part 
 of his life, had been much in the polite world. Here 
 Mr. Fleetwood expected to find pleasure and enjoy- 
 ment sufficient to atone for the disagreeable occur- 
 rences in his two former visits ; but here, too, he was 
 disappointed. Mr. Selby, for that was our friend's 
 name, had been several years married ; his family 
 increasing, he had retired to the country ; and, re- 
 nouncing the bustle cf the world, had given himself 
 up to domestic enjoyments : his time and attention 
 were devoted chiefly to the care of his children. The 
 pleasure which himself felt in humouring all their 
 little fancies, made him forget how troublesome that 
 indulgence might be to others. The first morning 
 we were at his house, when Mr. Fleetwood came into 
 the parlour to breakfast, all the places at table were 
 occupied by the children ; it was necessary that one 
 of them should be displaced to make room for him ; 
 and, in the disturbance which V lis occasioned, a tea 
 cup was overturned* and scalded the finger of Mr. 
 Sdby's eldest daughter, a child about seven years old, 
 whose whimpering and complaining attracted the 
 whole attention during breakfast. That being over, 
 the eldest boy came forward with a book in his hand, 
 and Mr. Selby asked Mr. Fleetwood to hear him read 
 his lesson : Mrs. Selby joined in the request, though 
 both looked as if they were rather conferring a fa- 
 vour on their guest. The ekkst had no sooner finish- 
 ed, than the youngest boy presented himself; upon 
 which his father observed, that it would be doing in- 
 justice to Will not to hear him, as well as his elder 
 brother Jack j and in this way was my friend obliged 
 
48 THE MIRROR. 
 
 to spend the morning, in performing the office of a 
 schoolmaster to the children in succession. 
 
 Mr. Fleetwood liked a game at whist, and promised 
 himself a party in the evening, free from interrup- 
 tion. Cards were accordingly proposed ; but Mrs. 
 Selby observed, that her little daughter, who still 
 complained of her scalded finger, needed amusement 
 as much as any of the company. In place of cards, 
 Miss Harriet insisted on the game of the goose. 
 Down to it we sat ; and to a stranger it would have 
 been not unamusing to see Mr. Fleetwood, in his sor- 
 rowful countenance, at the royal and pleasant game 
 of the goose, with a child of seven years old. It is 
 unnecessary to dwell longer on particulars. During 
 all the time we were at Mr. Selby's, the delighted 
 parents were indulging their fondness, while Mr. 
 Fleetwood was repining and fretting in secret. 
 
 Having finished our intended round of visits, we 
 turned our course homewards, and, at the first inn 
 on our road, were joined by one Mr. Johnson, with 
 whom I was slightly acquainted. Politeness would 
 not allow me to reject the offer of his company, 
 especially as I knew him to be a good-natured inof- 
 fensive man. Our road lay through a glen, romantic 
 and picturesque, which we reached soon after sun- 
 set, in a mild and still evening. On each side were 
 stupendous mountains ; their height ; the rude and 
 projecting rocks, of which some of them were com- 
 posed ; the gloomy caverns they seemed to contain ; 
 and the appearance of devastation, occasioned by 
 traces of cataracts falling from their tops, presented 
 to our view a scene truly sublime. Mr. Fleetwood 
 felt an unusual elevation of spirit. Flis soul rose 
 within him, and was swelled with that silent awe, so 
 well suited to his contemplative mind. In the words 
 of the poet, he could have said, 
 
Congenial horrors, hail ! 
 
 THE MIRRQJt. 49 
 
 jt Welcome kindred glooms, 
 
 Be these my theme. 
 
 •' These that exalt the soul to solemn thought, 
 »* And heavenly musing !" 
 
 Our silence had now continued for about a quarter 
 of an hour ; and an unusual stillness prevailed around 
 us, interrupted only by the tread of our horses, which, 
 returning at stated intervals, assisted by the echo of 
 the mountains, formed a hollow sound, which in 
 creased the solemnity of the scene. Mr. Johnson, 
 tiring of this silence, and not having the least com- 
 prehension of its cause, all at once, and without 
 warning, lifted up his voice, and began the song of 
 M Push about the Joram." Mr. Fleetwood's soul 
 was then wound up to its utmost height. At the 
 sound of Mr. Johnson's voice he started, and viewed 
 him with a look of horror, mixed with contempt. 
 During the rest of our journey, I could hardly pre- 
 vail on my friend to be civil to him ; and though he 
 is, in every respect, a worthy and a good-natured 
 man, and though Mr. Fleetwood and he have often 
 met since, the former has never been able to look 
 upon him without disgust. 
 
 Mr. Fleetwood's entertainment in this short tour 
 has produced, in my mind, many reflections, in which 
 I doubt not I shall be anticipated by my readers. 
 
 There are few situations in life, from which a man, 
 who has confined his turn for enjoyment within the 
 bounds pointed out by nature, will not receive satis- 
 faction ; but, if we once transgress those bounds, 
 and seeking after too much refinement, indulge a 
 false and mistaken delicacy, there is hardly a situa- 
 tion in which we will not be exposed to disappoint- 
 ment and disgust. 
 
 Had it not been fer this false, this dangerous deli- 
 cacy, Mr. Fleetwood, instead of uneasiness, would 
 
56 THE MIRROR. 
 
 have received pleasure from every visit we made, 
 from every incident we met with. 
 
 At the first house to which we went, it was not 
 necessary that he should have preferred the hottle to 
 the enjoyment of a fine evening in the country ; but 
 that not being the sentiments of the company, had 
 he, without repining, given up his taste to theirs, 
 instead of feeling disgust at what appeared to him 
 coarse in their enjoyments, he would have felt plea- 
 sure at the mirth and good humour which prevailed 
 around him ; and the very reflection, that different 
 employments gave amusement to different men, 
 would have afforded a lirely and philanthrope cal satis- 
 faction. 
 
 It was scarcely to be expected, that the barrenness 
 and dryness of the conversation at our second visit, 
 could fill up, or entirely satisfy the delicate and im- 
 proved mind of Mr. Fleetwood ; but had he not laid 
 it down almost as a rule, not to be pleased with any 
 thing, except what suited his own idea of enjoyment,, 
 he might, and ought to have received pleasure from 
 the sight of a worthy family, spending their time 
 innocently, happily, and usefully ; usefully, both to 
 themselves and to their country. 
 
 It was owing to the same false sensibility, that he 
 was so muclv chagrined in the family of Mr. Selby. 
 The fond indulgence of the parents did perhaps, 
 carry their attention to their children beyond the rules 
 of propriety ; but, had it not been for this finicalness 
 of mind in Mr. Fleetwood, had he given the natural 
 benevolence of his heart its play, he would have re- 
 ceived a pleasure from witnessing the happiness of 
 two virtuous parents in their rising offspring, that 
 would have much overbalanced any uneasiness arising 
 from the errors in their conduct. 
 
 Neither, but for this excessive refinement, would 
 Mr. Fleetwood have been hurt by the behaviour of 
 Mr. Johnson. Though he might not have consider- 
 
TKE MIRROR. 5 I 
 
 cd him as a man of taste, he would, nevertheless, 
 have regarded him as a good and inoffensive man ; 
 and he would have received pleasure from the re- 
 flection, that neither their goodness nor happiness 
 are confined to those minds which are fitted for feel- 
 ing and enjoying all the pleasures of nature or of 
 art. 
 A 
 
 No. XL TUESDAY, MARCH 2. 
 
 SINCE the commencement of the late levies, I 
 understand that not only drill Serjeants have had daily 
 access to the lobbies and parlours of many decent and 
 peaceable houses in this metropolis, but that profes- 
 sors of the noble science of defence have been so 
 constantly occupied in attending grown gentlemen, 
 and ungrown officers, that their former scholars have 
 found great difficulty in procuring masters to push 
 with them, and have frequently been obliged to have 
 recourse to the less-edifying opposition of one ano- 
 ther. 
 
 The purpose of the Serjeant's instructions, every lov- 
 er of his country must approve. The last-mentioned 
 art, that of fencing, I formerly took great delight in 
 myself, and still account one of the healthiest of all 
 house-exercises, insomuch that, when I am in the 
 country, where I make it a rule to spend a certain 
 part of every day in exercise of some kind, I gene- 
 rally take up my foil in rainy mornings, and push 
 with great success against the figure of Herod, in a 
 piece of old arras that was taken down from my 
 grandmother's room, and is now pasted up on the 
 wall of the laundry. 
 
 ▼ OL. I. F 
 
52 THE MIRROR. 
 
 When those two sciences, however, go upon ac- 
 tual service, they are to be considered in different 
 lights. That of the Serjeant, as it teaches a man to 
 stand well on his legs, to carry his body firm, and to 
 move it alertly, is much the same as the fencing 
 master's ; but in their last stage they depart some- 
 what from each other : the Serjeant proposes to qua- 
 lify a man for encountering his enemy in battle, the 
 other to fit him for meeting his companion, or friend 
 it may be, in a duel. 
 
 My readers will, I hope, give me credit for the 
 Mirror being always a very polite paper ; 1 am not, 
 therefore, at all disposed to bestow on a practice so 
 gentleman-like as duelling, those severe reprehen- 
 sions, equally trite and unjust, in which some of my 
 predecessors have indulged themselves. During my 
 residence abroad, I was made perfectly acquainted 
 with the arguments drawn in its favour, from the in- 
 fluence it has on the manners of the gentleman, and 
 the honour of the soldier. It is my intention only to 
 point out those bounds within which the most punc- 
 tilious valour may be contented to restrain itself; 
 and in this I shall be the more guarded, as I mean 
 the present paper principally for the use of the new- 
 raised regiments above alluded to, whose honour I 
 dearly prize, and would preserve as scrupulously in- 
 violate as possible. I hold such an essay peculiarly 
 proper at this juncture, when some of them are 
 about to embark on long voyages, in which even 
 good-natured people, being tacked together like man 
 and wife, are somewhat apt to grow peevish and 
 quarrelsome. 
 
 In the first place, I will make one general obser- 
 vation, that, at this busy time, when our country has 
 need of men, lives are of more value to the com- 
 munity than at other periods. In time of peace, so 
 many regiments are reduced, and the duties of an 
 officer so easily performed, that if one fall, and ano- 
 
THE MIRROR. 53 
 
 ther be hanged for killing him, there will speedily be 
 found two proper young men ready to mount guard, 
 and shew a good leg on the parade, in their room. 
 But, at present, from the great increase ot the esta- 
 blishment, there is rather a scarcity, in proportion 
 to the demand of men of military talents, and military 
 figure, especially when we consider that the war is 
 now to be carried on against so genteel a people as 
 the French, to whom it will be necessary to shew 
 officers of the most soldier-like appearance and ad- 
 dress. 
 
 This patriotic consideration will tend to relax the 
 etiquette formerly established, for every officer to 
 fight a duel within a few weeks of the date of his 
 commission, and that, too, without the purpose of 
 resenting any affront, or vindicating his honour from 
 any aspersion, but merely to shew that he could 
 fight. Now, this practice, being unnecessary at pre- 
 sent, as preferment goes on briskly enough by the 
 fall of officers in the course of their duty, may very 
 properly, and without disparagement to the valour 
 of the British army, be dispensed with ; so, it is to 
 be agreed and understood, that every officer in the 
 new-raised regiments, whose commission bears date 
 on or posterior to the 1st of January, 1778, is ifiso 
 facto, to be held and deemed of unquestionable cou- 
 rage and immaculate honour. 
 
 As to the measure of affront which may justify a 
 challenge, it is to be remembered, that the officers 
 of the above mentioned corps have been obliged, in 
 levying their respectire quotas, to engage in scenes 
 of a very particular kind ; at markets, fairs, country- 
 weddings, and city-brawls, amongst a set of men 
 and women not remarkable for delicacy of language 
 or politeness of behaviour. We are not, therefore, 
 to wonder if the smooth enamel of the gentleman has 
 received some little injury from the collision of such 
 coarse materials ; and a certain time may fairlv be 
 
54, THE MIRROR. 
 
 allowed for unlearning the blunt manners and rough 
 phraseology which an officer in such situations was 
 forced to assume. Therefore the identical words 
 which, a campaign or two hence, are to be held ex- 
 piable only by blood, may, at present, be done away 
 by an explanation ; and those which an officer must 
 then explain and account for, at peril of a challenge, 
 are now to be considered as mere colloquial expletives, 
 acquired by associating with such company as fre- 
 quent the places above described. 
 
 As, notwithstanding all these allowances, some 
 duels may be expected to take place, it is proper to 
 mention certain regulations for the conduct of the 
 parties, in the construction of which I have paid in- 
 iinitely more regard to their honour than to their 
 safety. 
 
 In fighting with the sword, a blow, or the lie di- 
 rect, can scarcely be expiated but by a thrust through 
 the body ; but any lesser affront may be wiped off by 
 a wound in the sword-arm ; or, if the injury be 
 very slight, any wound will be sufficient. In all 
 this, it is to be noted,^ that the receiving of such 
 wound by either party constitutes a reparation for the 
 affront ; as it is a rule of justice peculiar to the code 
 of duelling, that the blood of the injured atones for 
 the offence he has received, as well as that of the 
 injurer for the offence he lias given. 
 
 In affairs decided with pistols, the distance is, in 
 like manner, to be regulated by the nature of the 
 injury. For those of an atrocious sort, a distance 
 of only twenty feet, and pistols of nine, nine and a 
 half, or ten inch barrels, are requisite ; for slighter 
 ones, the distance may be doubled, and a six, or 
 even five inch barrel will"serve. Regard, moreover, 
 is to be had to the size of the persons engaged ; for 
 every stone above eleven, the party of such weight 
 may, with perfect honor, retire three feet. 
 
 I read, some time ago, certain addresses to the 
 
THE MIRROR. 55 
 
 Jockey Club, by two gentlemen who had been en- 
 gaged in an affair of honor, from which it appeared 
 that one of them had systematized the art of duel- 
 ling to a wonderful degree. Among other things, he 
 had brought his aim with a pistol to so much cer- 
 tainty, and made such improvements on the weapon, 
 that he could lay a hundred guineas to ten on hit- 
 ting, at a considerable distance, any part of his ad- 
 versary's body. These arts, however, I by no 
 means approve : they resemble, methinks, a loaded 
 die, or a packed deal ; and I am inclined to be of 
 opinion, that a gentleman is no more obliged to 
 fight against the first, than to play against the latter. 
 They may, in the mildest construction, be compar- 
 ed to the sure play of a man who can take every 
 ball at billiards ; and therefore, if it shall be judged 
 that an ordinary marksman must fight with the per- 
 son possessed of them, he is, at least, intitled to 
 odds, and must be allowed three shots to one of his 
 antagonist. 
 
 I have thus, with some labour, and I hope strict 
 honor, settled certain articles in the matter of duel- 
 ling, for such of my readers as may have occasion 
 for them. It is but candid, however, to own, that 
 there have been, now and then, brilliant things done 
 quite without the line of my directions, to wit, by 
 
 not fighting at all. The Abbe . with whom I 
 
 was disputing at Paris on this subject, concluded his 
 arguments against duelling with a story, which, 
 though I did not think it much to the purpose, was 
 a tolerable story notwithstanding. I shall give it in 
 the very words of the Abbe. 
 
 " A countryman of yours, a Captain Douglas, 
 " was playing at trictrac, with a very intimate 
 " friend, here in this very coffee-house, amidst a 
 " a circle of French officers who were looking on. 
 " Some dispute arising about a cast of the dice, 
 " Douglas said, in a gay thoughtless manner, "oh! 
 r 2 
 
56 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " what a story 1" A murmur arose among the by- 
 " standers : and his antagonist feeling the affront, 
 " as if the lie had been given him, in the violence 
 " of his passion, snatched up the tables, and hit 
 " Douglas a blow on the head. The instant he had 
 " done it, the idea of his imprudence, and its pro- 
 u bable consequences to himself and his friend, 
 " rushed upon his mind : he sat, stupified with 
 u shame and remorse, his eyes rivetted on the 
 " ground, regardless of what the other's resent- 
 " ment might prompt him to act. Douglas, after a 
 " short pause, turned round to the spectators : 
 " You think," said he, " that I am now ready to 
 " cut the throat of that unfortunate young man ; 
 " but I know that, at this moment, he feels anguish 
 " a thousand times more keen than any my sword 
 
 * could inflict — I will embrace him — thus — and try 
 " to reconcile him to himself ; — but I will cut the 
 
 * throat of that man among you who shall dare to 
 " breathe a syllable against my honour." " Bravo ! 
 " Bravo !" cried an old Chevalier de St. Louis, who 
 " stood immediately behind him : — The sentiment 
 
 * of France overcame its habit, and bravo ! bravo '. 
 " echoed from every corner of the room. Who 
 u would not have cried bravo ! Would not you, Sir ? 
 u Doubtless." " On other occasions, then, be go- 
 w verned by the same principle." " Why to be 
 " sure, it were often better not to fight — if one had 
 
 * but the courage not to fight." 
 
 I 
 
THE MIRROR. 57 
 
 No. XII. SATURDAY, MARCH 6. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror, 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I AM am a plain country-gentleman, with a small 
 fortune, and a large family. My boys, all except 
 the youngest, I have contrived to set out into the 
 world in tolerably promising situations. My two 
 eldest girls are married ; one to a clergyman with a 
 very comfortable living, and a respectable charac- 
 ter ; ihe other to a neighbour of my own, who 
 farms most of his own estate, and is supposed to 
 know country-business as well as any man in this 
 part of the kingdom. I have four other girls at 
 home, whom I wish to make fit wives for men of 
 equal rank with their brothers-in-law. 
 
 About three months ago, a great lady in our 
 neighbourhood, (at least as neighbourhood is reckon- 
 ed in our quarter,) happened to meet the two eldest 
 of my unmarried daughters at the house of a gen- 
 tleman, a distant relation of mine, and, as well as 
 myself, a freeholder in our county. The girls are 
 tolerably handsome, and I have endeavoured to make 
 them understand the common rules of good-breed- 
 ing. My Lady ran out to my kinsman, who 
 
 happens to have no children of his own, in praise of 
 their beauty and politeness, and, at parting, gave 
 them a most pressing invitation to come and spend 
 a week with her during the approaching Christmas 
 holidays. On my daughters' return from their kins- 
 man's, I was not altogether pleased at hearing of 
 this invitation ; nor was I more satisfied with the 
 very frequent quotations of my Lady ■ 's say- 
 
 ings, and sentiments, and the descriptions of the 
 beauty of her complexion, the elegance of her dress, 
 and the grandeur of her equipage. I opposed, there- 
 
58 THE MIRROR. 
 
 fore, their design of paying this Christmas visit pret- 
 ty warmly. Upon this the honour done them by the 
 invitation, the advantages to be derived from an ac- 
 quaintance with the great Lady ; and the benefit that 
 might accrue to my family from the influence of her 
 Lord, were immediately rung in my ears, not only 
 by my daughters, but also by their mother, whom 
 they had already gained over to their side ; and, I 
 must own to you, Mr. Mirror, though I would not 
 have you think me hen-pecked, that my wife, some- 
 how or other, contrives to carry most points in our 
 family ; so my opposition was over-ruled, and to 
 
 — the girls went ; but not before they had 
 
 made a journey to the metropolis of our county, and 
 brought back a portmanteau full of necessaries to 
 qualify them for appearing decently, as my wife said, 
 in the company they should meet there. 
 
 In about a month, for their visit was drawn out 
 to that length, my daughters returned. But had you 
 seen, Mr. Mirror, what an alteration that month had 
 made on them ! Instead of the rosy complexions, 
 and sparkling eyes, they had carried with them, they 
 brought back cheeks as white as a curd, and eyes as 
 dead as the beads in the face of a baby. 
 
 I could not help expressing my surprize at the 
 sight ; but the .younger of the two ladies immediate- 
 ly cut me short, by telling me, that their complexion 
 was the only one worn at . 
 
 And no wonder, Sir, it should, from the descrip- 
 tion which my daughter sometimes gives us of the 
 life people lead there. Instead of rising at seven, 
 breakfasting at nine, dining at three, supping at 
 eight, and getting to bed by ten, as it was their 
 custom at home, my girls lay till twelve, breakfasted 
 at one, dined at six, supped at eleven, and were 
 never to bed till three in the morning. Their shapes 
 had undergone as much alteration as their faces. — 
 From their bosoms, (necks they called them,) which 
 
THE MIRROR. 59 
 
 Mere squeezed up to their throats, their waists ta- 
 pered down to a very extraordinary smallness : they 
 resemble the upper half of an hour glass. At this, 
 also, I marvelled ; but it was the only shape worn 
 
 at . Next day, after dinner, after a long 
 
 morning preparation, they appeared with heads of 
 such a size, that my little parlour was not of height 
 enough to let them stand upright in it. This was 
 the most striking metamorphosis of all. Their mo- 
 ther slared ; I ejaculated ; my other children burst 
 out a laughing ; the answer was the same as before ; 
 
 it was the only head worn at . 
 
 Nor is their behaviour less changed than their 
 garb. Instead of joining in the good humoured 
 cheerfulness we used to have among us before, my 
 two fine young ladies check every approach to mirth, 
 by calling it vulgar. One of them chid their bro- 
 ther the other day for laughing, and told him it 
 was monstrously ill bred. In the evenings, when 
 we were wont, if we had nothing else to do, to fall 
 to Blind-man's buff, or Cross-purposes, or some- 
 times to play at Loo for cherry-stones, these two get 
 a pack of cards to themselves, and sit down to play 
 for any little money their visit has left them, at a 
 game none of us know any thing about. It seems, 
 indeed, the dullest of all amusements, as it consists 
 in merely turning up the faces of the cards, and .re- 
 peating their names from an ace upwards, as if the 
 players were learning to speak, and had got only 
 thirteen words in their vocabulary. But of this, 
 and every other custom at , no body is allow- 
 ed to judge but themselves. They have got a parcel 
 of phrases, which they utter on all occasions as de- 
 cisive, French, I believe, though I can scarce find 
 any of them in the dictionary, and am unable to put 
 them upon paper ; but all of them mean something 
 extremely fashionable, and are constantly supported 
 
60 THE MIRROR. 
 
 by the authority of my Lady, or the Countess, his 
 Lordship, or Sir John. 
 
 As they have learned many foreign, so have they 
 unlearned some of the most common and best un 
 derstood home phrases. When one of my neighbours 
 was lamenting the extravagance and dissipation of a 
 young kinsman who had spent his fortune, and lost 
 his health in London and at Newmarket, they called 
 it life, and said it shewed spirit in the young man. 
 After the same rule, they lately declared, that a 
 gentleman could not live on less than 10001. a-year, 
 and called the account which their mantua-maker 
 and milliner sent me for the fineries purchased for 
 
 their visit at , a trifle, though it amounted to 
 
 591. lis. 4d. exactly a fourth part of the clear in- 
 come of my estate. 
 
 All this, Mr, Mirror, I look upon as a sort of 
 pestilential disorder, with which my poor daughters 
 have been infected in the course of this unfortunate 
 visit. This consideration has induced me to treat 
 them hitherto with lenity and indulgence, and try to 
 effect their cure by mild methods, which indeed suit 
 my temper (naturally of a pliant kind, as every body, 
 except my wife, says,) better than harsh ones. Yet, 
 I confess, I could not help being in a passion t'other 
 day, when the disorder shewed symptoms of a more 
 serious kind. Would you believe it, Sir, my daugh- 
 ter Elizabeth (since her visit, she is offended if we 
 call her Betty) said it was fanatical to find fault with 
 card-playing on Sunday ; and her sister Sophia 
 gravely asked my son-in-law, the clergyman, if he 
 had not some doubts of the soul's immortality ? 
 
 As certain great cities, I have heard, are never 
 free from the plague, and at last come to look upon 
 it as nothing terrible or extraordinary ; so, I sup- 
 pose, in London, or even your town, Sir, this dis- 
 ease always prevails, and is but little dreaded. But, 
 in the country, it will be productive of melancholy 
 
THE MIR110R. 61 
 
 effects indeed ; if suffered to spread there, it will 
 not only embitter our lives, and spoil our domestic 
 happiness, as at present it does mine, but, in its 
 most violent stages, will bring our estates to market, 
 our daughters to ruin, and our sons to the gallows. 
 Be so humane, therefore, Mr. Mirror y as to sug- 
 gest some expedient for keeping it confined within 
 those limits in which it rages at present. If no pub- 
 lic regulation can be contrived for that purpose 
 (though I cannot help thinking this disease of the 
 great people merits the attention of government, as 
 much as the distemper among the horned cattle,) 
 try, at least, the effects of private admonition, to 
 prevent the sound from approaching the infected ; 
 let all little men like myself, and every member of 
 their families, be cautious of holding intercourse 
 with the persons or families of dukes, earls, lords, 
 nabobs, or contractors, till they have good reason 
 to believe that s#ch persons and their households are 
 in a sane and healthy state, and in no danger of 
 communicating this dreadful disorder. And, if it 
 has left such great and noble persons any feelings 
 of compassion, pray put them in mind of that well- 
 known fable of the boys and the frogs, which they 
 must have learned at school. Tell them, Sir, that 
 though the making fools of their poor neighbours 
 may serve them for a Christmas gambol, it is matter 
 of serious wretchedness to those poor neighbours in 
 the after part of their lives : " It is sport to them, 
 " but death to us." 
 
 I am, Sec. 
 
 John Homesp-u^m. 
 Z 
 
62 THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. XIII. TUESDAY, MARCH 9. 
 
 THE antiquity of the poems ascribed to Ossian, 
 the son of Fingol, has been the subject of much dis- 
 pute. The refined magnanimity and generosity of 
 the heroes, and the tenderness and delicacy of sen- 
 timent, with regard to women, so conspicuous in 
 those poems, are circumstances very difficult to re- 
 concile with the rude and uncultivated age in which 
 the poet is supposed to have lived. On the other 
 hand, the intrinsic characters of antiquity which the 
 poems bear ; that simple state of society the poet 
 paints ; the narrow circle of objects and transactions 
 he describes; his concise, abrupt, and figurative style ; 
 the absence of all abstract ideas, and of all modern 
 allusions, render it difficult to assign any other xra 
 for their production than the age of Fingal. In short, 
 there are difficulties on both sides ;#nd, if that re- 
 markable refinement of manners seem inconsistent 
 with cur notions of an unimproved age, the marks of 
 antiquity with which the poems are stamped make 
 it very hard to suppose them a modern composition. 
 It is not, however, my intention to examine the me- 
 rits of this controversy, much less to hazard any 
 judgment of my own. All I propose is, to suggest 
 ©ne consideration on the subject, which, as far as I 
 can recollect, has hitherto escaped the parti zans of 
 either side. 
 
 The elegant author of the Critical Dissertation on 
 the Poems of Ossian, has very properly obviated the 
 objections made to the uniformity of Ossian's ima- 
 gery, and the too frequent repetition of the same 
 comparisons. He has shown, that this objection pro- 
 ceeds from a careless and inattentive perusal of the 
 poems; for, although the range of the poet's objects 
 was not wide, and consequently the same object does 
 often return, yet its appearance is changed ; the image 
 
THE MIRROK. 63 
 
 is new ; it is presented to the fa.ncy in another atti* 
 tude, and clothed with different circumstances to make 
 it suit the illustration for which it is employed. " In 
 this," continues he, " lies Ossian's great art ;" and 
 he illustrates his remark by taking the instances of 
 the moon and of mist, two of the principal subjects 
 of the bard's images and allusions. 
 
 I agree with this critic in his observations, though 
 I think he has rather erred in ascribing to art in Os- 
 sian, that wonderful diversification of the narrow cir- 
 cle of objects with which he was acquainted. It was 
 not by any efforts of art or contrivance that Ossian 
 presented the rude objects of nature under so many 
 different aspects. He wrote from a full heart, from 
 a rich and glowing imagination. He did not seek for, 
 and invent images ; he copied nature, and painted 
 objects as they struck and kindled his fancy. He had 
 nothing within the range of his view, but the great 
 features of simple nature. The sun, the moon, the 
 stars, the desert heath, the winding stream, the 
 green hill, with all its roes, and the rock with its 
 robe of mist, were the objects amidst which Ossian 
 lived. Contemplating these, under every variety of 
 appearance they could assume, bo wonder that his 
 warm and empassioned genius found in them a field 
 fruitful of the most lofty and sublime imagery. 
 
 Thus the very circumstance of his having such a 
 circumscribed range of inanimate objects to attract 
 the attention and exercise his imagination, was the 
 natural and necessary cause of Ossian's being able 
 to view and to describe them, under such a variety 
 of great and beautiful appearances. And, may we 
 not proceed farther, and affirm, that so rich a diver- 
 sification of the few appearances of simple nature, 
 could hardly have occurred to the imagination of a 
 poet, living in any other than the rude and early age 
 in which the son of Fingal appeared. 
 
 In refined and polished society, where the works of 
 
 Vol. i. g 
 
64 THE MIRROR. 
 
 art abound, the endless variety of objects that present 
 themselves, distract and dissipate the attention. The 
 mind is perpetually hurried from one object to ano- 
 ther, and no time is left to dwell upon the sublime 
 and simple appearances of nature. A poet, in such 
 an age, has a wide and diversified circle of objects on 
 which to exercise his imagination. He has a large 
 and diffused stock of materials from which to draw 
 images to embellish his work ; and he does not al- 
 ways resort for his imagery to the diversified appear- 
 ance of the objects of rude nature; he does not avoid 
 those because his taste rejects them ; but he uses 
 them seldom, because they seldom recur to his ima- 
 gination. 
 
 To seize these images belongs only to the poet of 
 an early and simple age. where the undivided atten- 
 tion has leisure to brood over the few, but sublime 
 objects which surround him. The sea and the heath, 
 the rock and the torrent, the clouds and meteors, the 
 thunder and lightning, the sun and moon, and stars, 
 are, as it were, the companions with which his ima- 
 gination holds converse. He personifies and addresses 
 them : every aspect they can assume is impressed 
 upon his mind : he contemplates and traces them 
 through all the endless varieties of seasons ; and they 
 are the perpetual subjects of his images and allusions. 
 He has, indeed, only a few objects around him : but 
 for that very reason, he forms a more intimate ac- 
 quaintance with their every feature, and shade, and 
 attitude. 
 
 From this circumstance, it would seem, that the 
 poetical productions of widely-distant periods of so- 
 ciety, must ever bear strong marks of the age which 
 gave them birth ; and that it is not possible for a 
 poetical genius of the one ape to counterfeit and imi- 
 tate the productions of the other. To the poet of a 
 simple age, the varied objects which present them- 
 selves in cultivated society are unknown. To the 
 
THE MIRROR. 65 
 
 poet of a refined age, the idea of imitating* the pro- 
 ductions of rude times might, perhaps, occur ; but 
 the execution would certainly be difficult, perhaps 
 impracticable. To catch some few transient aspects 
 of any of the great appearances of nature, may be 
 within the reach of the genius of any age ; but to 
 perceive, and feel, and paint, all the shades of a 
 few simple objects, and to make them correspond 
 with a great diversity of subjects, the poet must dwell 
 amidst them, and have them ever present to his 
 mind. 
 
 The excellent critic whom I have already men- 
 tioned, has selected the instances of the moon and 
 the mist, to shew how much Ossian has diversified 
 the appearances of the few objects with which he was 
 encircled. I shall now conclude this paper with se- 
 lecting a third, that of the sun, which, I think, the 
 bard has presented in such a variety of aspects, as 
 could have occurred to the imagination in no other 
 than the early and unimproved age in which Casian 
 is supposed to have lived. 
 
 The vanquished Frothal, struck with the generous 
 magnanimity of Fingal, addresses him : " Terrible 
 " art thou, O king of Morven, m battles of the 
 " spears ; but, in peace, thou art like the sun, when 
 « lie looks through a silent shower : the flowers lift 
 " their fair heads before him, and the gales shake 
 " their rustling wings." Of the generous open 
 Cathmor, exposed to the dark and gloomy Cairbar, 
 it is said : " His face was like the plain of the sun, 
 " when it is bright : No darkness travelled over his 
 " brow." Of Nathos : " The soul of Nathos was 
 " generous and mild, like the hour of the setting 
 " sun." Of young Connal, coming to seek the ho- 
 nour of the spear: u The youth was lovely, as 
 
 " the first beam of the sun". « O ! Fithil's 
 
 " son," says Cuchullin, •* with feet of wind, fly over 
 " the heath of Lena. Tell to Fingal, that Erin is 
 
66 t THE MIRROR. 
 
 44 enthralled, and bid the king of Morden hasten. 
 " Oh ! let him come like the sun in a storm, when 
 44 he shines on the hills of grass." 
 
 Nathos, anxious for the fate of Darthula : " The 
 44 soul of Nathos was sad, like the sun in the day 
 
 " of mist, when his face is watery and dim." 
 
 • Oscar, surrounded with foes, foreseeing the fall of 
 his race, and yet at times gathering hope : " At 
 44 times he was thoughtful and dark, like the sun 
 « when he carries a cloud on his face ; but he looks 
 
 44 afterward on the hills of Cona." Before Bos- 
 
 mina sent to offer them the peace of heroes : 44 The 
 * 4 host of Erragon brightened in her presence, as a 
 4 * rock before the sudden beams of the sun, when 
 44 they issue from a broken cloud, divided by the 
 
 44 roaring wind." The remembrance of battles 
 
 past, and the return of peace, is compared to the 
 sun returning after a storm: Hear the battle of Lora ; 
 44 the sound of its steel is long since past ; so thun- 
 • 4 der on the darkened hill roars, and is no more ; 
 44 the sun returns, with his silent beams : the glit- 
 44 tering rocks, and green heads of the mountains, 
 « smile." 
 
 Fingal in his strength darkening in the presence 
 of war: 44 His arm stretches to the foe like the beam 
 44 of the sickly sun, when his side is crusted with 
 < 4 darkness, and he rolls his dismal course through- 
 44 out the sky." A young hero, exulting in his 
 strength, and rushing towards his foes, exclaims, 
 • 4 My beating soul is high ! My fame is bright be- 
 * 4 fore me, like the streak of light on a cloud when 
 44 the broad sun comes forth, red traveller of the sky ! 
 ♦' On another occasion, says a hero, I have met the 
 * 4 battle in my youth. My arm could not lift the 
 44 spear when first the danger rose ; but my soul 
 44 brightened before the war as the green narrow 
 44 vale, when the sun pours his streamy beams, be- 
 4k fore he hides his head in a storm I" 
 
THE MIRROR, 
 
 f>7 
 
 But it would exceed the proper bounds of this pa" 
 per, were I to bring together all the passages which 
 might illustrate my remarks. Without, therefore, 
 quoting the beautiful address to the sun, which fi- 
 nishes the second book of Temora, or that at the be- 
 ginning of Carricthura, I shall conclude with laying 
 before my readers that sublime passage at the end of 
 Carth©n, where the aged bard, thrown into melan- 
 choly by the remembrance of that hero, thus pours 
 himself forth : 
 
 — " I feel the sun, O Malvina ! leave me to my 
 u rest. The beam of heaven delights to shine on the 
 " grave of Carthon ; I feel it warm around. 
 
 M O thou that rollest above, round as the shield 
 " of my fathers ! whence are thy beams, O Sun I 
 " thy everlasting light ? Thou cornet forth in thy 
 " awful beauty, and the stars hide ^lerrclselves in the 
 " sky : The moon, cold and pale, sinks in the wes- 
 " tern wave, but thou thyself movest alone : Who 
 " can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of 
 " the mountain fall ; the mountains themselves decay 
 " with years ; the ocean shrinks, and grows again ; 
 li the moon herself is lost in heaven ; but thou art 
 u for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of 
 " thy course. When the world is dark trith tem- 
 " pests ; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies, 
 u thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and 
 " laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest 
 " in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more ; whe- 
 " ther thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or 
 u thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou 
 " art, perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years 
 " will have an end. Thou shait sleep in thy clouds, 
 " careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, 
 M O Sun, in the strength of thy youth ! Age is dark 
 " and unlovely ; it is like the glimmering light of 
 g 2 
 
68 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " the moon when it shines through broken clouds j 
 " the blast of the north is on the plain, and the tra- 
 ** veller shrinks in the midst of his journey." 
 
 No. XIV. SATURDAY, MARCH 13. 
 
 -Inertibus horis 
 
 Ducere sollicitse jucunda oblivia vitae. Hor. 
 
 THERE are some weaknesses, which, as they do 
 not strike us with the malignity of crimes, and pro- 
 duce their effects by imperceptible progress, we are 
 apt to consider a* venial, and make very little scru- 
 ple of indulging. But the habit which apologizes for 
 these, is a mischief of their own creation, which it 
 behoves us early to resist. We give way to it at 
 first, because it may be conquered at any time ; and 
 at last, excuse ourselves from the contest, because it 
 has grown too strong to be overcome. 
 
 Of this nature is indolence, a failing, I had almost 
 said a vice, of all others the least alarming, yet, per- 
 haps, the most fatal. Dissipation and intemperance 
 are often the transient effects of youthful heat, which 
 time allays, and experience overcomes ; but indo- 
 lence " grows with our growth, and strengthens with 
 our strength," till it has weakened every exertion 
 of public and private duty : yet so seducing, that its 
 evils are unfelt, and errors unrepented of. 
 
 It is a circumstance of peculiar regret, that this 
 should often be the propensity of delicate and amiable 
 minds. Men unfeeling and unsusceptible, commonly 
 beat the beaten track with activity and resolution ; 
 the occupations they pursue, and the enjoyments 
 
THE MIRROR. 69 
 
 they feel, seldom much disappoint the expectations 
 they have formed ; but persons endowed with that 
 nice perception of pleasure and pain which is annex- 
 ed to sensibility, feel so much undescribable uneasi- 
 ness in their pursuits, and frequently so little satis- 
 faction in their attainments, that they are too often 
 induced to sit still, without attempting the one or de- 
 siring the other. 
 
 The complaints which such persons make of their 
 want of that success which attends men of inferior 
 abilities, are as unjust as unavailing. It is from the 
 use, not the possession of talents, that we get on in 
 life : the exertion of very moderate parts outweighs 
 the indecision of the brightest. Men possessed of the 
 first, do things tolerably, and are satisfied ; of the 
 last, forbear doing things well, because they have 
 ideas beyond them. 
 
 When I first resolved to publish this paper, I ap- 
 plied to several literary friends for their aid in carry- 
 ing it on. From one gentleman in London, I had, 
 in particular, very sanguine expectations of assistance. 
 His genius and abilities I had early opportunities of 
 knowing, and he is now in a situation most favoura- 
 ble to such productions, as he lives amidst the great 
 and the busy world, without being much occupied ei- 
 ther by ambition or business. His compositions at col- 
 lege, when I first became acquainted with him, 
 were remarkable for elegance and ingenuity ; and, 
 as I knew he still spent much of his time in reading 
 the best writers, ancient and modern, I made no 
 doubt of his having attained such farther improve- 
 ment of style and extension of knowledge, as 
 would render him a very valuable contributor to the 
 Mirror. 
 
 A few days ago, more than four months after I had 
 sent him my lettea, I received the following answer 
 to it. 
 
7* THE MIRROR. 
 
 London, 1st March, 1779. 
 My dear Friend, 
 I AM ashamed to look on the date of this letter, 
 and to recollect that of yours. I will not, however,* 
 add the sin of hypocrisy to my other failings, by in- 
 forming you, as is often done in such cases, that hur- 
 ry of business, or want of health, has prevented me 
 from answering your letter. I will frankly confess, 
 that I have had abundance of leisure, and been per- 
 fectly well, since I received it ; I can add, though, 
 perhaps you may not so easily believe me, that I have 
 had as much inclination as opportunity ; but the truth 
 is, (you know my weakness that way) I have wished, 
 resolved, and re-resolved to write, as I do by many- 
 other things, without the power of accomplishing it. 
 That disease of indolence, which you and my other 
 companions used to laugh at, grows stronger and 
 stronger upon me ; my symptoms, indeed, are mor- 
 tal ; for I begin now to lose the power of struggling 
 against the malady, sometimes to shut my ears against 
 self admonition, and admit of it as a lawful indul- 
 gence. 
 
 Your letter, acquainting me of the design of pub- 
 lishing a periodical paper, and asking my assistance 
 in carrying it on, found me in one of the paroxysms 
 of my disorder. The fit seemed to give way to the 
 call of friendship. I got up from my easy chair, 
 walked two or three turns through the room, read 
 your letter again, looked at the Spectators, which 
 stood, neatly bound and gilt, in the front of my book- 
 press, called for pen, ink, and paper, and sat down 
 in the fervour of imagination, ready to combat vice, 
 to encourage virtue, to form the manners, and to re- 
 gulate the taste of millions of my fellow-subjects. 
 A field fruitful and unbounded lay before me ; I be- 
 gan to speculate on the prevailing vices and reigning 
 follies of the times, tbe thousand topics which might 
 
THE MIRROR. 71 
 
 arise for declamation, satire, ridicule, and humour ; 
 the picture of manners, the shades of character, the 
 delicacies of sentiment. I was bewildered amidst 
 this multitude and variety of subjects, and sat dream- 
 ing over the redundancy of matter and the ease of 
 writing, till the morning was spent, and my servant 
 announced dinner. 
 
 I arose, satisfied with having thought much, and 
 laid in store for writing much on subjects proper for 
 your paper. I dined, if you will allow me the ex- 
 pression, in company with those thoughts, and drank 
 half a bottle of wine after dinner to our better ac- 
 quaintance. When my man took away, I returned 
 to my study, sat down at my writing-table, folded 
 my paper into proper margins, wrote the word Mir- 
 ror a-top, and filling my pen again drew up the cur- 
 tain, and prepared to delineate the scene before me. 
 But I found things not quite in the situation I had left 
 them ; the groupes were more confused, the figures 
 less striking, the colours less vivid, than I had seen 
 them before dinner. I continued, however, to look on 
 them — I know not how long ; for I was waked^from 
 a very sound nap, at half an hour past six, by Peter 
 asking me, if I chose to drink coffee. 
 
 I was ashamed and vexed at the situation in which 
 he found me. I drank my first dish rather out of hu- 
 mour with myself; but, during the second, I began 
 to account for it from natural causes ; and, before 
 the third was finished, had resolved that study was 
 improper after repletion, and concluded the*evening 
 with one of the three Callenderj, out of the Arabian 
 Nights Entertainment. 
 
 For all this arrear I drew, resolutely, on to-morrow, 
 and after breakfast prepared myself accordingly. I 
 had actually gone so far as to write three introductory 
 sentences, all of which I burnt, and was just black- 
 ing the letter T for the beginning of a fourth, when 
 Peter opened the door, and announced a gentleman, 
 
72 THE MIRROR. 
 
 an old acquaintance, whom I had not seen for a con- 
 siderable time. After he had sat with me for mere 
 than an hour, he rose to go away ; I pulled out my 
 watch, and 1 will fairly own I was not sorry to find 
 it within a few minutes of one ; so I gave up the 
 morning for lost, and invited myself to accompany my 
 friend in some visits he proposed making. Our tour 
 concluded in a dinner at a tavern, whence we repaired 
 to the play, and did not part till midnight. I went 
 to bed without much self-reproach, by considering, 
 that intercourse with the world fits a man for reform- 
 ing it. 
 
 1 need not go through every day of the subsequent 
 month, during which I remained in town, though 
 there seldom passed one that did not remind me of 
 what I owed to your friendship. It is enough to tell 
 you, that, during the first fortnight, I always found 
 some apology for delaying the execution of my pur- 
 pose ; and, during the last, contented myself with the 
 prospect of the leisure I should soon enjoy in the 
 country, to which I was invited by a relation, to spend 
 some time with him previous to his coming to town 
 for the winter. I arrived at his house about the mid- 
 dle of December. I locked on his fields, his walks, 
 and his woods, which the extreme mildness of the 
 season had still left in the garb of Thomson's philo- 
 sophic melancholy, as scenes full of inspiration, in 
 which genius might try her wings, and wisdom medi- 
 tate, without interruption. But I am obliged to own, 
 that though I have walked there many a time ; though 
 my fancy was warmed with the scene, and shot out 
 into a thousand excursions over the regions of ro- 
 mance, of melancholy, of sentiment, of humour, of 
 criticism, and of science, she returned, like the first 
 messenger of Noah, without having found a resting- 
 place ; and I have, at last strolled back to the house, 
 where I sat listless in my chamber, with the irksome 
 consciousness of some unperformed resolution, from 
 
THE MIRROR, 73 
 
 which I was glad to be relieved by a summons to 
 billiards, or a call to dinner. 
 
 Thus have I returned to town, as unprofitable in 
 the moments of solitude and retirement, as in those 
 of business or society. Do not smile at the word 
 business : what would be idleness to you, is to me 
 very serious employment ; besides, you know very 
 well, that to be idle, is often to be least at leisure. I am 
 now almost hardy enough to lay aside altogether my 
 resolution of writing in your paper ; but I find that 
 resolution a sort of bond against me, till you are good 
 enough to cancel it, by saying you do not expect me 
 to write. I have made a more than ordinary effort 
 to give you this sincere account of my attempt to as- 
 sist you. I have at least the consolation of thinking, 
 that you will not need my assistance. Believe me, 
 with all my failings, 
 
 Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 
 P. S. I have just now learned by accident, that my 
 nephew, a lad of fifteen, who is come to town from 
 Harrow-school, and lives at present with me, hating 
 seen one of your numbers about a week ago, has al- 
 ready written, and intends transmitting you, a poli- 
 tical essay, signed Aristides, a pastoral, subscribed 
 X. Y. and an acrostic on Miss E. M. without a sig- 
 nature. 
 
 V 
 
74 THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. XV. TUESDAY, MARCH 16. 
 
 Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, 
 
 Rcctique cult us pcctora roborant. Hor. 
 
 HOWEVER widely the thinking part of mankind 
 may have differed as to the proper mode of conduct- 
 ing education, they have always been unanimous in 
 their opinion of its importance. The outward effects 
 of it are observed by the most inattentive. They 
 know, that the clown and the dancing-master are 
 the same from the hand of nature ; and, although a 
 a little farther reflection is requisite to perceive the 
 effects of culture on the internal senses, it cannot be 
 disputed, that the mind, like the body, when arrived 
 at firmness and maturity, retains the impressions it 
 received in a more pliant and tender age. 
 
 The greatest part of mankind, born to labour for 
 their subsistence, are fixed in habits of industry by 
 the iron hand of necessity. They have little time or 
 opportunity for the cultivation of the understanding ; 
 the errors and immoralities in their conduct, that 
 flow from the want of those sentiments which educa- 
 tion is intended to produce, will, on that account, meet 
 with indulgence from every benevolent mind. But 
 those who are placed in a conspicuous station, whose 
 vices become more complicated and destructive, by 
 the abuse of knowledge, and the misapplication of 
 improved talents, have no title to the same indul- 
 gence. Their guilt is heightened by the rank and 
 fortune which, protect them from punishment, and 
 which, in some degree, preserve them from that in- 
 famy their conduct has merited. 
 
 I hold it, then, incontrovertible, that the higher the 
 rank, the more urgent is the necessity for storing the 
 mind with the principles, and directing the passions 
 to the practice of public and private virtue. Perhaps 
 
THE MIRROR. 75 
 
 it might not be impossible to form plans of education, 
 to lay down rules, and contrive institutions, for the 
 instruction of youth of all ranks, that would have a 
 general influence upon manners. But this is an at- 
 tempt too arduous for a private hand ; it can be ex- 
 pected only from the great council of the nation, 
 when they shall be pleased to apply their experienced 
 wisdom and- penetration to so material an object, 
 which, in some future period, may be found not less 
 deserving their attention than those important debates 
 in which they are frequently engaged, whieh they 
 conduct with an elegance, a decorum, and a public 
 spirit, becoming the incorrupted, disinterested, virtu- 
 ous representatives of a great and flourishing people. 
 
 While in expectation of this, perhaps distant, xra, 
 I hope it will not be unacceptable to my readers 
 to suggest some hints that may be useful in the edu- 
 cation of the gentleman, to try if it be not possible to 
 form an alliance between the virtues and the graces, 
 the man and the citizen, and produce a being less 
 dishonourable to the species than the courtier of Lord 
 Chesterfield, and more useful to society than the sa- 
 vage of Rosseau. 
 
 The sagacious Locke, toward the end of the last 
 century, gave to the public some thoughts on educa- 
 tion, the general merit of which leave room to regret 
 that he did not find time, as he seems once to have 
 intended, to revise what he had written, and give a 
 complete treatise on the subject. But with all the 
 veneration I feel for that great man, and all the re- 
 spect that is due to him, I cannot help being of opi- 
 nion, that some of his observations have laid the foun- 
 dation of that defective system of education, the fatal 
 consequences of which are so well described by my 
 correspondent in the letter published in my fourth 
 number. Mr. Locke, sensible of the labyrinth with 
 which the pedantry of the learned had surrounded 
 all the avenues to science, successfully employed the 
 
 vol. i. h 
 
76 THE MIRROR. 
 
 strength of his genius to trace knowledge to her 
 source, and point out the direct read to succeeding 
 generations. Disgusted with the schoolmen, he, from 
 a prejudice to which even great minds are liable, 
 seems to have contracted a dislike to every thing 
 they taught, and even to the languages in which they 
 wrote. He scruples not to speak of grammar as un- 
 necessary to the perfect knowledge either of the dead 
 or living languages, and to affirm, that a part of the 
 years thrown away in the study of Greek and Latin, 
 would be better employed in learning the trades of 
 gardeners and turners ; as if it were a fitter and more 
 useful recreation for a gentleman to plant potatoes, 
 and to make chess-boards, and snuff-boxes, than to 
 study the beauties of Cicero and Homer. 
 
 It will be allowed by all, that the great purpose of 
 education is to form the man and the citizen, that he 
 may be virtuous, happy in himself, and useful to so- 
 ciety. To attain this end, his education should begin, 
 as it were, from his birth, and be continued till he ar- 
 rive at firmness and maturity of mind, as well as of 
 body. Sincerity, truth, justice, and humanity, are to 
 be cultivated from the first dawnings of memory and 
 observation. As the powers of these increase, the 
 genius and disposition unfold themselves ; it then be- 
 comes necessary to check, in the bud, every propen- 
 sity to folly or to vice ' r to root out every mean, selfish, 
 and ungenerous sentiment ; to warm and animate 
 the heart in the pursuit of virtue and honour. The 
 experience of ages has hitherto discovered no surer 
 method of giving right impressions to young minds, 
 than by frequently exhibiting to them those bright 
 examples which history affords, and, by that means, 
 inspiring them with those sentiments of public and 
 private virtue which breathe in the writings of the 
 sages of antiquity. 
 
 In this view, I have ever considered the acquisition 
 of frhe dead languages as a most important branch in 
 
THE MIRROR. 77 
 
 the education of a gentleman. Not to mention that 
 the slowness with which he acquires them, prevents 
 his memory from being* loaded with facts faster than 
 his growing reason can compare and distinguish, he 
 beomes acquainted by degrees with the virtuous cha- 
 racters of ancient times; he admires their justice, 
 temperance, fortitude, and public spirit, and burns 
 with a desire to imitate them. The impressions these 
 have made, and the restraints to which he has been 
 accustomed, serve as a check to the many tumultuous 
 passions which the ideas of religion alone would, at 
 that age, be unable to controul. Every victory he 
 obtains over himself serve as a new guard to virtue. 
 When he errs, he becomes sensible of his weakness, 
 which, at the sajne time that it teaches him mode- 
 ration, and forgiveness to others, shews the necessity 
 of keeping a stricter watch over hia own actions. 
 During these combats, his reasoning faculties expand, 
 his judgment strengthens, and, while he becomes ac- 
 quainted with the corruptions of the world, he fixes 
 himself in the practice of virtue. 
 
 A man thus educated, enters upon the theatre of 
 the world with many and great advantages. Accus- 
 tomed to reflection, acquainted with human nature, 
 the strength of virtue, and depravity of vice, he can 
 trace actions to their source, and be enabled, in the 
 affairs of life, to avail himself of the wisdom and ex- 
 perience of past ages. 
 
 Very different is the modern plan of education fol- 
 lowed by many, especially with the children of per- 
 sons in superior rank. They are introduced into the 
 world almost from their very infancy. In place of 
 having their minds stored with the bright examples 
 of antiquity, or those of modern times, the first know- 
 ledge they acquire is of the vices with wliich they are 
 surrounded ; and they learn what mankind are, with- 
 out ever knowing what they ought to be. Possessed 
 of no sentiment of virtue, of no social affection, they 
 
78 THE MIRROR. 
 
 indulge, to the utmost of their ability, the gratifica- 
 tion of every selfish appetite, without any other re- 
 straint than what self-interest dictates. In men thus 
 educated, youth is not the season of virtue ; they have 
 contracted the cold indifference and all the vices of 
 age, long before they arrive at manhood. If they 
 attain to the great oftlces of the state, they become 
 ministers as void of knowledge as of principle ; equally 
 regardless of the national honour as of their own, 
 their system of government (if it can be called a sys- 
 tem) looks not beyond the present moment, and any 
 apparent exertions for the public good are meant only 
 as pi ops to support themselves in office. In the 
 field, at the head of armies, indifferent as to the fate 
 of their fellow-soldiers, or of their country, they make 
 their power the minister of their pleasures. If the 
 Wisdom of their sovereign should, happily for him- 
 self and his country, shut them out from his coun- 
 cils, should they be confined to a private station, 
 finding no entertainment in their own breasts, a9 
 void of friends as incapable of friendship, they sink 
 reflection in a life of dissipation. 
 
 If the probable consequences of those different 
 modes of education be such as I have mentioned, 
 there can be little doubt to which the preference be- 
 longs, even though that which is preferred should be 
 less conducive than its opposite to those elegant ac- 
 complishments which decorate society. But, upon 
 examination, I believe even this objection will vanish ; 
 for, although I willingly admit, that a certain degree 
 of pedantry is inseparable from the learning of the 
 divine, the physician, or the lawyer, which a late 
 commerce with the world is unable to wear off, yet 
 learning is, in no respect, inconsistent, either with 
 that graceful ease and elegance of address peculiar 
 to men of fashion, or with what, in modern phrase, 
 is called knowledge of the world. The man of su- 
 perior accomplishments will, indeed, be indifferent 
 
THE MIRROR. 79 
 
 about many things which are the chief objects of at- 
 tention to the modern fine gentleman. To conform 
 to all the minute changes of the mode, to be admired 
 for the gaudiness of his equipage, to boast of his 
 success in intrigue, or publish favours he never re- 
 ceived, will, to him, appear frivolous and disho- 
 nourable. 
 
 As many of the bad effects of the present system of 
 education may be attributed to a premature introduc- 
 tion into the world, I shall conclude this paper by re- 
 minding those parents and guardians who are so anxi- 
 ous to bring their children and pupils early into pub- 
 lic life, that one of the finest gentlemen, the brightest 
 geniuses, the most useful and best informed citizens 
 of which antiquity has left us an example, did not 
 think himself qualified to appear in public till the age 
 of twenty-six, and continued his studies, for some years 
 after, under the eminent teachers of Greece anjl 
 Rome. 
 
 II 
 
 No. XVI. SATURDAY, MARCH 20. 
 
 O prima vera gioventu de I'anno, 
 
 Bella madre di fiori, 
 
 D'crbe novelle, e di novelli amori ; 
 
 Tu torni ben, ma teco 
 
 No tornano i sereui 
 
 E fortunati di de le mie gioie. Guarixi: 
 
 THE effects of the return of Spring have been fre- 
 quently remarked, as well in relation to the human 
 mind, as to the animal and vegetable world. The re- 
 viving power of this season lias been traced from the 
 fields to the herds that inhabit them, and from the 
 lower classes of beings up to man. Gladness and joy 
 are described as prevailing through universal nature, 
 h 2 
 
80 THK MIRROR. 
 
 animating the low of the cattle, the carrol of the birds, 
 and the pipe of the shepherd. 
 
 I know not if it be from a singular, or a censurable 
 disposition, that I have often felt in my own mind 
 something very different from this gaiety, supposed 
 to be the inseparable attendant of the vernal scene. 
 Amidst the returning verdure of the earth, the mild- 
 ness of the air, and the sky, I have found a still and 
 quiet melancholy take possession of my soul, which 
 the beauty of the landscape, and the melody of the 
 birds, rather soothed than overcame. 
 
 Perhaps some reason may be given why this sort 
 of feeling should prevail over the mind, in* those 
 moments of deeper pensiveness to which every think- 
 ing mind is liable, more at this time of the year 
 than at any other. Spring, as the renewal of verdure 
 and of vegetation, becomes naturally the season of 
 remembrance. We are surrounded with objects new 
 only in their revival, but which we acknowledge as 
 our acquaintance in the years that are past. Winter, 
 which stopped the progression of nature, removed 
 them from us for a while, and we meet, like friends 
 long parted, with emotions rather of tenderness than 
 of gaiety. 
 
 The train of ideas once awaked, memory follows 
 over a very extensive field. And, in such a disposi- 
 tion of mind, objects of cheerfulness and delight are, 
 from those very qualities, the most adapted to inspire 
 that milder sort of sadness which, in the language 
 of our native bard, is " pleasant and mournful to 
 the soul." They will inspire this, not only from the 
 recollection of the past, but from the prospect of the 
 future ; as an anxious parent, amidst the sportive 
 gaiety of the child, often thinks of the cares of man- 
 hood and the sorrows of age. 
 
 This effect will, at least, be commonly felt by per- 
 sons who have lived long enough to see, and had re- 
 flection enough to observe, the vicissitudes of life. 
 
THE MIRROR. 81 
 
 Even those who have never experienced severe cala- 
 mities, will find, in the review of their years, a thou- 
 sand instances of fallacious promises and disappointed 
 hopes. The dream of childhood, and the project of 
 youth, have vanished to give place to sensations cf a 
 very different kind. In the peace and beauty of the 
 rural scene which Spring first unfolds to us, we are 
 apt to recal the former state, with an exaggerated 
 idea of its happiness, and to feel the present with 
 increased dissatisfaction. 
 
 But the pencil of memory stops not with the re- 
 presentation of ourselves ; it traces also the compa- 
 nions and friends of our early days, and marks the 
 changes which they have undergone. It. is a dizzy 
 sort of recollection to think over the names of our 
 school-fellows, and to consider how very few of them 
 the maze of accidents, and the sweep of time, have 
 left within our reach. This, however, is less pointed 
 than the reflection on the fate of those whom affinity 
 or friendship linked to our side, whom distance of 
 place, premature death, or (sometimes not a less 
 painful consideration) estrangement or affection, has 
 disjoined from us for ever. 
 
 I am not sure if the disposition to reflections of 
 this sort be altogether a safe or a proper one. 1 am 
 aware, that, if too much indulged, or allowed to be- 
 come habitual, it may disqualify the mind for the 
 more active and bustling scenes of life, and unfit it 
 for the enjoyments of ordinary society ; but, in a cer- 
 tain degree, 1 am persuaded it may be found useful. 
 We are all of us too little inclined to look into our 
 own minds, all apt to put too high a value, on the 
 things of this life. But a man under the impressions 
 1 have described, will be led to look into himself, and 
 will see the vanity of setting his heart upon external 
 enjoyment. He will feel nothing of that unsocial 
 spirit which gloomy and ascetic severities inspire ; 
 but the gentle, and not unpleasing melancholy that 
 
82 THE MIRROR. 
 
 •will be diffused over his soul, will fill it with a calm 
 and sweet benevolence, will elevate him much above 
 any mean or selfish passion. It will teach him to 
 look upon the rest of the world as his brethren, tra- 
 velling the same road, and subject to the like cala- 
 mities with himself ; it will prompt his wish to alle- 
 viate and assuage the bitterness of their sufferings, 
 and extinguish in his heart every sentiment of male- 
 volence or of envy. 
 
 Amidst the tide of pleasure which flows on a mind 
 of little sensibility, there may be much social joy, 
 without any social affection ; but, in a heart of the 
 mould I allude to above, though the joy maybe less, 
 there will, I believe, be more happiness and more 
 virtue. 
 
 It is rarely from the precepts of the moralist, or 
 the mere sense of duty, that we acquire the virtues 
 of gentleness, disinterestedness, benevolence and hu- 
 manity. The feelings must be won, as well as the 
 reason convinced, before men change their conduct. 
 To them tr e world addresses itself, and is heard ; it 
 offers pleasure to the present hour ; and the promise 
 of satisfaction in the future is too often preached in 
 vain. But he who can feel that luxury of pensive 
 tenderness, of which I have given some faint sketches 
 in this paper, will not easily be won from the pride 
 of virtue, and the dignity of thought, to the inordi- 
 nate gratifications of vice, or the intemperate amuse- 
 ments of folly. 
 
THE MIRROR. 83 
 
 No. XVII. TUESDAY, MARCH 23. 
 
 Insanit veteres statuas Damasippus emendo. Hob. 
 To the Editor of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 AS 1 am persuaded that you will not think it with- 
 out the province of a work such as yours, to throw 
 your eye sometimes upon the inferior ranks of life, 
 where there is any error that calls loud for amend- 
 ment, I will make no apology for sending; you the 
 following narrative. 
 
 I was married, about five years ago, to a young 
 man in a good way of business as a grocer, whose 
 character, for sobriety, and diligence in his trade, 
 was such as to give me the assurance of a very com- 
 fortable establishment in the mean time, and, in case 
 Providence should bless us with children, the pros- 
 pect of making a tolerable provision for them. For 
 three years after our marriage there never was a hap- 
 pier couple. Our shop was so well frequented, as to 
 require the constant attendance of both of us ; and, 
 as it was my greatest pleasure, to see the cheerful 
 activity of my husband, and the obliging attention 
 which hi shewed to every customer, he has often, 
 during that happy time, declared to me, that the 
 sight of my face behind the counter (though, indeed, 
 Sir> my looks are but homely) made him think his 
 humble condition far more blest than that of the 
 wealthiest of our neighbours, whose possessions de- 
 prived them of the high satisfaction of purchasing, 
 by their daily labour, the comfort and happiness of 
 a beloved object. 
 
 In the evenings, after our small repast, which, if 
 the day had been more than usually busy, we some- 
 times ventured to finish with a glass or two of punch, 
 
84 THE MIRROR. 
 
 while my husband was constantly engaged with his 
 books and accounts, it was my employment to sit by 
 his side knitting, and, at the same time, to tend the 
 cradle of our first child, a girl, who is now a fine 
 prattling creature of four years of age, and begins 
 already to give me some little assistance in the care 
 of her younger brother and sister. 
 
 Such was the picture of our little family, in which 
 we once enjoyed all that happiness that virtuous in- 
 dustry, and the most perfect affection, can bestow. 
 But those pleasing days, Mr. Mirror, are now at an 
 end. 
 
 The sources of unhappiness in my situation are 
 very different from those of other unfortunate mar- 
 ried persons. It is not of my husband's idleness or 
 extravagance, his ill-nature or his avarice, that I have 
 to complain ; neither are we unhappy from any de- 
 crease of affection, or disagreement in our opinions. 
 But I will not, Sir, keep you longer in suspense. 
 In short, it is my misfortune that my husband is 
 become a man of taste. 
 
 The first symptom of this malady, for it is now 
 become a disease indeed, manifested itself, as I have 
 said, about two years ago, when it was my husband's 
 ill luck to receive one day from a customer, in pay- 
 ment of a pound of sugar, a crooked piece of silver, 
 which he, at first, mistook for a shilling, but found, 
 on examination, to have some strange characters 
 upon it, which neither of us could make any thing 
 of. An acquaintance coming in, who, it seems, had 
 some knowledge of those matters, declared it at once 
 to be a very curious coin of Alexander the Third ; 
 and, affirming that he knew a virtuoso who would be 
 extremely glad to be possessed of it, bid him half a 
 guinea for it upon the spot. My poor husband, who 
 knew as little of Alexander the Third as of Alexan- 
 der the Great, or his other namesake the Co hfier smith, 
 was nevertheless persuaded, from the extent of the 
 
THE MIRROR. 85 
 
 offer, and of the opinion he had of his friend's dis- 
 cernment, that he was possessed of a very valuable 
 curiosity ; and in this he was fully confirmed, when, 
 on shewing it to the virtuoso above-mentioned, he 
 was immediately offered triple the sum. This too 
 was rejected, and the crooked coin was now judged 
 inestimable. It would tire your patience, Mr. Mirror, 
 to describe minutely the progress of my husband's 
 delirium. The neighbours soon heard of our acqui- 
 sition, and flocked to be indulged with a sight of it. 
 Others who had valuable curiosities of the same 
 kind, but who were prudent enough not to reckon 
 them quite beyond all price, were, by much entrea- 
 ty, prevailed on by my husband to exchange them 
 for guineas, half guineas, and crown pieces ; so that, 
 in about a month's time, he could boast of being 
 possessed of twenty pieces, all of inestimable value, 
 which cost him only the trifling sum of 181. 12s. 6d. 
 But the malady did not rest here ; it is a dreadful 
 thing, Mr. Mirror, to get a taste. It ranges from 
 " heaven above, to the earth beneath, and to the 
 " waters under the earth." Every production of na- 
 ture, or of art, remarkable either for beauty or de- 
 formity, but particularly, if either scarce or old, is 
 now the object of my husband's avidity. The profits 
 of our business, once considerable, but now daily 
 diminishing, are expended, not only on coins, but 
 on shells, lumps of different-coloured stones, dried 
 butterflies, old pictures, ragged books, and worm- 
 eaten parchments. 
 
 Our house, which it was once my highest pleasure 
 to keep in order, it would be now equally vain to at- 
 tempt cleaning as the ark of Noah. The children's 
 bed is supplied by an Indian canoe ; and the poor little 
 creatures sleep three of them in a hammock, slung 
 up to the roof between a stuffed crocodile and the 
 skeleton of a calf with two heads. Even the com- 
 modities of our shop have been turned out to make 
 
86 THE MIRR6R. 
 
 room for trash and vermin. Kites, owls, and bats, 
 are perched upon the top of our shelves ; and, it was 
 but yesterday, that, putting my hand into a glass jar 
 that used to contain pickles, I laid hold of a large 
 tarantula in place of a mangoe. 
 
 In the bitterness of my soul, Mr. Mirror, I have 
 been often tempted to revenge myself on the objects 
 of my husband's phrenzy, by burning, smashing, and 
 destroying them without mercy ; but, besides that 
 such violent procedure might have effects too dread- 
 ful upon a brain which, 1 fear, is already much un- 
 settled, I could not take such a course, without being 
 guilty of a fraud to our creditors, several of whom 
 will, I believe, sooner or later, find it their only means 
 of reimbursement, to take back each man his own 
 monsters. 
 
 Meantime, Sir, as my husband constantly peruses 
 your paper, (one instance of his taste which I cannot 
 object to) I have some small hopes that a good effect 
 may be produced by giving him a fair view of him- 
 self in your moral looking-glass. If such should be the 
 happy consequence of your publishing this letter, 
 you shall have the sincerest thanks of a grateful 
 heart, from your now disconsolate humble servant, 
 
 Rebecca Prune. 
 
 I cannot help expressing my suspicion that Mrs. 
 Rebecca Prune has got somebody to write her letter. 
 If she wrote it herself, I am afraid it may be thought 
 that the grocer's wife, who is so knowing in what 
 she describes, and can joke so learnedly on her 
 spouse's ignorance of the three Alexanders, has not 
 much reason to eomplaia of her husband being a man 
 of taste. 
 
 Her case, however, is truly distressful, and, in 
 the particular species of her husband's disorder, ra- 
 ther uncommon. The taste of a man in his station, 
 generally looks for some reputation from his neigh- 
 
THE MIRROR. 87 
 
 hours and the world, and walks out of doors to shew 
 itself to both. 
 
 1 remember, a good many years ago, to have visited 
 the villa of a citizen of Bath, who had made a con- 
 siderable fortune by the profession of a toyman in 
 that city. It was curious to observe how much he 
 had carried the ideas of his trade into his house and 
 grounds, if such might be called a kind of Gothic 
 building, of about 18 feet by 12, and an inclosure, 
 somewhat short of an acre. The first had only a 
 few closets within ; but it made a most gallant and 
 warlike show without. It had turrets about the size 
 of the king at nine pins, and battlements like the 
 side-crust of a Christmas goose-pye. To complete 
 the appearance of a castle, we entered by a draw- 
 bridge, which, in construction and dimensions, exact- 
 ly resembled the lid of a travelling trunk. To the 
 right of the house was a puddle, which, however, 
 was dignified with a harbour, defended by two re- 
 doubts, under cover of which lay a vessel of the size 
 of an ordinary bathing tub, mounting a parcel of 
 old tooth -pick-cases, fitted up into guns, and manned 
 with some of the toyman's little family of play -thing 
 figures, with red jackets, and striped trowsers, whom 
 he had impressed into the service. The place where 
 this vessel lay, a fat little man, whom I met on the 
 shore, who seemed an intimate acquaintance of the 
 proprietor, informed me was called Spithead, and 
 the ship's name, he told me, pointing to the picture 
 on her stern, was the Victory. 
 
 This gentleman afterwards conducted me, not with- 
 out some fear, across a Chinese bridge, to a pagoda, 
 In which it was necessary to assume the posture of 
 devotion, as there was not room to stand upright. On 
 the sides of the great serpentine walk, as he termed 
 it, by which we returned from this edifice, I found a 
 device, which my Cicerone looked upon as a master- 
 stroke of genius. The ground was shaped into the 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
*8 THE MIRROR. 
 
 figures of the different suits of cards ; so that here 
 was the heart walk, the diamond walk, the club walk, 
 and the spade walk ; the last of which had the ad- 
 ditional advantage of being sure to produce a pun. 
 On my observing how pleasant and ingenious all this 
 was, my conductor answered, " Ay, ay, let him 
 " alone for that ; he has given them a little of every 
 " thing, you see ; and so he may, Sir, for he can 
 " very well afford it." 
 
 I believe we must rest the matter here. In this 
 land of freedom, there is no restraining the liberty 
 of being ridiculous ; I would only intreat Mr. Prune, 
 and, indeed, many of his betters, to have some re- 
 gard for their wives and families, and not to make 
 fools of themselves, till, like the Bath toyman, they 
 can very well afford it. 
 
 No. XVIII. SATURDAY, MARCH 27. 
 
 Laudabunt alii claram Rhodanaut Mytelenen. Hon. 
 
 NOTHING is more amusing to a traveller than 
 to observe the different characters of the inhabitants 
 of the countries through which he passes ; and to 
 find, upon crossing a river or a mountain, has mark- 
 ed a difference in the manners, the sentiments, and 
 the opinions of the people, as in their appearance, 
 their dress, or their language. Thus, the easy viva- 
 city of the French, is as opposite to the dignified 
 gravity of the Spaniard, on the one hand, as it is to 
 the phlegmatic dulness of the German on the other. 
 But, though all allow that every nation has some 
 striking feature, some distinguishing characteristic, 
 philosophers are not agreed as to the causes of that 
 
THE MIRROR. 89 
 
 distinction. Montesquieu has exerted all the powers 
 of his genius to prove, that difference of climate is 
 the chief, or only the cause of the difference of na- 
 tional characters ; and it is not surprising that the 
 opinion of so great a man should have gained much 
 ground. None of his followers has carried the mat- 
 ter farther than the author of Recherches Philoso- 
 phiques sur les Americains, whose chief object 
 seems to have been to show, that the climate of 
 America is of such a nature, that, from it3 baneful 
 influence, even the human species has degenerated 
 in that quarter of the globe. 
 
 I must confess, however, that I have often doubted 
 as to the justness of this opinion ; and, though I do 
 not mean to deny that climate has an influence on 
 man, as well as on other animals, I cannot help 
 thinking that Montesquieu, and the writers who 
 have adopted his system, have attributed by far too 
 much to it. 
 
 It must be allowed that man is less affected by the 
 influence of climate than any other animal. But, of 
 all the human race, an American savage seems to 
 approach the nearest, in the general condition of his 
 life, to the brute creation, and, of consequence, 
 ought to be most subject to the power of climate. 
 And yet, if we compare an Indian with an European 
 peasant, or manufacturer, we shall be apt to think, 
 that the former, considered as an individual, holds a 
 higher rank in the scale of being than the latter. 
 
 The savage, quitting his cabin, goes to the assem- 
 bly of his tribe, and there delivers his sentiments on 
 the affairs of his little nation with a spirit, a force, 
 and an energy, that might do honour to an Euro- 
 pean orator. Thence he goes to make war upon his 
 foes ; and, in the field, discovers a sagacity in his 
 stratagems, a boldness in his designs, a perseverance 
 in his operations, joined with a patience of fatigue 
 and of suffering, that have long been objects of ad- 
 
90 THE MIRROR. 
 
 miration, and which filled the inhabitants of the old 
 world, when they first beheld them, with wonder and 
 astonishment. How superior such a being to one 
 occupied, day after day, in turning the head of a 
 pin, or forming the shape of a button, and possess- 
 ing not one idea beyond the business in which he is 
 immediately employed ? 
 
 It may perhaps be objected, that no fair compari- 
 son can be made where the state of society is so dif- 
 ferent, the necessary effect of civilization being to 
 introduce a distinction of ranks, and to sink the 
 lower orders of men far beneath that station to which 
 by nature they are intitied. But, allowing this ob- 
 servation to be just, we shall find, upon comparing 
 the savage of America with the savage of Europe, 
 as described by C?esar and Tacitus, that the former 
 is at least equal to the latter, m all the virtues above 
 enumerated. 
 
 We need not, however, go so far for instances, 
 to show, that other causes act more powerfully than 
 climate, in forming the manners, and fixing the 
 characters of men. London and Pans are, at pre- 
 sent, the first cities in Europe, in point of opulence, 
 and number of inhabitants ; and in no other part of 
 the western world are the polite and elegant arts cul- 
 tivated tc such advantage. But the inhabitants of 
 those cities differ essentially in manners, sentiments, 
 and opinions ; while, at the same time, they breathe 
 an air so very much alike, that it is impossible to im- 
 pute that difference, in any considerable degree, to 
 difference of climate ; and, perhaps, it may not be 
 a difficult task to point out various other causes, 
 which may enable us to account sufficiently for the 
 distinction between the national character of the two 
 people. 
 
 In France, the power of the great nobles was 
 sooner reduced within bounds than in England ; and, 
 in proportion as their power fell, that of the mon* 
 
THE MIRROR. 
 
 arch rose. But, no sooner was the authority of the 
 crown established on a firm basis, than the court 
 became an object of the first attention and import- 
 ance. Every man of genius, of distinction, and of 
 rank, hastened thither, in hopes of meeting with 
 that encouragement which his talents merited, or 
 of being able to display, on the only proper theatre, 
 those advantages which he possessed, either in 
 reality, or in his own imagination. 
 
 Thus Paris, the seat of the court, became the 
 centre of all that was great and noble, elegant and 
 polite. The manners every day became more and 
 more polished ; and no man who did not possess the 
 talents necessary to make himself agreeable, could 
 expect to rise in the world, however great his abili- 
 ties might otherwise be. The pleasures of society 
 were cultivated with care and assiduity ; and no- 
 thing tended more to promote them than that free in- 
 tercourse which soon came to take place between the 
 sexes. All men studied to acquire those graces and 
 accomplishments by which alone they could hope to 
 recommend themselves to the ladies, whose influ- 
 ence pervaded every branch of government, and 
 every department of the state. 
 
 In England on the other hand, the crown gained 
 little by the fall of the nobility. The high preroga- 
 tive exerted by the princes of the Tudor race, was 
 of short duration. A third order soon arose, that, 
 for a time, trampled alike on the throne and the 
 nobles. And, even after the constitution was at 
 length happily settled, the sovereign remained so 
 limited in power and in revenue, that his court never 
 required a degree of influence or splendor at all 
 comparable to that of the French monarch. Lon- 
 don had become so great and opulent by its exten- 
 sive commerce, that the residence of the court could 
 add little to that consideration in which it was al- 
 ready held. This circumstance had a powerful ef- 
 i 2 
 
9% THE MIRROR. 
 
 feet on the manners. What was looked upon as a 
 virtue at Paris, was in London considered as a vice. 
 There industry and frugality were so essentially re- 
 quisite, that every elegant accomplishment was re- 
 jected as incompatible with those great commercial 
 virtues. 
 
 The dark and gloomy spirit of fanaticism which 
 prevailed so universally in England during the last 
 century, served as an additional barrier against the 
 progress of politeness and elegance of manners. — 
 Add to this, that the English, (owing perhaps to the 
 superior degree of liberty they enjoy, and to their 
 high independent spirit,) have ever been more at- 
 tached to a country-life than any civilized people in 
 Europe ; and this last circumstance, slight as it 
 may appear, has, perhaps, had as powerful an in- 
 fluence as any I have mentioned. A man who lives 
 in retirement, may be sincere, open, honourable 
 above dissimulation, and free from disguise ; but he 
 never can possess that ease of behaviour, and that 
 elegance of manners, which nothing but a familiar 
 acquaintance with the world, and the habit of ming- 
 ling in society, and of conversing with persons of 
 different ranks and different characters, can bestow. 
 
 Let us not, however, repine at the superiority ol our 
 neighbours in this respect. It is, perhaps, impossible 
 to possess, at once, the useful and the agreeable qual- 
 ities in an eminent degree ; and, if ease and polite- 
 ness be only attainable at the expence of sincerity 
 in the men, and chastity in the women, I flatter my- 
 self, there are few of my readers who would not 
 think the purchase made at too high a price. 
 
 I have, of late, remarked, with regret, an affec- 
 tation of the manners of France, and a disposition 
 in some of the higher ranks to introduce into this 
 island that species of gallantry which has so long 
 prevailed in that nation. But, happily, neither the 
 habits, the dispositions, the genius of pur people, 
 
THE M1KKOR. 93 
 
 nor that mixture of ranks which our constitution ne- 
 cessarily produces, will admit of it. In France, 
 they contrive to throw over their greatest excesses a 
 veil so delicate and so line, as in some measure to 
 hide the deformity of vice, and even at times to be- 
 stow upon it the semblance of virtue. But, with us, 
 less delicate and less refined, vice appears in its na- 
 tive colours, without concealment and without dis- 
 guise ; and, were the gallantry of Paris transplanted 
 into this soil, it would soon degenerate into gross 
 debauchery. At present my countrywomen are 
 equally respected for their virtue, as admired for 
 their beauty ; and I trust it will be long before they 
 cease to be so. 
 
 No. XIX. TUESDAY, MARCH 30. 
 
 MY friend Mr. Umphravilk's early retirement, 
 and long residence in the country, have given him 
 many peculiarities, to which, had he continued long- 
 er in the world, and had a free intercourse with 
 mankind, he would probably not have been subject. 
 These give to his manner an apparent hardness, 
 which, in reality, is widely different from his natural 
 disposition. 
 
 As he passes much time in study and solitude, 
 and is naturally of a thoughtful cast, the subjects of 
 which he reads, and the opinions which he forms, 
 make a strong and deep impression on his mind ; 
 they become, as it were, friends and companions 
 from whom he is unwilling to be separated. Hence 
 he commonly shows a disposition to take a lead in, 
 and give the tone to conversation, and delivers his 
 opinions too much in the manner of a lecture. And, 
 
94 THE MIRROR. 
 
 though his curiosity and love of information concur 
 with that politeness which he is ever studious to ob- 
 serve, to make him listen with patience and atten- 
 tion to the opinions of others ; yet, it must be con- 
 fessed, that he is apt to deliver his own with an un- 
 common degree of warmth, and I have very seldom 
 found him disposed to surrender them. 
 
 I find, however, nothing disagreeable in this pe- 
 culiarity of my friend. The natural strength of his 
 understanding, the extent of his knowledge, and 
 that degree of taste which he has derived from a 
 strong conception of the sublime, the tender, and 
 the bemittful, assisted by an extensive acquaintance 
 with the elegant writers, both of ancient and modern 
 times, render his conversation, in many respects, 
 both instructive and entertaining ; and that singular- 
 ity of opinion, which is the natural consequence of 
 his want of opportunities of comparing his own 
 ideas with those of others, affords me an additional 
 pleasure. But, above all, I am delighted with the 
 goodness of heart which breaks forth in every senti- 
 ment he delivers. 
 
 Mr. Umphraville's sister, who is often present, 
 and sometimes takes a part in those conversations, is 
 of a character at once amiable and respectable. 
 
 In her earlier days, she spent much of her time 
 in the perusal of novels and romances ; but, though 
 she still retains a partiality for the few works of that 
 kind which are possessed of merit, her reading is 
 now chiefly confined to works of a graver cast. 
 
 Miss Umphraville, though she has not so much 
 learning, possesses, perhaps, no less ability as a * 
 woman than her brother does as a man ; and, having 
 less peculiarity in her way of thinking, has, conse- 
 quently, a knowledge better fitted for common life. 
 It is pleasing to observe how Miss Umphraville, 
 while she always appears to act an under part, and, 
 sometimes, indeed, not to act a part at all, yet 
 
THE MIRROR. 9$ 
 
 watches, with a tender concern, over the singulari- 
 ties of her brother's disposition ; and, without be- 
 traying the smallest consciousness of her power, 
 generally contrives to direct him in the most mate- 
 rial parts of his conduct. 
 
 Mr. Umphraville is the best master, and the best 
 landlord that ever lived. The rents of his estate have 
 undergone scarce any alteration since he came to the 
 possession of it ; and his tenants too are nearly, the 
 same. The ancient possessors have never been re- 
 moved from motives of interest, or without some very 
 particular reason ; and the few new ones he has cho- 
 sen to introduce are, for the most part, persons who 
 have been servants in his family, whose fidelity and 
 attachment he has rewarded by a small farm at a 
 low rent. 
 
 I have had many a pleasant conversation, about sun- 
 set in a summer evening, with those venerable gray- 
 headed villagers. Their knowledge of country af- 
 fairs, the sagacity of their remarks, and the manner 
 acquired by a residence in Mr. Umphraville's family, 
 with which they are accustomed to deliver them, 
 have afforded me much entertainment. 
 
 It is delightful to hear them run out in praises of 
 their landlord. They have told me there is not a 
 person in his neighbourhood who stands in need of 
 his assistance, who has not felt the influence of his 
 generosity ; which, they say, endears him to the 
 whole country. Yet, such is the effect of that re- 
 served and particular manner which my friend has 
 contracted, that, while his good qualities have pro- 
 cured him great esteem, and the disinterestedness of 
 his disposition, with the opinion entertained of his 
 honour and integrity, has always prevented him from 
 falling into disputes or quarrels with his neighbours, 
 there is scarcely one of them with whom he lives on 
 terms of familiarity. 
 
 Mr. Umphraville, in the earlier part of his life. 
 
9$ THF M1RR0H. 
 
 had an attachment to an amiable young lady. Their 
 situation at that time might have made an avowal of 
 his passion equally fatal to both ; and, though it was 
 not without a severe struggle, Mr. Umphraville had 
 firmness enough to suppress the declaration of an 
 attachment he was unable to subdue. The lady, 
 some time after, married ; since that period, Mr. 
 Umphraville has never seen her, or been known so 
 much as once to mention her name ; but, I am cre- 
 dibly informed, that, by his interest, her eldest son 
 has obtained high preferment in the army. The only 
 favour which Mr. Umphraville ever asked from any 
 great man was for this young gentleman ; but neither 
 the lady herself, nor any of her family, know by 
 whose influence his advancement has been procured. 
 Though it is possible, that, if Mr. Umphraville 
 had married at an early period of life, his mind even 
 in a state of retirement, would have retained a polish, 
 and escaped many of those peculiarities it has now 
 contracted ; yet, I own, I am rather inclined to be- 
 lieve his remaining single a fortunate circumstance. 
 Nor have my fair readers any reason to be offended 
 at the remark ; great talents, even in a generous and 
 benevolent mind, are sometimes attended with a cer- 
 tain want of pliability, which is ill suited to the cor- 
 dialities of domestic life. A man of such a dispo- 
 sition as Mr. Umphraville has now acquired, might 
 consider the delicacy, the vivacity, and the fine shades 
 of female character as frivolous, and beneath atten- 
 tion ; or, at least, might be unable, for any length 
 of time, to receive pleasure from those indulgences, 
 which minds of a softer mould may regard as the 
 great and amiable perfection of what Mr. Pope calls 
 
 " The last best work of Heaven." 
 
 With all those respectable talents which Mr. Um- 
 phraville possesses, with all that generosity of sentt- 
 
THE MIRROR. 97 
 
 ment, and goodn.ss of heart so conspicuous in every 
 thing he says or does, which so strongly endear him 
 to his friends, I am apt to think, that, in the very 
 intimate connection of the married life, a woman of 
 delicacy and sensibility might often feel herself hurt 
 by the peculiarities of character to which he is sub- 
 ject. 
 
 The situation of a wife is, in this respect, very dif- 
 ferent from that of a sister. Miss Umphravilie's ob- 
 servation of her brother's peculiarities, neither les- 
 sens her esteem, nor her affection for him ; these 
 peculiarities serve only to increase her attention to 
 him, and to make her more solicitous to prevent their 
 effects. But in that still closer connection which sub- 
 sists between husband and wife, while the percep- 
 tion of his weakness might not have lessened the 
 wife's affection, it might have given her a distress 
 which a sister will not be apt to feel : a sister may 
 observe the weaknesses of a brother without a blush, 
 and endeavour to correct them without being hurt j 
 a wife might be able to do neither. 
 
 These views which I have given of Mr. Umphra- 
 ville, and his family, may, perhaps, appear tedious 
 to my readers. In giving this detail, I am afraid I 
 have not sufficiently remembered, that, as they have 
 not the same intimate acquaintance with that gentle- 
 man which I have, they will not feel the same inter- 
 est in what relates to him. 
 LS 
 
9t THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. XXI. SATURDAY, APRIL 3. 
 
 Tantaene animis coelestibus irae > Vj*g. 
 
 WHILE so many subjects of contention occupy 
 the votaries of business and ambition, and prove the 
 source of discord, envy, jealousy, and rivalship, 
 among mankind, one would be apt to imagine, that 
 the pursuits and employments of studious and literary 
 men would be carried on with calmness, good tem- 
 per, and tranquillity. The philosophic sage, retired 
 from the world, who has truth for the object of his 
 inquiries, might be willing, it were natural to sup- 
 pose, to give up his own system, when he found it 
 at variance with truth, and would never quarrel with 
 another for adopting a different one ; and the man 
 of elegance and taste, who has literary entertain- 
 ment in view, would not, one should think, find fault 
 with the like amusements of other men, or dispute, 
 with rancour or heat upon mere matters of taste. 
 But the fact has been otherwise : the disputes among 
 the learned have, in every age, been carried on with 
 the utmost virulence ; and men, pretending to taste, 
 have railed at each other with unparalleled abuse. 
 Possibly the abstraction from the world, in which 
 the philosopher lives, may render him more impa- 
 tient of contradiction than those who mix oftener 
 with common societies ; and perhaps that fineness 
 and delicacy of perception which the man of taste 
 acquires, may be more liable to irritation than the 
 coarser feelings of minds less cultivated and im- 
 proved. 
 
 I have been led into these remarks by a conver- 
 sation at which I happened lately to be present. Last 
 week, having left with my editor materials for my 
 next paper, I went to the country for a few days, to 
 pay a visit to a friend, whose real name I shall con- 
 
THE MIRROR. 99 
 
 ceal under that of Sylvester. Sylvester, when a 
 young man, had retired to the country, and having 
 succeeded to a paternal estate, which was sufficient 
 for all his wants, had lived almost constantly at home. 
 His time was spent chiefly in study, and he had pub- 
 lished some performances which did honour to his 
 genius and his knowledge. During all this time,, 
 Sylvester was the regular correspondent of a gentle- 
 man whom I shall here call Alcander, whose taste 
 and pursuits were in many respects similar to his 
 own. Alcander, though he was not an author like 
 Sylvester, had from nature a very delicate taste, 
 which had been much improved by culture. From 
 a variety of accidents, the two friends had not met 
 for a great number of years ; but, while I was at 
 Sylvester's house, he received a letter from Alcan- 
 der, notifying that gentleman's being on his way to 
 visit him ; and soon after he arrived accordingly. 
 
 It is not easy to describe the pleasure which the two 
 friends felt at meeting. After the first salutations, 
 their discourse took a literary turn. I was delighted 
 as well as instructed with the remarks which were 
 made upon men and books, by two persons of ex- 
 tensive information and accomplished taste ; and the 
 warmth with which they made them, added a relish 
 to their observations. The conversation lasted till 
 it was very late, when my host and his friend retired 
 to their apartments, much pleased with each other, 
 and in full expectation of additional entertainment 
 from a continuation of such intercourse at the return 
 of a new day. 
 
 Next morning after breakfast, their literary dis- 
 course was resumed. It turned on a comparison of 
 \^0 different genius and merit of the French and 
 English authors. Sylvester said, he thought there 
 was a power of reasoning, a strength of genius, and 
 a depth of reflection, in the English authors, of 
 which the French, in general, were incapable ; and 
 
 vol. i. K 
 
100 THE MIRROR. 
 
 that, in his opinion, the preference lay greatly on 
 the side of the writers of our own country. Alcan- 
 der begged leave to differ from him ; he admitted, 
 there was an appearance of depth in many of the 
 English authors, but he said it was false and hollow. 
 He maintained, that the seeking after something pro- 
 found, had led into many useless metaphysical dis- 
 quisitions, in which the writer had no real merit, nor 
 could the reader find any real advantage. But the 
 French authors, he said, excelled in remarks on life 
 and character, which, as they were founded on ac- 
 tual observation, might be attended with much utility, 
 and, as they were expressed in the liveliest manner, 
 could not fail to give the highest entertainment. Al- 
 cander, in the course of his argument, endeavoured 
 to illustrate it by a comparison of some of the most 
 distinguished authors of both countries. Sylvester, 
 finding those writers, whom he had studied with at- 
 tention, and imitated with success, so warmly attack- 
 ed, replied with some heat, as if he thought it tend- 
 ed to the disparagement of his own compositions. 
 Sylvester said something about French frivolity ; and 
 Alcander replied with a sarcasm on metaphysical ab- 
 surdity. 
 
 Finding the conversation take this unlucky turn, I 
 endeavoured to change the subject ; and from the 
 comparison of the English and French authors, took 
 occasion to mention that period of English literature, 
 which has been frequently termed the Augustan age 
 of England, when that constellation of wits appeared 
 which illuminated the reign of Queen Anne. 
 
 But this subject of conversation was as unfortunate 
 as the former. Sylvester is a professed admirer of 
 Swift, to whom his attachment is perhaps heightened 
 by a little toryism in his political principles. Alcan- 
 der is a keen whig, and as great an admirer of Addi- 
 son. As the conversation had grown rather warm on 
 a general comparison of the authors of one country 
 
THE MIRROR. 101 
 
 with those of another, so its warmth was much grea- 
 ter when the comparison was made of two particular 
 favourite authors. Sylvester talked of the strength, 
 the dignity, the forcible observation, and the wit of 
 Swifc : Aicander of the ease, the gracefulness, the 
 native and agreeable humour of Addison. From re- 
 marks upon their writings, they went to their charac- 
 ters. Sylvester spoke in praise of openness and spi- 
 rit, and threw out something against envy, jealousy, 
 and meanness. Aicander inveighed against pride and 
 ill-nature, and pronounced an euiogium on elegance, 
 philanthropy, and gentleness of manners. Sylvester 
 spoke as if he thought no man of a candid and gene- 
 rous mind could be a lover of Addison ; Aicander, 
 as if none but a severe and ill-tempered one could 
 endure Sv/if. 
 
 The spirits of the two friends were now heated to 
 a violent degree, and not a little rankled at each 
 other. I endeavoured again to give the discourse a 
 new direction, and, as if accidentally, introduced 
 something about the Epistles of Phalaris. 1 knew 
 both gentlemen were masters of the dispute upon 
 that subject, which has so much divided the learned, 
 and thought a dry question of this sort could not pos- 
 sibly interest them too much. But in this I was mis- 
 taken. Sylvester and x\lcander took different sides 
 upon this subject, as they had done upon the former, 
 and supported their opinions with no less warmth 
 than before. Each of them catched fire from every 
 thing his opponent said, as if neither could think 
 well of the judgment of that man who was of an 
 opinion different from his own. 
 
 With this last debate the conversation ended. At 
 our meeting next day, a formal politeness took place 
 between Sylvester and Aicander, very different from 
 that openness and cordiality of manner which they 
 showed at their first meeting. The last, soon after, 
 took his departure ; and, I believe, neither of them 
 
102 THE MIRROR. 
 
 felt that respect for each other's understanding, nor 
 that warmth of affection, which they entertained be- 
 fore this visit. 
 
 Alas ! the two friends did not consider that it was 
 their being too much alike, their being engaged in 
 similar employments, that changed their friendship 
 into this coldness. Both attached to the same pur- 
 suits, and accustomed to indulge them chiefly in se- 
 clusion and solitude, they had been too little accus- 
 tomed to bear contradiction. This impatience of con- 
 tradiction had not been corrected in either by attention 
 to the feelings or views of others ; snd the warmth 
 which each felt in supporting his own particular 
 opinion, prevented him from giving the proper in- 
 dulgence to a diversity of ©pinion in the other. 
 ' S 
 
 No. XXI. TUESDAY, APRIL 6. 
 
 THIS day's paper I devote to correspondents. 
 The first of the two letters it contains was left one 
 night at the house of my editor, by a slender person 
 in a slouched hat and a wide surtout. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror* 
 Sir, 
 I AM a young man, a lover of literature, and have 
 sometimes had the satisfaction of seeing performan- 
 ces of my own in print, several of my essays having 
 been favourably received by the publishers of the ma- 
 gazines. I have a great desire of becoming a corres- 
 pondent of the Mirror ; but one circumstance a good 
 deal embarrasses me ; that is, the fear of detection 
 m conveying my letters. This has frequently pre-; 
 
THE MIRROR. 103 
 
 vented me from sending an essay to other periodical 
 publications, till the time proper for its appearance 
 was past ; and so I have lost it altogether*, I have 
 often set out with my paper in my pocket, passed 
 and repassed the cross, looked at the faces of dif- 
 ferent chairmen and porters* been at the foot of the 
 stairs leading up to the penny-post office ; yet, from 
 the effects of an insuperable bashfulness, returned 
 home without being delivered of my burden. 
 
 During the publication of the Edinburgh Maga- 
 gine and Review, this inconvenience was remedied, 
 by the placing of a box near the printing-house, into 
 which any letter or parcel might be dropped with very 
 little chance of discovery. I would recommend to 
 you, Sir, a similar contrivance. We see on the 
 eves of some of our public buildings the mouths of 
 certain animals cut out in stone, through which the 
 water from the roof descends to some convenient part 
 of the street beneath. One of these, reversed so as 
 to gape upwards instead of downwards, would exact- 
 ly answer the purpose waited ; and besides tending 
 to the ease and convenience of your correspondents, 
 would have a pretty allusion to the Lion's mouth in 
 the Guardian. If I might venture to point out a 
 place for it, I would suggest that narrow passage at 
 the back of Mr. Creech's shop, vulgarly called the 
 Crames, as both centrical and secret. 
 
 I am, Sir, See. 
 
 Y. Z. 
 
 Beside a general desire of obliging all my readers 
 and correspondents, I have really a fellow-feeling for 
 this young gentleman's modesty, having experienced 
 the very embarrassment he describes in bringing 
 forth to the world the fruits of my first boyish com- 
 merce with the muses. I, therefore, immediately 
 communicated his proposal to Mr. Creech, who sent 
 out one of his young men to examine the spot pro- 
 k 2 
 
104 THE MIRROR. 
 
 posed l»y r\Ir. Z. for the station of this literary con- 
 ductor. The lad who is a reader of plays, reported 
 to us, or> has return, that « There is a kind of local 
 " sympathy," which makes it not altogether advise- 
 able to erect such a machine in that place at present. 
 The hint, however, shall be duly attended to, when 
 the magistrates (who, 1 am told, have, for some time, 
 had such a scheme in view) set about putting the New 
 Church, and its environs, on a more respectable 
 footing. 
 
 The second letter was brought by a spruce foot- 
 man, who, upon being asked whence he came, re- 
 plied, from Mrs. Meekly's. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 
 THE world has, at different periods, been afflicted 
 with diseases peculiar to the times in which* they 
 appeared, and the faculty have, with great ingenuity, 
 contrived certain generic names by which they might 
 be distinguished, it beingp quality of great use and 
 comfort in a physician to be able to tell precisely of 
 what disorder his patient is likely to die. The ner- 
 vous seems to be the ailment in greatest vogue at 
 present, a species of disease, which I afn apt to con- 
 sider as not the less terrible for being less mortal than 
 many others. I speak not from personal experience, 
 Mr. Mirror ; my own constitution, thank God ! is 
 pretty robust ; but I have the misfortune to be afflicted 
 with a nervous wife. 
 
 It is impossible to enumerate a twentieth part of 
 the symptoms of this lamentable disorder, or of the 
 circumstances by which its paroxysms are excited or 
 increased. Its dependence on the natural phenome- 
 na of the wind and weather, on the temperature of 
 the air, whether hot or cold, moist or dry, might be 
 accounted for ; and my wife would then be in no worse 
 situation than the lady in a red cap and green jacket, 
 
THE MIRROR. 105 
 
 -whose figure I have seen in the little Dutch barome- 
 ters known by the name of baby-houses. But, beside 
 feeling the impression of those particulars, her disor- 
 der is brought on by incidents still more frequent, 
 and less easy to be foreseen, than even the occasional 
 changes in our atmosphere. A person running hasti- 
 ly up cr down stairs, shutting a door roughly, placing 
 the tongs on the leftside of the grate, and the poker 
 on the right, setting the China figures onthe mantle- 
 piece a little awry, or allowing the tassel of the bell- 
 string to swing but for a moment ; any of those little 
 accidents has an immediate and irresistible effect on 
 the nervous system of my wife, and produces symp- 
 toms, sometimes of languor, sometimes of irritation, 
 which I her husband, my three children by a former 
 marriage, and the other members of our family, equal- 
 ly feel and regret. The above causes of her distem- 
 per, a very attentive and diligent discharge of our se- 
 veral duties might possibly prevent ; but even our in- 
 voluntary actions are apt to produce effects of a similar 
 or more violent nature. It was but the other day she 
 told my boy Dick he eat his pudding so voraciously, 
 as almost to make her faint, and remonstrated against 
 my sneezing in the manner I did, which, she said, 
 tore her poor nerves in pieces. 
 
 One thing I have observed peculiar to this disor- 
 der, which jLhose conversant with the nature of sym- 
 pathetic affections may be able to explain. It is not 
 always produced by exactly similar causes, if such 
 causes exist in dissimilar situations. I have known 
 my wife squeezed for hours in a side-box, dance a 
 
 whole night at a ball, have my Lord talking as 
 
 fast and as loud to her as was possible there, and her 
 nose assailed by the stink of a whole row of flam- 
 beaux, at going in and coming out, without feeling 
 her nerves in the smallest degree affected ; yet, the 
 very day after, at home, she could not bear my chair, 
 or the chair of one of the children, to come within 
 
106 THE MIRROR. 
 
 several feet of hers ; walking up stairs perfectly 
 overcame her ; none of us durst talk but in whispers ; 
 and the smell of my buttered roll made her sick to 
 death. 
 
 As I reckon your paper a paper of record for singu- 
 lar cases, and intolerable grievances of every sort, I 
 send the above for your insertion, stating it accord- 
 ing to its nature, in terms as physically descriptive 
 as my little acquaintance with the healing art can 
 supply. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 Joseph Meekly. 
 
 This correspondent, as far as his wife's case falls 
 within the department of the physician, I must refer 
 to my very teamed friends Doctors Cullen and Monro, 
 who. upon being properly attended, will give him, I 
 am persuaded, as sound advice as it is in the power of 
 medical skUl to suggest. In point of prudence, to 
 which only my pre^ciiption k apply, I can advise no- 
 t dug so proper for Mr. Meekly himself, a* to imitate 
 tae conduct of the husband of that little lady he de- 
 s .riber-, the mistress of the Dutch baby-house ; be- 
 tween whom and his wife, though there subsists a 
 very intimate connection, there is yet a contract of a 
 particular kind : whenever the gentleman is at home, 
 the lady is abroad, and vice versa. In their house, 
 indeed, J do not observe any children ; from which 
 I conclude, that they have all been sent to the acade- 
 my and the boarding-school. 
 
 I 
 
THE MIRROR. 107 
 
 No. XXII. SATURDAY, APRIL 10. 
 
 Sincerum capimus vas incrustare. Horat. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Slr, 
 
 YOUR Mirror, it seems, possesses uncommon vir- 
 tues, and you generously hold it out to the public, 
 that we may dress our characters at it. I trust it is, 
 at least, a faithful glass, aud will give a just repre- 
 sentation of those lurking imperfections or excellen- 
 cies which we distinguish with difficulty, ©r sometimes 
 altogether overlook. I struggle, therefore, to get 
 forward in the crowd, and to set before your moral 
 Mirror a personage who has long embarrassed me. 
 
 The observation of character, when I first looked 
 beyond a college for happiness, formed not only my 
 amusement, but, for some years, my favourite study. 
 I had been so fortunate as early to imbibe strict no- 
 tions of morality and religion, and to arrive at man- 
 hood in perfect ignorance of vicious pleasure. My 
 heart was, therefore, led to place its hopes of happi- 
 ness in love and friendship ; but books had taught me 
 to dread misplacing my affections. On this account, 
 anxious to gratify the " soif d'aimer" that engrossed 
 me. I bent the whole of my little talents to discern the 
 characters of my acquaintance ; and, blending senti- 
 ments of religion with high notions of moral excel- 
 lence, and the reiined intercourse of cultivated minds, 
 I fondly hoped, that, where I once formed an attach- 
 ment, it would last for ever. 
 
 In this state of mind I became acquainted with 
 Cleone. She was young and beautiful, but without 
 that dimpling play of features which indicates, in 
 some women, a mind of extreme sensibility. Her 
 eye bespoke good sense, and was sometimes lighted 
 up with vivacity, but never sparkled with the keen- 
 
108 THE MIRROR. 
 
 ness of unrestrained joy, nor melted with the suffu- 
 sion of indulged sorrow. Her manner and address 
 had no tendency to familiarity ; it was genteel rather 
 than graceful. Her voice in conversation was suited 
 to her manner ; it possessed those level tones which 
 ne^er offend, but seldom give pleasure, and seldomer 
 emotion. 
 
 Her conversation was plain and sensible. Never 
 attempting wit or humour, she contented herself with 
 expressing, in correct and unaffected language, just 
 sentiments on manners, and on works of taste : and 
 the genius she displayed in compositions becoming 
 her sex, and the propriety of her own conduct, did 
 honour to her criticisms. She sung with uncommon 
 excellence. Her voice seemed to unfold itself in 
 singing, to suit every musical expression, and to as- 
 burne every tone of passion she wished to utter. I 
 never felt the power of simple melody in agitating, 
 affecting, and pleasing, more strongly than from her 
 performance. 
 
 In company she was attentive, " prevenante," but 
 not insinuating ; and, though she seemed to court 
 the society of men of letters and taste, and to profess 
 having intimate fiiendships with some individuals 
 among them, I never could perceive that she was 
 subject to the common weakness of making a parade 
 of this kind of intercourse. 
 
 Most people would suppose that I had found in 
 Cleone the friend I was seeking ; for both of us knew 
 we could never be nearer than friends to each other, 
 and she. treated me with some distinction. I found 
 it, however, impossible to know her so well as to place 
 in her the complete confidence essential to friend- 
 ship. The minutest attention to every circumstance 
 in her appearance and behaviour, and studying her 
 for years in all the little varieties of situation that an 
 intimate acquaintance gave access to observe, proved 
 unequal to discover with certainty the genuine cha- 
 
THE MIRROR. 103 
 
 racter of her disposition or temper. No caprice be- 
 trayed her: no predominant shade could be marked 
 in her tears, in her laugh, or in her smiles. Some- 
 times, however, I have thought she breathed a soft- 
 ness of soul that tempted me to believe her gene- 
 rous ; but, when I considered a little, the inner reces- 
 ses of her heart appeared still shut against the 
 observer ; and I well knew, that even poignant sen- 
 sibility is not inconsistent with predominant selfish- 
 ness. 
 
 When contemplating Cleone, I have often thought 
 of that beautiful trait in the description of Petrarch's 
 Laura: " II lampeggiar dell' angelico riso."* These 
 flashes of affection breaking from the soul, alone 
 display the truth, generosity, and tenderness, that 
 deserve a friend. These gleams from the heart show 
 us all its intricacies, its weakness and its vigour, and 
 expose it naked and undisguised to the spectator. 
 A single minute will, in this way, give more know- 
 ledge of a character, and justly, therefore, attract 
 more confidence, than twenty years experience of re- 
 finement of taste and propriety of conduct. 
 
 I am willing to believe it was some error in edu- 
 tion which had wrapt up Cleone's character in so 
 much obscurity, and not any natural defect that ren- 
 dered it prudent to be invisible. If there is an error 
 of this kind, I hope your Mirror will expose it, and 
 prevent it from robbing superior minds of their best 
 reward — the confidence of each other. 
 
 In the present state of society, we have few op- 
 portunities of exhibiting our true characters by our 
 actions ; and the habits of the world soon throw upon 
 our manners a veil that is impenetrable to others, 
 and nearly so to ourselves. Hence the only period 
 when we can form friendships is a few years in youth ; 
 for there is a reserve in the deportment, and a cer- 
 
 * The lightning of her angel smile. 
 
1 10 THE MIRROR. 
 
 tain selfishness in the occupations of manhood, un- 
 favourable to the forming of warm attachments. It 
 is, therefore, fatal to the very source of friendship, 
 if, when yet children, we are to be prematurely be- 
 daubed with the varnish of the world. And yet, I 
 fear, this is the necessary effect of modern educa- 
 tion. 
 
 In place of cherishing the amiable simplicity and 
 frankness of children, every emanation of the heart 
 is checked by the constant restraints, dissimulation, 
 and frivolous forms of fashionable address, with which 
 we harrass them. Hence they are nearly the same 
 at fourteen as at five and twenty, when, after a youth 
 spent in joyless dissipation, they enter life, slaves to 
 selfish appetites and reigning prejudices, and devoid 
 of that virtuous energy of soul which strong attach- 
 ments, and the habits of deserved confidence, inspire. 
 Even those who, like Cleone, possess minds supe- 
 rior to the common mould, though they cultivate 
 their talents with success, and, in some measure, edu- 
 cate themselves anew, find it impossible to get rid 
 entirely of that artificial manner, and those habits 
 of restraint, with which they had been so early im- 
 bued. 
 
 Thus, like French taylors and dancing-masters, 
 pretending to add grace and ornament to nature, we 
 constrain, distort, and incumber her ; whereas the 
 education of a polished age should, like the drapery 
 of a fine statue or portrait, confer decency, propriety, 
 and elegance, and gracefully veil, but by no means 
 conceal, the beautiful forms of nature. 
 
 LiEHUS. 
 
THE MIRROR. 1 1 I 
 
 No. XXIII. TUESDAY, APRIL 13. 
 
 It isti 
 
 Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. Hon. 
 
 I WAS lately applied to by a friend, in behalf of 
 a gentleman, who, he said, had been unfortunate in 
 life, to whom he was desirous of doing a particular 
 piece of service, in which he thought my assistance 
 might be useful : " Poor fellow ?" said he, " I wish 
 " to serve him, because I always knew him, dissi- 
 " pated and thoughtless as he was, to be a good- 
 " hearted man, guilty of many imprudent things, 
 " indeed, but without meaning any harm I In short, 
 " no one's enemy but his own." 
 
 I afterwards learned more particularly the circum- 
 stances of this gentleman's life and conversation, 
 which I will take the liberty of laying before my 
 readers, in order to show them what they are to 
 understand by the terms used by my friend, terms 
 which I believe, he was no wise singular in using. 
 
 The person whose interests he espoused, was heir 
 to a very considerable estate. He lost his father 
 when an infant ; and being, unfortunately, an only 
 son, was too much the darling of his mother ever to 
 be contradicted. During his childhood he was not 
 suffered to play with his equals, because he was to 
 be the king of all sports, and to be allowed a sove- 
 reign and arbitrary dominion over the persons and 
 properties of his play-fellows. At school he was at- 
 tended by a servant, who helped him to thrash boys 
 who were too strong to be thrashed by himself, and 
 had a tutor at home, who translated the Latin which 
 was too hard for him to translate. At college he be- 
 gan to assume the man, by treating at taverns, 
 making parties to the country, filling his tutor drunk, 
 and hiring blackguards to break the windows of the 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
! 12 THE MIRIIOR. 
 
 professor with whom he was boarded. He took in 
 succession the degrees of a wag, a pickle, and a lad 
 of mettle. For a while, having made an elopement 
 with his mother's maid, and lathered three children 
 of other people, he got the appellation of a dissipated 
 dog : but, at last, betaking himself entirely to the 
 bottle, and growing red faced and fat, he obtained the 
 denomination of an honest fellow ; which title he 
 continued to enjoy as long as he had money to pay, 
 or, indeed, much longer, while he had credit to score, 
 for his reckoning. 
 
 During this last part of his progress, he married 
 a poor girl, whom her father, from a mistaken idea 
 of his fortune, forced to sacrifice herself to his wishes. 
 After a very short space, he grew too indifferent a- 
 bout her to use her ill, and broke her heart with the 
 best-natured neglect in the world. Of two children 
 whom he had by her, one died at nurse scon after 
 the death of its mother ; the eldest, a boy of spirit 
 like his father, after twice running away from school, 
 was at last sent a-board a Guinea-man, and was 
 knocked on the head by a sailor, in a quarrel about a 
 negro wench, on the coast of Africa. 
 
 Generosity, however, was a part of his character 
 which he never forfeited. Beside lending money 
 genteelly to many worthless companions, and becom- 
 ing surety for every men who asked him, he did seme 
 truly charitable actions to very deserving objects. 
 These were told to his honour ; and people who had 
 met with refusals from more considerate- men, spoke 
 of such actions as the genuine test of feeling and hu- 
 manity. They misinterpreted scripture for indul- 
 gence to his errors on account of his charity, and ex- 
 tolled the g;ocdness cf his heart in every company 
 where he was mentioned. Even while his mother, 
 during her last illness, was obliged to accept of money 
 from her physician, because she could not obtain 
 payment of her jointure, and while, after her decease, 
 
THE MIRROR. 113 
 
 his two sisters were dunning him every clay, without 
 effect, for the small annuity 1 -ft them by their father, 
 he was called a good-hearted man by three-fourths 
 of his acquaintance ; and when, after having pawned 
 their cloaths, rather than distress him, those sisters 
 commenced a law-suit to force him to do them jus- 
 tice, the same impartial judges pronounced them 
 hard-hearted and unnatural ; nay, the story is still 
 told to their prejudice, though they now prevent their 
 brother from starving, out of the profits of a little 
 shop which they were then obliged to set up for their 
 support. 
 
 The abuse of the terms used by my friend, in re- 
 gard to the character of this unfortunate man, would 
 be sufficiently striking from the relation I have given, 
 without the necessity c.f my offering any comment 
 on it. Yet the misapplication of them is a thousand 
 times repeated by people who have known and felt 
 instances equally edaring of such injustice. It may 
 seem invidious to lessen the praises of any praise- 
 worthy quality ; but it is essential to the interests of 
 virtue, that insensibility should not be allowed to as- 
 sume the title of good-nature, nor profusion to usurp 
 the honours of genercsiiy. 
 
 The effect of such misplaced and ill-founded in- 
 dulgence is hurtful in a double degree. It encourages 
 the evil which it forbears to censure, and discourages 
 the good qualities which are found in men of decent 
 and sober characters. If we look into the private 
 histories of unfortunate families, we will nnd most of 
 their calamities to have proceeded from a neglect of 
 the useful duties of sobriety, economy, and attention 
 to domestic concerns, which, though they shine not 
 in the eye of the wort!, nay, are often subjected to 
 its obloquy, are yet the surest guardians of virtue, of 
 honour, and of independence. 
 
 " Be just before you are generous," is a good old 
 proverb, which the prodigate hero of a much admired 
 
1 14 TH-K MIR&OX. ' 
 
 coined) is made to ridicule, in a well-turned, and 
 .even a sentimental period. But what right have 
 those squanderers of their own and other men's for- 
 tunes to assume the merit of generosity ? Is parting 
 with that money, which they value so little, genero- 
 sity ? Let them restrain their dissipation, their riot, 
 their debauchery, when they are told that these bring 
 ruin on the persons and families of the honest and 
 the industrious ; let them sacrifice one pleasure to 
 humanity, and then tell us of their generosity and 
 their feeling. A transient instance, in which the pro- 
 digal relieved want with his purse, or the thoughtless 
 debauchee promoted merit by his interest, no more 
 deserves the appellation of generosity, than the rash- 
 ness of a drunkard is intitled to the praises of valour, 
 or the freaks of a madman to the laurels of genius. 
 In the character of a man considered as a being of 
 any respect at all, we immediately see a relation to 
 his friends, his neighbours, and his country. Hi* 
 duties only confer real dignity, and, what may not 
 be so easily allowed, but is equally true, can bestow 
 real pleasure. I know not an animal more insignifi- 
 cant, or less happy, than a man without any ties of 
 affection, or any exercise of duty.. He must be very 
 forlorn, or very despicable, indeed, to whom it is 
 possible to apply the phrase used by my friend, in 
 characterizing the person whose story I have related 
 above, and to say, that he is no cnei enemy but his 
 owr. 
 
 V 
 
THli MIRROR. 115 
 
 No. XXIV. SATURDAY, APRIL 17. 
 
 Non satis est pulchra esse pcc\nata ; dulciasunto. Hon, 
 
 NATURE is for ever before us. We can, as of- 
 ten as we please, contemplate the variety of her pro- 
 ductions, and feel the power of her beauty. We may 
 feast our imaginations with the verdure of waving 
 groves, the diversified colours of an evening sky, or 
 the windings of a limpid river. We may dwell with 
 rapture on those more sublime exhibitions of nature, 
 the raging tempest, the billowy deep, or the stupen- 
 dous precipice, that lift the soul with delightful a- 
 mazement, and seem almost to suspend her exertions. 
 These beautiful and vast appearances are so capable 
 of affording pleasure, that they become favourite sub- 
 jects with the poet and the painter ; they charm us 
 in description, or they glow upon canvass. Indeed, 
 the imitations of eminent artists have been held on 
 an equal footing, in regard to the pleasure they yield, 
 with the works of nature herself, and have sometimes 
 been deemed superior. This subject deserves atten- 
 tion ; how it happens, that the descriptions of the 
 poet, and the imitations of the painter, seem to com- 
 municate more delight than the things they describe 
 or imitate. 
 
 In estimating the respective merits of nature and 
 of art, it will readily be admitted, that the preference, 
 in every single object, is due to the former. Take 
 the simplest blossom that blows, observe its tints or 
 its structure, and you will own them unrivalled. What 
 pencil, how animated soever, can equal the glories 
 of the sky at sun-set ? or, can the representations of 
 moonlight, even by Homer, Milton, and Shakespeare, 
 be more exquisitely finished than the real scenery of 
 a moonlight night ? 
 
 l 2 
 
116 THE MIRROR. 
 
 If the poet and painter are capable of yielding su- 
 perior pleasure, in their exhibitions, to what we 
 receive from the works of their great original, it is 
 in the manner of grouping their objects, and by their 
 skill in arrangement. In particular, they give un- 
 common delight, by attending not merely to unity 
 of design, but to unity, if I may be allowed the ex- 
 pression, in the feelings they would excite. In the 
 works of nature, unless she has been "ornamented 
 and reformed by the taste of an ingenious improver, 
 intentions of this sort are very seldom apparent. 
 Objects that are gay, melancholy, solemn, tranquil, 
 impetuous, and, fantastic, are thrown together, 
 without any regard to the influences of arrangement, 
 or to the consistency of their effects on the mind. 
 The elegant artist, on the contrary? though his 
 works be adorned with unbounded variety, suggests 
 only those objects that excite similar or kindred 
 emotions, and excludes every thing of an opposite, 
 or even of a different tendency. If the scene he 
 describes be solemn, no lively nor fantastic image 
 can have admission : but if, in a sprightly mood, he 
 displays scenes of festivity, every pensive and gloomy 
 thought is debarred. Thus the figures he delineates 
 have one undivided direction ; they make one great 
 and entire impression. 
 
 To illustrate this remark, let us observe the con- 
 duct of Milton in his two celebrated poems, L' Alle- 
 gro, and II Penseroso. 
 
 In the Allegro, meaning to excite a cheerful 
 mood, he suggests a variety of objects ; for variety, 
 by giving considerable exercise to the mind, and by 
 not suffering it to rest long on the same appearance, 
 occasions brisk and exhilarating emotions. Accord- 
 ingly, the poet shews us, at one glance, and, as t 
 were, with a single dash of his pen, 
 
 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
 
THE MIRROR. 1 IT 
 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast 
 The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
 Shallow brooks and rivers wide. 
 
 The objects themselves are cheerful ; for, besides 
 her itig brooks, meadows, and flowers, we have the 
 whistling plowman, the singing milk-maid, the 
 mower whetting his scythe, and the shepherd piping 
 beneath a shade. These images, so numerous, so 
 various, and so cheerful, are animated by lively con- 
 trasts : We have the mountains opposed to the 
 meadows, " Shallow brooks and rivers wide." Add 
 to this, that the charms of the landscape are height- 
 ened by the bloom of a smiling season ; and that 
 the light poured upon the whole is the delightful ra- 
 diance of a summer morning. 
 
 Right against the eastern gate, 
 Where the great sun begins his state, 
 Rob'd in flames of amber light, 
 The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight. 
 
 Every image is lively ; every thing different is with- 
 held ; all the emotions the poet excites are of one 
 character and complexion. 
 
 Let us now observe the conduct of his II Pense- 
 roso. This poem is, in every respect, an exact 
 counterpart to the former. And the intention of the 
 poet being to promote a serious and solemn mood, 
 he removes every thing lively : u Hence vain delud- 
 ing joys." He quits society ; he chuses silence, 
 and opportunities for deep reflection ; " Some still 
 removed place will fit." The objects are few. In 
 the quotation, beginning with " Russet lawns," 
 there are eight leading images ; in the following, 
 of equal length, there is only one ; 
 
 To behold the wand'ring moon, 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 
1 18 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Like one that had been led astray- 
 Through the heav'n's wide pathless way , . 
 And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
 Stooping through a rleecy cloud. 
 
 The sounds that can be, in any respect, agreeable to 
 him, must correspond with his present humour : 
 Not the song of the milk-maid, but that of the night- 
 ingale ; not the whistling plowman, but the sound of 
 the curfeu. His images succeed one another slowly, 
 without any rapid or abrupt transitions, without any 
 enlivening contrasts ; and he will have no other light 
 for his landscape than that of the moon : Or, if hi; 
 cannot enjoy the scene without doors, he will have 
 no other light within than that of dying embers, or 
 of a solitary lamp at midnight. The time, and the 
 place he chuses for his retreat, are perfectly suited 
 to his employment ; for he is engaged in deep medi- 
 tation, and in considering 
 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 
 Th' immortal mind. 
 
 Every image is solemn ; every thing different i« 
 withheld : here, as before, all the emotions the poet 
 excites are of one character and complexion. It is 
 owing, in a great measure, to this attention in the 
 writer, ,to preserve unity and consistency of senti- 
 ment, that, notwithstanding considerable imperfec- 
 tions in the language and versification, L'Allegro and 
 II Penseroso have so many admirers. 
 
 The skill of the poet and the painter, in forming 
 their works so as to excite kindred and united emo- 
 tions, deserves the greater attention, that persons of 
 true taste are not so much affected, even in contem- 
 plating the beauties of nature with the mere per- 
 ception of external object, as with the general in- 
 fluences of their union and correspondence. It is 
 .not that particular tree, or that cavern, or that cas- 
 
THE MIRROR. 1 19 
 
 cade, which affords them all their enjoyment ; they 
 derive their chief pleasure from the united effect of 
 the tree, the cavern, and the cascade. A person of 
 sensibility will be less able, perhaps, than another, 
 to give an exact account of the different parts of an 
 exquisite landscape, of its length, width, and the 
 number of objects it contains. Yet the general ef- 
 fect possesses him altogether, and produces in his 
 mind very uncommon sensations. The impulse, 
 however, is tender, and cannot be described. In- 
 deed, it is the power of producing these sensations 
 that gives the stamp of genuine excellence, in par- 
 ticular, the works of the poet. Verses may be po- 
 lished, and glow with excellent imagery ; but unless, 
 like the poems of Parnel, or the lesser poems of 
 Milton, they please by their enchanting influence on 
 the heart, and by exciting feelings that are consist- 
 ent, or of a similar tendency, they are never truly 
 delightful. Horace, I think, expresses this senti- 
 ment, when he says, in the words of my motto, 
 
 Non satis est pulchra esse pee, nata ; dulcia sunto; 
 
 and an attention to this circumstance is so import- 
 ant, that, along with some other exertions, it enables 
 the poet and painter, at least, to rival the works of 
 
 nature. 
 
 No. XXV. TUESDAY, APRIL 20. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 SOME time ago I troubled you with a letter, giv- 
 ing an account of a particular sort of grievance felt 
 by the families of men of small fortunes, from their 
 
120 TH Z MIRROR. 
 
 acquaintance with those cf great onec. I am em- 
 boldened by the favorable reception of* my first letter 
 
 to write you a second upon the same subject. 
 
 You will remember, Sir, my account of a visit 
 which my daughters paid to a great lady in -our 
 neighbourhood, and of the effects which that visit 
 had upon them. I was beginning to hope that time, 
 and the sobriety of manners which home exhibited, 
 would restore them to their former situation, when 
 unfortunately, a circumstance happened, still more 
 
 fatal to me than their expedition to . This, 
 
 vSir, was the honour of a visit from the great lady 
 in return. 
 
 1 was just returning from the superintendance of 
 my plows in a field I have lately inclosed, when I 
 was met, on the green before my door, by a gentle- 
 man (for such I took him to be) mounted upon a 
 very handsome gelding, who asked me, by the appel- 
 lation cf honest friend, if this was not Mr. Home- 
 spun's ; and, in the same breath, whether the ladies 
 were at heme ? I told him, my name was HomespUn, 
 the house was mine, and my wife and daughters 
 were, I believed, within. Upon this, the young 
 man. pulling off his hat. and begging my pardon for 
 calling me honest, said lie was dispatched by Lady 
 
 : — , with her compliments to Mrs. and Mi 
 
 Homespun, and that, if convenient, she intended 
 herself the honour of dining with them, on her re- 
 turn from E Park, (the seat of ancther great 
 
 and rich lady in our neighbourhood.) 
 
 I confess, Mr. Mirror, I was struck somewhat cf 
 a heap with the message ; and it would not, in all 
 probability, have received an immediate answer, had 
 it not been overheard by my eldest daughter, who 
 had come to the window on the appearance cf a 
 stranger. " Mr. Fapillot," said she immediately, 
 " I rejoice to see you ; 1 hope your lady, and all the 
 " family, are well." u Very much at your service, 
 
THE MIRROR. 121 
 
 ma'am," he replied, with a low how ; " my lady 
 " sent me before, with the offer of her best com- 
 " pliments, and that, if convenient" — and so forth, 
 repeating his words to me. " She does us infi- 
 u nite honour," said my young madam, " let her 
 «' ladyship know how happy her visit will make us ; 
 " but, in the mean time, Mr. Papillot, give your 
 " horse to one of the servants, and come in and 
 " have a glass cf something after your ride." " I 
 " am afraid," answered he, (pulling out his right 
 hand watch, for, would you believe it, Sir, the fel • 
 low had one in each fob,) " I shall hardly have time 
 " to meet my lady at the place she appointed me." 
 On a second invitation, however, he dismounted, 
 and went into the house, leaving his horse to the 
 care of the servants ; but the servants, as my daugh- 
 ter very well knew, were all in the field at work ; 
 so I, who have a liking for a good horse, and cannot 
 bear to see him neglected, had the honour of putting 
 Mr. Papillot's in the stable myself. 
 
 After about an hour's stay, for the gentleman 
 seemed to forget his hurry within doors, Mr. Papil- 
 lot departed. My daughters, I mean the two polite 
 ones, observed how handsome he was ; and added 
 another observation, that it was only to particular 
 friends my lady sent messages by him, who was her 
 own body-servant, and not accustomed to such 
 offices. My wife seemed highly pleased with this 
 last remark ; I was about to be angry ; but on such 
 occasions it is not my "way to say much ; I generally 
 shrug up my shoulders in silence ; yet, as I said be- 
 fore, Mr. Mirror, I would not have you think me 
 hen-peck'd. 
 
 By this time, every domestic about my house, 
 male and female, were called from their several em- 
 ployments to assist in the preparations for her lady- 
 ship's reception. It would tire you to enumerate the 
 various shifts that were made, by purchasing, bor- 
 
122 THE MIRROR. 
 
 rowing, See. to furnish out a dinner suitable to the 
 occasion. My grey little poney, which 1 keep for 
 sending to market, broke his wind in the cause, and 
 has never been good for any thing since. 
 
 Nor was there less, ado in making ourselves and 
 our attendants fit to appear before such company. 
 The female part of the family managed the matter 
 pretty easily, women, I observe, having a natural 
 talent that way. My wife took upon herself the 
 charge of appareling me for the occasion. A laced 
 suit which I had worn at my marriage was got up for 
 the purpose ; but the breeches burst a seam at the 
 very attempt of pulling them on, and the sleeves of 
 the coat were also impracticable ; so she was forced 
 to content herself with clothing me in my Sunday's 
 ccat and breeches, with the laced waistcoat of the 
 above-mentioned suit, slit in the back, to set them 
 off a little. My gardener, who has been accustomed, 
 indeed, to serve in many capacities, had his head 
 cropped, curled, and powdered, for the part of but- 
 ler ; one of the best looking plow-boys had a yellow 
 cape clapped to his Sunday's coat to make him pass 
 for a servant in livery ; and we borrowed my son-in- 
 law the parson's man for a third hand. 
 
 All this was accomplished, though not without 
 some tumult and disorder, before the arrival of the 
 great lady. She gave us, indeed, more time for the 
 purpose than we looked for, as it was near six o'clock 
 before she arrived. But this was productive of a mis- 
 fortune on the other hand ; the dinner my poor wife 
 had bustled, sweated, and scolded for, was so over- 
 boiled, over-stewed, and over-roasted, that it needed 
 the appetite of so late an hour to make it go well 
 down even with me, who am not very nice in these 
 matters : luckily her ladyship, as I am told, never 
 eats much, for fear of spoiling her shape, now that 
 small waists have come into fashion again. 
 
THE MIRROR. 12$ 
 
 The dinner, however, though spoiled in the cook- 
 ing, was not thrown away, as her ladyship's train 
 made shift to eat the greatest part of it. When I 
 say her train, I do not mean her servants only, of 
 which there were half a dozen in livery, beside the 
 illustrious Mr. Papillot, and her ladyship's maid, gen- 
 tlewoman I should say, who had a table to them- 
 selves. Her parlour-attendants were equally nume- 
 rous, consisting of two ladies and six gentlemen, who 
 had accompanied her ladyship in this excursion, and 
 did us the honour of coming to eat and drink with 
 us, and bringing their servants to do the same, though 
 we had never seen or heard of them before. 
 
 During the progress of this entertainment, there 
 were several little embarrassments which might ap- 
 pear ridiculous in description, but were matters of 
 serious distress to us. Soup was spilled, dishes over- 
 turned, and glasses broken, by the awkwardness of 
 our attendants ; and things were not a bit mended by 
 my wife's solicitude (who, to do her justice, had all 
 her eyes about her) t© correct them. 
 
 From the time of her ladyship's arrival, it was im- 
 possible that dinner could be over before it was dark ; 
 this, with the consideration of the bad road she had 
 to pass through in her way to the next house she 
 meant to visit, produced aa invitation from my wife 
 and daughters to pass the night with us, which, after 
 a few words of apology for the trouble she gave us, 
 and a few more of the honour we received, was agreed 
 to. This gave rise to a new scene of preparation, 
 rather more difficult than that before dinner. My 
 wife and I were dislodged from our own apartment, 
 to make room for our noble guest. Our four daugh* 
 ters were crammed in by us, and slept on the floor, 
 that their rooms might be left for the two ladies and 
 four of the gentlemen who were entitled to the great- 
 est degree of respect ; for the remaining two, we 
 found beds at my son-in-law's. My two eldest daugh- 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
124 THE MIRROR. 
 
 ters had, indeed, little time to sleep, being closetted 
 the greatest part of the night with their right honour- 
 able visitor. My offices were turned topsy turvy for 
 the accommodation of the servants of my guests, and 
 my own horses turned into the fields, that their's 
 might occupy my stable. 
 
 All these are hardships of their kind, Mr. Mirror, 
 which the honour that accompanies them seems to 
 me not fully to compensate ; but these are slight 
 grievances, in comparison with what I have to com- 
 plain of as the effects of this visit. The malady of 
 my two eldest daughters is not only returned with 
 increased violence upon them, but has now commu- 
 nicated itself to every other branch of my family. 
 My wife, formerly a decent discreet woman, who 
 liked her own way, indeed, but was a notable manager, 
 now talks of this and that piece of expence as neces- 
 sary to the rank of a gentlewoman, and has lately 
 dropped some broad hints that a winter in town is ne- 
 cessary to the accomplishment of one. My two 
 younger daughters have got the heads that formerly 
 belonged to their elder sisters, to each of whom, un- 
 fortunately, the great lady presented a set of feathers, 
 for which new heads were essentially requisite. 
 
 The inside of all of them has undergone a very 
 striking metamorphosis from this one night's in- 
 struction of their visitor. There is, it seems, a fashion 
 in morality, as well as in dress ; and the present 
 mode is not quite so strait-laced as the stays are. 
 My two fine ladies talked, a few mornings ago, of 
 
 stech a gentleman's connection with Miss C , and 
 
 such another's arrangement with Lady G , with 
 
 all the ease in the world ; yet these words, I find, 
 being interpreted, mean nothing less than fornication 
 and adultery. I sometimes remonstrate warmly, es- 
 pecially when I have my son-in-law to back me, 
 against these new-fangled freedoms ; but another 
 doctrine they have learned is # that a father and a 
 
THil MIRROR. 125 
 
 parson may preach as they please, but are to be fol- 
 lowed only according to the inclination of their audi- 
 ence. Indeed 1 could not help observing, that my 
 
 Lady never mentioned her absent lord, (who, 
 
 I understand, is seldom of her parties,) except some- 
 times to let us know how much she differed in opi- 
 nion from him. 
 
 This contempt of authority, and affectation of fa- 
 shion, has gone a step lower in my household. My 
 gardener has tied his hair behind, and stolen my flour 
 to powder it ever since he saw Mr. Papillot ; and 
 yesterday he gave me warning that he should leave 
 me next term, if I did not take him into the house, 
 and provide another hand for the work in the garden. 
 I found a great hoyden, who washes my daughters' 
 linens, sitting, the other afternoon, dressed in one of 
 their cast fly-caps, entertaining this same oaf of a gar- 
 dener, and the wives of two of my farm-servants, with 
 tea, forsooth ; and when I quarrelled her for it, she 
 replied, that Mrs. Dimity, my Lady 's gen- 
 tlewoman, told her all the maids at had tea, 
 
 and saw company, of an afternoon. 
 
 But I am resolved on a reformation, Mr. Mirror, 
 and shall let my wife and daughters know, that I wHl 
 be master of my own house and my own expences, 
 and will neither be made a fool nor a beggar, though 
 it were after the manner of the greatest lord in Chris- 
 tendom. Yet I confess I am always for trying gentle 
 methods first. I beg, therefore, that you will insert 
 this in your next paper, and add to it some exhorta- 
 tions of your own to prevail on them, if possible, to 
 give over a behaviour, which, I think, under favour, 
 is rather improper even in great folks, but is cer- 
 tainly ruinous to little ones. 
 I am, Sec. 
 
 John Homespwn. 
 
 Mr. Homespun's relation, too valuable to be short- 
 ened, leaves me not room at present for any obser- 
 
126 THE MIRROR. 
 
 vations. But I have seen the change of manners 
 among some of my countrywomen, for several years 
 past, with the most sensible regret ; and I intend 
 soon to devote a paper to a serious remonstrance 
 with them on the subject. 
 
 No. XXVI. SATURDAY, APRIL 24. 
 
 NOTHING can give a truer picture of the man- 
 ners of any particular age, or point out more strongly 
 those circumstances which distinguish it from others, 
 than the change that takes place in the rules esta- 
 blished as to the external conduct of men in society, 
 or in what may be called the system of politeness. 
 
 It were absurd to say, that, from a man's external 
 conduct, we are always to judge of the feelings of his 
 mind ; but, certainly, when there are rules laid down 
 for men's external behaviour to one another, we may 
 conclude, that there are some general feelings pre- 
 valent among the people which dictate those rules, 
 and make a deviation from them be considered as 
 improper. When at any time, therefore, an altera- 
 tion in those general rules takes place, it is reason- 
 able to suppose that the change has been produced 
 by some alteration in the feelings, and in the ideas of 
 propriety and impropriety of the people. 
 
 Whoever considers the rules of external behaviour 
 established about a century ago, must be convinced, 
 that much less attention was then paid by men of 
 high rank to the feelings of those beneath them, than 
 in the present age. In that xra a man used to mea- 
 sure out his complaisance to others according to the 
 degree of rank in which they stood, compared with 
 his ow 7 n. A peer had a certain manner of address and 
 
THE MIRRCR. 127 
 
 salutation to a peer of equal rank, a different one to 
 a peer of an inferior order, and, to a commoner, the 
 mode of address was diversified according to the an- 
 tiquity of his family, or the extent of his possessions ; 
 so that a stranger who happened to be present at the 
 levee of a great man, could, with tolerable certainty, 
 by examining his features, or attending to the low- 
 ness of his bow, judge of the different degrees o£ 
 dignity among his visitors. 
 
 Were it the purpose of the present paper, this 
 might be traced back to a very remote period. By 
 the Earl of Northumberland's household book, begun 
 in the year 15 12, it appears, that my lord's board-end, 
 that is to say, the end of the table where he and his 
 principal guests were seated, was served with a dif- 
 ferent and more delicate sort of viands, than those 
 allotted to the lower end. " It is thought good," 
 says that curious record, " that no pluvers be bought 
 " at no time but only in Christmas, and principal 
 " feasts, and my lord to be served therewith, and his 
 " board-end, and no other."* 
 
 In this country, and in a period nearer our own 
 times, we have heard of a Highland chieftain, who 
 died not half a century ago, remarkable for his hos- 
 pitality, and for having his table constantly crowded 
 with a number of guests : possessing a high idea of 
 the dignity of his family, and warmly rttached to 
 ancient manners, he was in use very nicely to discri- 
 minate, by his behaviour to them, the ranks of the 
 different persons he entertained. The head of the 
 table was occupied by himself, and the rest of the 
 company sat nearer or more remote from him ac- 
 cording to their respective ranks. All, indeed, were 
 
 * The line of distinction was marked by a large Salt-Seller 
 placed in the middle of the table, above which, at " my lord's 
 " board-end," sat the distinguished guests ; and below it tho&e 
 of an inferior class. 
 
 M % 
 
128 THE MIRROR. 
 
 allowed to partake of the same food ; but, when the 
 liquor was produced, which was at that time, and 
 perhaps still is in some parts of Scotland, accounted 
 the principal part of a feast, a different sort of beve- 
 rage was assigned to the guests, according to their 
 different dignities. The landlord himself, and his 
 family, or near relations, drank wine of the best kind ; 
 to persons next in degree, was allotted wine of an 
 inferior sort ; and to guests of a still lower rank, were 
 allowed only those liquors which were the natural 
 produce of the country. This distinction was agree- 
 able to the rules of politeness at that time establish- 
 ed : the entertainer did not feel any thing disagree- 
 able in making it ; nor did any of the entertained 
 think themselves intitled to take this treatment amiss. 
 It must be admitted, that a behaviour of this sort 
 would not be consonant to the rules of politeness esta- 
 blished in the present age. A man of good breeding 
 now considers the same degree of attention to be due 
 to every man in the rank of a gentleman, be his for- 
 tune or the antiquity of his family what it may ; nay, 
 a man of real politeness will feel it rather more in- 
 cumbent on him to be attentive and complaisant to 
 his inferiors in these respects, than to his equals. 
 The idea which ^n modern times is entertained of 
 politeness, points out such a conduct. It is founded 
 on this, that a man of a cultivated mind is taught to 
 feel a greater degree of pleasme in attending to the 
 ease and happiness of people with whom he mixes in 
 society, than in studying his own. On this account, 
 he gives up what would be agreeable to his own 
 taste, because he finds more satisfaction in humour- 
 ing the taste of others. Thus, a gentleman, now-ar 
 days, takes the lowest place at his own table ; and, 
 if there be any delicacy there, it is set apart for his 
 guests. The entertainer finds a much more sensi- 
 ble pleasure in bestowing it oa them, than in taking, 
 it to himself. 
 
THE MIRROR. 12§ 
 
 From the same cause, if a gentleman be in com- 
 pany with another not so opulent as himself, or how- 
 ever worthy, not possessed of the same degree of 
 those adventitious honours which are held in esteem 
 by the world, politeness will teach the former to pay 
 peculiar attention and observation to the latter. Men, 
 even of the highest minds, when they are first intro- 
 duced into company with their superiors in rank or 
 fortune, are apt to feel a certain degree of awkward- 
 ness and uneasiness which it requires some time and 
 habit to wear off. A man of fortune or of rank, if 
 possessed of a sensible mind, and real politeness, will 
 feel, and be at particular pains to remove this. Hence 
 he will be led to be rather more attentive to those, 
 who, in the eyes of the multitude, are reckoned his 
 inferiors, than to others who are more upon a footing 
 with him. 
 
 It is not proposed, in this paper to enquire what 
 are the causes of the difference of men's ideas, as 
 to the rules of politeness in this and the former age. 
 It is sufficient to observe, and the reflection is a very 
 pleasant one, that the modern rules of good breeding 
 must give us a higher idea of the humanity and re^ 
 finement of this age than of the former ; and, though 
 the mode of behaviour above mentioned may not be 
 universally observed in practice, yet it is hoped it 
 will not be disputed that it is consonant to the rules 
 which are now pretty generally established. 
 
 It ought, however, to be observed, that, when we 
 speak, even at this day, of good-breeding, of polite- 
 ness, of complaisance, these expressions are always 
 confined to our behaviour towards those who are con- 
 sidered to be in the rank of gentlemen ; but no sys,- 
 tem of politeness or of complaisance is established, 
 at least in this country, for our behaviour to those of 
 a lower station. The rules of good breeding do not 
 extend to them ; and he may be esteemed the best 
 bred man in the world who is a very brute to his. sec- 
 \ants. ami dependents. 
 
ISO THE MIRROR. 
 
 This I cannot help considering as a matter of re- 
 gret ; and it were to be wished that the same huma- 
 nity and refinement which recommends an equal at- 
 tention to all in the rank of gentlemen, would extend 
 some degree of that attention to those who are in 
 stations below them. 
 
 It will require but little observation to be satisfied 
 that all men, in whatever situation, are endowed with 
 the same feelings, (though education or example may- 
 give them a different modification) and that one in 
 the lowest rank of life may be sensible of a piece of 
 insolence, or an affront, as well as one in the highest. 
 Nay, it ought to be considered, that the greater the 
 disproportion of rank, the affront will be the more 
 sensibly felt ; the greater the distance from which it 
 comes, and the more unable the person affronted to 
 revenge it, by so much the heavier will it falL 
 
 It is not meant that, in our transactions with men 
 of a very low station, and who, from their circum- 
 stances and the wants of society, must be employed 
 in servile labour, we are to behave, in all respects, as 
 to those who are in the rank of gentlemen. The 
 thing is impossible, and such men do not expect it. 
 But, in all our intercourse with them, we ought to 
 consider that they are men possessed of like feelings 
 with ourselves, which nature has given them, and no 
 situation can or ught to eradicate. When we employ 
 them in the labour of life, it ought to be our study 
 to demand that labour in the manner easiest to them ; 
 and we should never forget, that gentleness is part 
 of the wages we owe them for their service. 
 
 Yet how many men, in other respects of the best 
 and most respectable characters, are, from inadver- 
 tency, or the force of habit, deaf to those consider- 
 ations ; and, indeed, the thing has been so little at- 
 tended to, that in this, which has been called a polite 
 age, complaisance to servants and dependents is not, 
 as I have already observed, at least in this country* 
 considered as making any part of politeness. 
 
THE MIRROR. 131 
 
 But there is another set of persons still more ex- 
 posed to be ireated roughly than even domestic ser- 
 vants, and these are the waiters at inns and taverns. 
 Between a master and servant a certain connection 
 subsists, which prevents the former from using the 
 latter very ill. The servant, if he is good for any 
 thing, naturally forms an attachment to his master 
 and to his interest, which produces a mutual inter- 
 course of kindness between them. But no connec- 
 tion of this sort can be formed with the temporary 
 attendants above mentioned. Hence the monstrous 
 abuse which such persons frequently suffer ; every 
 traveller, and every man who enters a tavern, thinks 
 he is intitled to vent his own ill humour upon them, 
 and vollies of curses are too often the only language 
 they meet with. 
 
 Having mentioned the waiters in inns and taverns, 
 I cannot avoid taking particular notice of the treat- 
 ment to which those of the female sex, who are em- 
 ployed in places of that sort, are often exposed. 
 Th^ir situation is, indeed, peculiarly unfortunate. If 
 a girl in an inn happens to be handsome, and a parcel 
 of young thoughtless fellows cast their eyes upon her, 
 she is immediately made the subject of taunt and 
 merriment ; coarse and indecent jokes are often ut- 
 tered In her hearing, and conversation shocking to 
 modest ears is frequently addressed to her. The 
 poor girl, all the while, is at a loss how to behave ; 
 if she venture on a spirited answer, the probable con- 
 sequence will be to raise the mirth of the facetious 
 company, and to expose her to a repetition of insults. 
 If, guided by the feelings of modesty, she avoid the 
 presence of the impertinent guests, she is com- 
 plained of for neglecting her duty ; she loses the lit- 
 tle perquisite which, otherwise, she would be intitled 
 to ; perhaps disobliges her mistress, and loses her 
 place. Whoever attends but for a moment to the 
 case of a poor girl so situated, if he be not lost to all 
 
132 THE MIRIIOR. 
 
 tense of virtue, must feel his heart relent at the cru- 
 elty of taking advantage of such a situation. But 
 the misfortune is, that we seldom attend to such cases 
 at all ; we sometimes think of the fatigues and suf- 
 ferings incident to the bodies of our inferiors ; but 
 we scarcely ever allow any sense of pain to their 
 minds. 
 
 Among the French, whom we mimic in much false 
 politeness, without learning from them, as we might 
 do, much of the true, the observances of good-breed- 
 ing are not confined merely to gentlemen, but ex- 
 tend to persons of the lowest ranks. Thus, a French- 
 man hardly ever addresses his servant, without culling 
 him Monsieur, and the meanest woman in a country 
 village is addressed by the appellation of Madame. 
 The accosting, in this manner, people of so very low 
 a rank, in the same terms with those so much 
 their superiors, may perhaps appear extravagant ; 
 but the practice shews how much that refined and 
 elegant people are attentive to the feelings of the 
 meanest, when they have extended the rules and ce- 
 remonial of politeness even to them. 
 
 S 
 
 No. XXVII. TUESDAY, APRIL 27. 
 
 There is a kind of mournful eloquence 
 
 In thy dumb grief, which shames all clamorous sorrow. 
 
 LEt's Theodosius. 
 
 A VERY amiable and much respected friend of 
 mine, whose real name I shall conceal under that of 
 Wentworth, had lately the misfortune of losing a 
 wife, who was not only peculiarly beautiful, but whose 
 soul was the mansion of every virtue, and of every 
 elegant accomplishment. She was suddenly cut off 
 
THE MIRROR. 133 
 
 in the flower of her age, ajter having lived twelve 
 years with the best and most affectionate of husbands. 
 A perfect similarity of temper and disposition, a kin- 
 dred delicacy of taste and sentiment, had linked their 
 hearts together in early youth, and each succeeding 
 year seemed but to add new strength to their affec- 
 tion. Though possessed of an affluent fortune, they 
 preferred the tranquillity of the country to all the 
 gay pleasures of the capital. In the cultivation of 
 their estate, in cherishing the virtuous industry of 
 its inhabitants, in ornamenting a beautiful seat, in 
 the society of one another, in the innocent prattle of 
 their little children, and in the company of a few 
 friends, Mr. Wentworth and his Amelia found every 
 wish gratified, and their happiness complete. 
 
 My readers will judge, then, what must have been 
 Mr. Wentworth's feelings when Amelia was thus sud- 
 denly torn from him, in the very prime of her life, 
 and in the midst of her felicity. I dreaded the effects 
 of it upon a mind of his nice and delicate sensibility ; 
 and, receiving a letter from his brother, requesting 
 me to come to them, I hastened thither, to endea- 
 vour, by my presence, to assuage his grief, and pre- 
 vent those fatal consequences, of which I was so ap- 
 prehensive. 
 
 As I approached the house, the sight of all the 
 well-known scenes brought fresh into my mind the 
 remembrance of Amelia ; and I felt myself but ill 
 qualified to act the part of a comforter. When my 
 carriage stopped at the gate, I trembled, and would 
 have given the world to go back. A heart-feJt sorrow 
 sat on the countenance of every servant; and I walked 
 into the house, without a word being uttered. In 
 the hall I was met by the old butler, who has grown 
 gray -headed in the family, and he hastened to con- 
 duct me up stairs. As I walked up, I commanded 
 firmness enough to say, " Well, William, how is 
 Mr. Wentworth V The old man, turning about with 
 
134 THE MIRROR. 
 
 a look that pierced my heart, said, " Oh, Sir, our 
 excellent lady I" Here his grief overwhelmed 
 him ; and it was with difficulty he was able to open 
 to me the door of the apartment. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth ran and embraced me with the 
 warmest affection, and, after a few moments, assum- 
 ed a firmness, and even an ease, that surprised me. 
 His brother, with a sister . of Amelia's, and some 
 other friends that were in the room, appeared more 
 overpowered than my friend himself, who, by the 
 fortitude of his behaviour, seemed rather to mode- 
 rate the grief of those around him, than to demand 
 their compassion for himself. By his gentle and kind 
 attentions, he seemed anxious to relieve their sorrow, 
 and, by a sort of concerted tranquillity, strove to 
 prevent their discovering any symptoms of the bitter 
 anguish which preyed upon his mind. His counte- 
 nance was pale, and his eyes betrayed that his heart 
 was ill at ease ; but it was that silent and majestic 
 sorrow which commands our reverence and our ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Next morning after breakfast I chanced to take up 
 a volume of Metastatio, that lay amongst other books 
 upon a table ; and, as I was turning over the leaves, 
 a slip of paper, with something written on it, dropped 
 upon the floor. Mr. Wentworth picked it up ; and, 
 as he looked at it, I saw the tears start into his eyes, 
 and, fetching a deep sigh, he uttered, in a low and 
 broken voice, " My poor Amelia !" — It was a trans- 
 lation of a favourite passage which she had been at- 
 tempting, but had left unfinished. As if uneasy lest 
 I had perceived his emotion, he carelessly threw his 
 arm over my shoulder, and reading aloud a few lines 
 of the page which I held open in my hand, he went 
 into some remarks on the poetry of that elegant au- 
 thor. Some time after, I observed him take up the 
 book, and carefully replacing the slip of paper where 
 it had been, put the volume in his pocket. 
 
THE MIRROR. 135 
 
 Mr. Wentworth proposed that we should walk out, 
 and that he himself would accempany us. As we 
 stepped through the hall, one of my friend's youngest 
 boys came running up, and catching his papa by the 
 hand, cried out with joy, that, " Mamma's Rover 
 " was returned." This was a spaniel, who had been 
 the favourite of Amelia, and had followed her in all 
 her walks ; but, after her death, had been sent to the 
 house of a villager, to be out of the immediate sight 
 of the family. Having somehow made its escape 
 from thence, the dog had that morning found his way 
 home ; and, as soon as he saw Mr. Wentworth, 
 leaped upon him with an excess of fondness. I saw 
 my friend's lips and cheeks quiver. He catched his 
 little Frank in his arms ; and, for a few moments, 
 hid his face in his neck. 
 
 As we traversed his delightful grounds, many dif- 
 ferent scenes naturally recalled the remembrance of 
 Amelia. My friend, indeed, in order to avoid some 
 of her favourite walks, had conducted us to an unusual 
 road ; but what corner could be found, that did not 
 bear the trace of her hand ? Her elegant taste had 
 marked the peculiar beauty of each different scene, 
 and had brought it forth to view with such a happy 
 delicacy of art, as to make it seem the work of na- 
 ture alone. As we crossed certain paths in the woods, 
 and passed by some rustic buildings, I could some- 
 times discern an emotion in my friend's countenance ; 
 but he instantly stifled it with a firmness and dignity 
 Chat made me careful not to seem to observe it. 
 
 Towards night, Mr. Wentworth having stolen out 
 of the room, his brother and I stepped out to a ter- 
 race behind the house. It was the dusk of the even- 
 ing, the air was mild and serene, and the moon was 
 rising in all her brightness from the cloud of the east. 
 The fineness of the night made us extend our walk, 
 and we strayed into a hollow valley, whose sides are 
 covered with trees overhanging a brook that pours 
 
 tol. i. x 
 
136 
 
 THE MIRROR. 
 
 itself along over broken rocks. We approached a 
 rustic grotto placed in a sequestered corner under 
 a half-impending rock. My companion stopped, 
 " This," said he, " was one of Amelia's walks, and 
 " that grotto was her favourite evening retreat. The 
 " last night she ever walked out, and the very 
 " evening she caught that fatal fever, I was with my 
 " brother and her, while we sat and read to each 
 " other in that very place." While he spoke, we 
 perceived a man steal out of the grotto, and avoid- 
 ing us, take his way by a path through a thicket of 
 trees on the other side. « It is my brother," said 
 young Wentworth ; " he has been here in his Ame- 
 u lia's favourite grove, indulging that grief he so 
 " carefully conceals from us." 
 
 We returned to the house, and found Mr. Went- 
 worth with the rest of the company. He forced on 
 some conversation, and even affected a degree of gen- 
 tle pleasantry during the whole evening. 
 
 Such, in short, is the noble deportment of my 
 friend, that, in place of finding it necessary to tem- 
 per and moderate his grief, 1 must avoid seeming to 
 perceive it, and dare scarcely appear even to think 
 of the heavy calamity which has befallen him. I 
 too well know what he feels ; but the more I know 
 this, the more does the dignity of his recollection 
 and fortitude excite my admiration, and command 
 my silent attention and respect. 
 
 How very different is this dignified and reserved 
 sorrow from that weak and teasing grief which dis- 
 gusts, by its sighs and tears, and clamorous lamen- 
 tions ? How much does such noble fortitude of de- 
 portment call forth our regard and reverence ? How 
 much is a character, in other respects estimable, 
 degraded by a contrary demeanour ? How much does 
 the excessive, the importunate, and unmanly grief of 
 Cicero, diminish the very high respect which we 
 should otherwise entertain for the exalted character 
 of that illustrious Roman ? 
 
THE MIRROR. 137 
 
 Writers on practical morality have described and 
 analized the passion of grief, and have pretended to 
 prescribe remedies for restoring the mind to tran- 
 quillity ; but, I believe, little benefit has been derived 
 from any thing they have advised. To tell a person 
 in grief, that time will relieve him, is truly applying 
 no remedy ; and, to bid him reflect how many others 
 there may be who are more wretched, is a very in- 
 efficacious one. The truth is, that the excess of this, 
 as well as of other passions, must be prevented rather 
 than cured. It must be obviated, by our attaining 
 that erenness and equality of temper, which can 
 arise only from an improved understanding, and an 
 habitual intercourse with refined society. These 
 will not, indeed, exempt us from the pangs of sor- 
 row, but will enable us to bear them with a noble 
 grace and propriety, and will render the presence of 
 our friends (which is the only remedy) a very effec- 
 tual cure. 
 
 This is well explained by a philosopher, who is no 
 less eloquent than he is profound. He justly ob- 
 serves, that we naturally on all occasions, endeavour 
 to bring down our own passions to that pitch which 
 those about us can correspond with. We view our- 
 selves in the light in which we think they view us, 
 and seek to suit our behaviour to what we think their 
 feelings can go along with. With an intimate friend, 
 .acquainted with every circumstance of our situation, 
 we can, in some measure, give way to our grief, but 
 are more calm than when by ourselves. Before a 
 common acquaintance, we assume a greater sedate- 
 ness. Before a mixed assembly, we affect a still 
 more considerable degree of composure. Thus, by 
 the company of our friends at. first, and afterwards, 
 by mingling with society, we come to suit our de- 
 portment to what we think they will approve of ; we 
 gradually abate the violence of our passion, and re- 
 store our mind to its wonted tranquillity. 
 
13S THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. XXVIII. SATURDAY, MAY 1. 
 
 Currit ad Indos 
 Pauperiem fugiens. Hor. 
 
 " AND did you not blush for our countrymen ?" 
 said Mr. Umphraville to Colonel Plumb, as the latter 
 was describing the sack of an Indian city, and the 
 plunder of its miserable inhabitants, with the death 
 of a Raja who had gallantly defended it. 
 
 " Not at all, Sir," answered the Colonel coolly ; 
 * our countrymen did no more than their duty ; and, 
 " were we to decline performing it on such ccca- 
 u sions, we should be of little service to our country 
 " in India." 
 
 Mr. Umphraville made no answer to this defence ; 
 but a silent indignation, which sat upon his counte- 
 nance, implied a stronger disapprobation of it than 
 the most laboured reply he could have offered. 
 
 For the same reason which induced him to avoid 
 any farther discussion of the subject, my friend en- 
 deavoured to give the conversation a different turn. 
 He led the Colonel into a description of the country 
 of India ; and, as that gentleman described in very 
 lively colours the beauty of its appearance, the num- 
 ber of its people, and the variety and richness of its 
 productions, Mr. Umphraville listened to this part of 
 his discourse with an uncommon degree of pleasure 
 and attention. 
 
 But, after the Colonel's departure, (for this con- 
 yersation happened during one of my excursions to 
 Mr. Umphraville's, where Colonel Plumb had been 
 on a visit,) the former part of the conversation re- 
 curred immediately to my friend's memory, and pro- 
 duced the following reflections. 
 
 " I know not," said he, " a more mortifying proof 
 " of human weakness, than that power which situa- 
 
THE MIRROR. 139 
 
 « tion and habit acquire over principle and feeling, 
 " even in men of the best natural dispositions. 
 
 " The gentleman who has just left us, has derived 
 " from nature a more than ordinary degree of good 
 " sense. Nor does she seem to have been less libe- 
 " ral to him in the affections of the heart than in the 
 " powers of the understanding. 
 
 " Since his return to this country, Colonel Plumb 
 " has acted the part of an affectionate and generous 
 " relation, of an attentive and useful friend ; he has 
 " been an indulgent landlord, a patron of the indus- 
 " trious, and a support to the indigent. In a word, 
 " he has proved a worthy and useful member of so- 
 " ciety, on whom fortune seems not to have mis- 
 " placed her favours. 
 
 " Yet, with all the excellent dispositions of which 
 " these are proofs. — placed as a soldier of fortune in 
 " India ; inflamed with the ambition of amassing 
 " wealth ; corrupted by the contagious example of 
 " others governed by the same passion, and engaged 
 " in the same pursuit ; Colonel Plumb appears to 
 « have been little under the influence either of jus- 
 " tice or humanity ; he seems to have viewed the 
 " unhappy people of that country merely as the in- 
 " struments, which, in one way or other, were to 
 " furnish himself and his countrymen with that wealth 
 w they had gone so far in quest of. 
 
 " If these circumstances could operate so strongly 
 * on such a man as Colonel Plumb, we have little 
 « reason to wonder that they should have carried 
 " others of our countrymen to still more lamentable 
 « excesses ; that they should have filled that unhap- 
 u py country with scenes of misery and oppression, 
 " of which the recital fills us with equal shame and 
 « indignation. Yet such examples as that. of the 
 " Colonel should perhaps dispose us, in place of vio- 
 " lently declaiming against the conduct of individuals, 
 44 to investigate the causes by which it is produced. 
 k 2. 
 
14d THE MIRROR. 
 
 " The conquests of a commercial people, have 
 '• always, I believe, proved uncommonly destruc- 
 " tive ; and this might naturally have been expected 
 " of those made by our countrymen in India, under 
 " the direction of a mercantile society, conducted by 
 " its members in a distant country, in a climate fatal 
 " to European constitutions, which they visit only for 
 " the purpose of suddenly amassing riches, and from 
 " which they are anxious to return as soon as that 
 " purpose is accomplished. 
 
 " How far such a company, whose original connec- 
 " tion with India was merely the prosecution of their 
 " private commerce, should have ever been allowed 
 w to assume, and should still continue to possess, the 
 " unnatural character of sovereigns and conquerors, 
 " and to conduct the government of a great empire, 
 " is a point which may, perhaps, merit the attention 
 " of the legislature as much as many of the more 
 " minute inquiries in which they have of late been 
 " engaged. 
 
 " I have often thought how much our superior 
 " knowledge in the art of government might enable 
 " us to change the condition of that unfortunate coun- 
 " try for the better. I have pleased myself with 
 
 * fondly picturing out the progress of such a plan ; 
 u with fancying I saw the followers of Mahomet lay 
 u aside their ferocity and ambition ; the peaceful di- 
 " sciples of Brahma, happy in the security of a good 
 
 * government, and in the enjoyment of those inno- 
 " cent and simple manners which mark the influence 
 « of a fruitful climate, and a beneficent religion. — 
 " But, alas !" continued Mr. Umphraville, with a 
 sigh, " such reformations are more easily effected 
 " by me in my elbow-chair, than by those who con- 
 « duct the great and complicated machine of govern- 
 
 * ment. 
 
 « I wish," added he, " it may be only the contract- 
 « ed yiew of things natural to a retired old man > 
 
THE MIRROR. 141 
 
 " which leads me to fear that, in this country, the 
 
 " period of such reformations is nearly past ; when 
 
 " I observe, that almoat all men regulate their con- 
 
 " duct, and form the minds of the rising generation 
 
 " by this maxim, 
 
 Quxrenda pecunia prima est, 
 Virtus post Nummos ; 
 
 " I cannot but apprehend, from the prevalence of so 
 " mean and so corrupt a principle, the same na- 
 M tional corruption which the Roman poet ascribes 
 " to it. 
 
 " In the lower ranks, the desire of gain, as it is the 
 " source of industry , may be held equally conducive to 
 " private happiness and public prosperity ; but those 
 u who, by birth or education, are destined for nobler 
 " pursuits, should be actuated by more generous pas- 
 " sions. If from luxury, and the love of vain expence, 
 " they also shall give way to this desire of wealth ; 
 " if it shall extinguish the sentiments of public vir- 
 " tue, and the passion for true glory, natural to that 
 " order of the state ; the spring of private and of 
 u national honour must have lost its force, and there 
 " will remain nothing to withstand the general cor- 
 " ruption of manners, and the public disorder and 
 " debility which are its inseparable attendants. If 
 " our country has not already reached this point of 
 " degeneracy, she seems, at least, as far as a spec- 
 " tator of her manners can judge, to be too fast ap- 
 u proaching it." 
 
 Somewhat in this manner did Mr. Umphraville ex- 
 press himself. Living retired in the country, con- 
 versing with few arid ignorant of the opinions of th« 
 many ; attached to ideas of family, and not very fond 
 of the mercantile interest ; disposed to give praise to 
 former times, and not to think highly of the present ; 
 in his apprehension of facts he is often mistaken, and 
 
142 THE MIRROR. 
 
 the conclusions he draws from those facts are often 
 erroneous. In the present instance, the view which 
 I have presented of his opinions, may throw further 
 light upon his character ; it gives a striking picture 
 both of the candour of his mind, and of the genero- 
 sity of his sentiments. His opinions, though errone- 
 ous, may be useful ; they may remind those, who, 
 endued, like Colonel Plumb, with good dispositions, 
 are in danger of being seduced by circumstances and 
 situation, that our own interest or ambition is never 
 to be pursued but in consistency with the sacred obli- 
 gations of justice, humanity, and benevolence ; and 
 they may afford a very pleasing source of reflection 
 to others, who, in trying situations, have maintained 
 their virtue and their character untainted. 
 O 
 
 No. XXIX. TUESDAY, MAY 4. 
 
 Conciliat animos comitas affabilitasque sermonis. Ci«, 
 
 POLITENESS, or the external shew of humanity, 
 has been strongly recommended by some, and has 
 been treated with excessive ridicule by others. It 
 has sometimes been represented, very improperly, as 
 constituting the sum of merit : and thus affectation 
 and grimace have been substituted in place of virtue. 
 There are, on the other hand, persons who cover 
 their own rudeness, and justify gross rusticity, by 
 calling their conduct honest bluntness, and by defam- 
 ing complacent manners, as fawning or hypocritical. 
 Shakespeare, in his King Lear, sketches this cha- 
 racter with his usual ability. 
 
THE MIRROR. 143 
 
 This is some fellow 
 Who having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect 
 A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb 
 Quite from his nature. He can't flatter, he, 
 An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth, 
 And they will take it so ; if not, he's plain. 
 
 To extol polished external manners as constituting 
 the whole duty of man, or declaim against them as 
 utterly inconsistent with truth, and the respect we 
 owe to ourselves, are extremes equally to be avoided. 
 Let no one believe that the show of humanity is equal 
 to the reality : nor let any one, from the desire of 
 pleasing, depart from the line of truth, or stoop 
 to mean condescension. But to presume favourably 
 of all men ; to consider them as worthy of our re- 
 gard till we have evidence of the contrary ; to be in- 
 clined to render them services ; and to entertain con- 
 fidence in their inclinations to follow a similar con- 
 duct ; constitute a temper, which every man, for his 
 own peace, and for the peace of society, ought to 
 improve and exhibit. Now, this is the temper essen- 
 tial to polished manners ; and the external show of 
 civilities is a banner held forth, announcing to all men, 
 that we hold them in due respect, and are disposed 
 to oblige them. Besides, it will often occur, that we 
 may have the strongest conviction of worth in another 
 person ; that we may be disposed, from gratitude or 
 esteem, to render him suitable services ; and yet may 
 have no opportunity of testifying, by those actions, 
 which are their genuine expressions, either that con- 
 viction, or that disposition. Hence external courte- 
 sies and civilities are substituted, with great proprie- 
 ty, as signs and representatives of those actions which 
 we are desirous, and have not the power of perform- 
 ing. They are to be held as pledges of our esteem 
 and affection. 
 
 " But the man of courtly manners often puts on a 
 " placid and smiling semblance, while his heart ran- 
 
144 THE MIRROR. 
 
 u kles with malignant passion." — When this is dono 
 with an intention to deceive or ensnare mankind, the 
 conduct is perfidious, and ought to be branded with 
 infamy. In that case, the law of courtesy is " more 
 " honoured in the breach than in the observance." 
 But there may be another situation, when the show 
 of courtesy assumed, while the heart is ill at ease 
 moved by disagreeable unkindly feelings, would be 
 unjustly censured. — From a feeble constitution of 
 body, bad health, or some untoward accident or dis- 
 appointment, you lose your wonted serenity. Influ- 
 enced by your present humour, even to those who 
 have no concern in the accident that hath befallen you, 
 and who would really be inclined to relieve you from 
 your uneasiness, you become reserved and splenetic. 
 You know the impropriety of such a demeanour, and 
 endeavour to beget in your bosom a very different 
 disposition. Your passions, however, are stubborn ; 
 images of wrong and of disappointment have taken 
 strong hold of your fancy ; and your present disa- 
 greeable and painful state of mind cannot easily be re- 
 moved. Meanwhile, however, you disguise the ap- 
 pearance ; you are careful to let no fretful expression 
 be uttered, nor any malignant thought lour in your 
 aspect ; you perform external acts of civility, and as- 
 sume the tones and the language of the most perfect 
 composure. You thus war with your own spirit ; 
 and, by force of commanding the external symp- 
 toms, you will gain a complete victory. You will 
 actually establish in your mind that good humour and 
 humanity, which, a little before, were only yours in 
 appearance. Now, in this discipline, there is nothing 
 criminal. — In this discipline, there is a great deal of 
 merit. It will not only correct and alter our present 
 humours, but may influence our habits and dispo- 
 sitions. 
 
 A contrary practice may be attended, if not with 
 dangerous, at least with disagreeable consequences. 
 
THE MIRROR. 145 
 
 Sir Gregory Blunt was the eldest son of a re- 
 spectable family. His fortune and his ancestry unti- 
 tled him, as he and his friends apprehended, to appear 
 in any shape that he pleased. He owed, and would 
 owe, no man a shilling ; but other men might be in- 
 debted to him. He received from nature, and still 
 possesses, good abilities, and humane dispositions, 
 lie is a man, too, of inflexible honour. Yet Sir Gre- 
 gory has an unbending cast of mind, that cannot ea- 
 sily be fashioned into soft compliance and condescen- 
 sion. He never, even at an early period, had any 
 pretensions to winning ways, or agreeable assiduities. 
 Nor had he any talent for acquiring personal graces 
 and accomplishments. In every thing that confers 
 the easy and engaging air of a gentleman, he was 
 excelled by his companions. Sir Gregory had sense 
 enough to perceive his own incapacity ; vanity enough 
 to be hurt with the preferences shewn to young men 
 less able or honest, but more complaisant than him- 
 self ; and pride enough to cast away all pretensions 
 to that smoothness of demeanour in which he could 
 never excel. Thus, he assumed a bluntness and 
 roughness of manners, better suited to the natural 
 cast of his temper. He would be plain ; he hated 
 all your smiling and fawning attentions ; he would 
 speak what he thought ; he would 'praise no man, 
 even though he thought him deserving, because he 
 scorned to appear a flatterer ; and he would promise 
 no man good offices, not even though he meant to 
 perform them, because he abhorred ostentation. Ac- 
 cordingly, in his address, he is often abrupt, with an 
 approach to rudeness, which, if it does not offend, 
 disconcerts : and he will not return a civility, because 
 he is not in the humour. He thus indulges a pro- 
 pensity which he ought to have corrected ; and, slave 
 to a surly vanity, he thinks he acts upon principle. 
 
 Now, this habit not only renders him disagreeable 
 to persons of polished manners, but may be attended 
 
H6 THE MIRROR. 
 
 with consequences of a more serious nature. Sir 
 Gregory does not perceive, that, while he thinks he 
 is plain, he only affects to be plain ; that he often sti- 
 fles a kindly feeling, for fear of seeming complaisant; 
 that " he constrains the garb quite from his nature ;" 
 and, that he disguises his appearance as much at least 
 by excessive bluntness, as he would by shewing some 
 complaisance. Thus, he is hardly intitled, notwith- 
 standing his pretensions, to the praise even of honest 
 plainness. Besides, his character, in other respects, 
 is so eminent, and his rank so distinguished, that, of 
 course, he has many admirers : and thus all the 
 young men of his neighbourhood are becoming as 
 boisterous and as rough as himself. Even some of 
 his female acquaintance are likely to suffer by the con- 
 tagion of his example. Their desire of pleasing has 
 taken an improper direction ; they seem less studious 
 of those delicate proprieties and observances so es- 
 sential to female excellence ; they also will not ap- 
 pear otherwise than what they are ; and thus they 
 will not only appear, but become a great deal worse. 
 For, as the shew of humanity and good humour may, 
 in some instances, promote a gentle temper, and ren- 
 der us good humoured ; so the affectation and shew 
 of honest plainness may lead us to be plain without 
 honesty, and sincere without good intention. Those 
 who affect timidity may, in time, become cowards ; 
 and those who affect roughness may, in time, grow 
 inhuman. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I HAVE long had a tendre for a young lady, who 
 is very beautiful, but a little capricious. 1 think my- 
 self unfortunate enough not to be in her good graces ; 
 but some of my friends tell me I am a simpleton, and 
 don't understand her. Pray be so kind as to inform 
 
THE MIRROR. 147 
 
 me, Mr. Mirror, what sort of rudeness amounts to 
 encouragement. When a lady calls a man imper- 
 tinent, does she wish him to be somewhat more as- 
 suming ? When she never looks his way, may he 
 reckon himself a favourite ? Or, if she tells every 
 body, that Mr. Such-a-one is her aversion, is Mr. 
 Such-a-one to take it for granted that she is down- 
 right fond of him ? 
 
 Yours, respectfully, 
 
 Modestus. 
 V 
 
 No. XXX. SATURDAY, MAY 8. 
 
 IT has sometimes been a matter of speculation, 
 whether or not there be a sex in the soul ; that there 
 is one in manners, I never heard disputed ; the same 
 applause which we involuntary bestow upon honour, 
 courage, and spirit, in men, we as naturally confer 
 upon chastity, modesty, and gentleness, in women. 
 
 It was formerly one of those national boasts which 
 are always allowable, and sometimes useful, that the 
 ladies of Scotland possessed a purity of conduct, and 
 delicacy of manners, beyond those of most other coun- 
 tries. Free from the bad effects of overgrown for- 
 tunes, and of the dissipated society of an overgrown 
 capital, their beauty was natural, and their minds 
 were uncorrupted. 
 
 Though I am inclined to believe that this is still 
 the case, in general ; yet, from my own observation, 
 and the complaints of several correspondents, I am 
 sorry to be obliged to conclude, that there begins to 
 appear among us a very different style of manners. 
 Perhaps our frequent communication with the metro- 
 polis of our siste'r kingdom is one great cause of this. 
 
 VOL. i. o 
 
148 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Formerly a London journey was attended with some 
 difficulty and danger, and posting thither was an at- 
 chievement as masculine as a fox-chace. Now the 
 goodness of the roads, and the convenience of the 
 vehicles, render it a matter of only a few days mode- 
 rate exercise for a lady ; " Facilis descensus Averni :" 
 cur wives and daughters are carried thither to see 
 the world ; and we are not to wonder if some of them 
 bring back only that knowledge of it which the most 
 ignorant can acquire, and the most forgetful retain. 
 That knowledge is communicated, to a certain circle, 
 on their return : the imitation is as rapid as it is easy ; 
 they emulate the English, who before have copied the 
 French ; the dress, the phrase, and the morale of 
 Paris, is transplanted first to London, and thence to 
 Edinburgh ; and even the sequestered regions of the 
 country are sometimes visited in this northern pro- 
 gress of politeness. 
 
 And here I cannot help observing, that the imita- 
 tion is often so clumsy, as to leave out all the agree- 
 able, and retain all the offensive. In the translation 
 of the manners, as in the translation of the language 
 of our neighbours, we are apt to lose the finesses, the 
 " petits agrements," which (I talk like a man of the 
 world) give zest and value to the whole. 
 
 It will be said, perhaps, that there is often a levity 
 of behaviour without any criminality of conduct ; that 
 the lady who talks always loud, and sometimes free, 
 goes much abroad, or keeps a croud of company at 
 home, rattles in a public place with a circle ol young 
 fellows, or flirts in a corner with a single one ; does 
 all this without the smallest bad intention, merely as 
 she puts on a cap, and sticks it with feathers, because 
 she has seen it done by others whose rank and fashion 
 intitle them to her imitation. Now, granting that 
 most of those ladies have all the purity of heart that 
 is contended for, are there no disagreeable conse- 
 quences, I would ask, from the appearance of evil, 
 
THE MIRROR. 149 
 
 exclusive of its reality ? Decorum is at least the en- 
 sign, if not the outguard of virtue : the want of it, 
 if it does not weaken the garrison, will, at least, em- 
 bolden the assailants ; and a woman's virtue is of so 
 delicate a nature, that, to be impregnable is not 
 enough, without the reputation of being so. 
 
 But, though female virtue, in the singular, means 
 chastity, there are many other endowments, without 
 which a woman's character is reproachable, though 
 it is not infamous. The mild demeanour, the modest 
 deportment, are valued not only as they denote inter- 
 nal purity and innocence, but as forming in them- 
 selves the most amiable and engaging part of the 
 female character. There was, of old, a stiff con- 
 strained manner, which the moderns finding unplea- 
 sant, agreed to explode, and, in the common rage of 
 reformation, substituted the very opposite extreme 
 in its stead ; to banish preciseness, they called in 
 levity, and ceremony gave way to something like 
 rudeness. But fashion may alter the form, not the 
 essence of things ; and, though we may lend our 
 laugh, or even our applause, to the woman whose 
 figure and conversation comes flying out upon us in 
 this fashionable forwardness of manner ; yet, I be- 
 lieve, there is scarce a votary of the mode who would 
 Wish his sister, his wife, or even his mistress, (I use 
 the word in its modest sense,) to possess it. 
 
 I have hitherto pointed my observations chiefly at 
 the appearance of our ladies to the world, which, 
 besides its being more immediately the object of pub- 
 lic censorship, a variety of strictures lately sent me 
 by my correspondents naturally led me to consider. 
 I am afraid, however, the same innovation begins to 
 appear in our domestic, as in our public life, that 
 the case of my friend Mr. Homespun, is far from 
 being singular. Some of those whose rank and sta- 
 tion are such as to enforce example, and regulate 
 opinion, think it an honourable distinction to be able 
 
15© THE MIRROR. 
 
 to lead, from the sober track which the maxims of 
 their mothers and grandmothers had marked out for 
 them, such young ladies as chance, relationship, or 
 neighbourhood, has placed within the reach of their 
 influence. The state of diffidence and dependence, 
 in which a young woman used to find herself happy 
 under the protection of her parents or guardians, they 
 teach their pupils to consider as incompatible with 
 sense or spirit. With them obedience and subordi- 
 nation are terms of contempt ; even the natural re- 
 straints of time are disregarded ; childhood is imma- 
 turely forced into youth, and youth assumes the con- 
 fidence and self-government of age ; domestic duties 
 are held to be slavish, and domestic enjoyments in- 
 sipid. 
 
 There is an appearance of brilliancy in the plea- 
 sures of high life and fashion, which naturally daz- 
 zles and seduces the young and inexperienced. But, 
 let them not believe that the scale of fortune is the 
 standard of happiness, or the whirl of pleasure which 
 their patronesses describe productive of the satisfac- 
 tion which they affect to enjoy in it. Could they trace 
 its course through a month, a week, or a day, of 
 that life which they enjoy, they will find it commonly 
 expire in langour, or end in disappointment. They 
 would see the daughters of fashion in a state the most 
 painful of any, obliged to cover hatred with the smile 
 of friendship, and anguish with the appearance of 
 gaiety ; they would see the mistress of the feast, or 
 the directress of the rout, at the table, or in the 
 drawing-room, in the very scene of her pride, torn 
 
 with those jarring passions which but I will not 
 
 talk like a moralist which make duchesses mean, 
 
 and the finest women in the world ugly. I do them 
 no injustice ; for I state this at the time of possession ; 
 its value in reflection I forbear to estimate. 
 
 If I dared to contrast this with a picture of do- 
 mestic pleasure : were I to exhibit a family virtuous 
 
THE MIRROR. 1 5 1 
 
 and happy, where affection takes place of duty, and 
 obedience is enjoyed, not exacted ; where the happi- 
 ness of every individual is reflected upon the society, 
 and a certain tender solicitude about each other, gives 
 a more delicate sense of pleasure than any enjoyment 
 merely selfish can produce ; could I paint them in 
 their little circles of business or of amusement, of 
 sentiment, or of gaiety, — I am persuaded the scene 
 would be too venerable for the most irreverent to de- 
 ride, and its happiness too apparent for the most dis- 
 sipated to deny. Yet to be the child or mother of 
 such a family, is often foregone for the miserable 
 vanity of aping some woman, weak as she is worth- 
 less, despised in the midst of flattery, and wretched 
 in the very centre of dissipation. 
 
 I have limited this remonstrance to motives merely 
 temporal, because I am informed, some of our high- 
 bred females deny the reality of any other. This 
 refinement of infidelity is one of those new acquire- 
 ments which, till of late, were altogether unknown 
 to the ladies of this country, and which I hope very, 
 very few of them are yet possessed of. I mean not 
 to dispute the solidity of their system, as I am per- 
 suaded they have studied the subject deeply, and un- 
 der very able and learned masters. 1 would only 
 take the liberty of hinting the purpose for which, I 
 have been told, by some fashionable men, such doc- 
 trines have frequently been taught. It seems, it is 
 understood by the younger class of our philosophers, 
 that a woman never thinks herself quite alone, till 
 she has put God out of the way, as well as her hus- 
 band. 
 
 V 
 
 • s 
 
152 THE MIRROR. 
 
 No. XXXI. TUESDAY, MAY 11. 
 
 Fcrtemque Gyan, fortemque Cleanthura. Viug. 
 
 THERE is hardly any species of writing more 
 difficult than that of drawing characters ; and hence 
 it is that so few authors have excelled in it. Among 
 those writers who have confined themselves merely 
 to this sort of composition, Theophrastus holds the 
 first place among the ancients, and La Bruyer among 
 the moderns. But, beside those who have profes- 
 sedly confined themselves to the delineation of cha- 
 racter, every historian who relates events, and who 
 describes the disposition and qualities of the persons 
 engaged in them, is to be considered as a writer of 
 characters. 
 
 There are two methods by which a character may 
 be delineated, and different authors have, more or 
 less, adopted the one or the other. A character may 
 either be given by describing the internal feelings of 
 the mind, and by relating the qualities with which 
 the person is endowed ; or, without mentioning in 
 general the internal qualities which he possesses, an 
 account may be given of his external conduct, of his 
 behaviour on this or that occasion, and how he was 
 affected by this or that event. 
 
 An author who draws characters in the first man- 
 ner, employs those words that denote the general 
 qualities of the mind ; and by means of these he 
 gives a description and view of the character. He 
 passes over the particular circumstances of behaviour 
 and conduct which lead to the general conclusion 
 with regard to the character, and gives the conclu- 
 sion itself. 
 
 But an author who draws characters in the other 
 manner above alluded to, instead of giving the gene- 
 ral conclusion deduced from the observation of parti- 
 
THE MIRROR. 155 
 
 cular circumstances of conduct, gives a view of the 
 particulars themselves, and of the external conduct 
 of the person whose character he wishes to repre- 
 sent, leaving his readers to form their own conclu- 
 sion from that view which he has given. Of the two 
 authors I have mentioned, each excels in one of those 
 opposite manners. In every instance I can recollect, 
 excepting the extravagant picture of the absent man, 
 La Bruyer lays before his readers the internal feel 
 ings of the character he wishes to represent ; while 
 Theophrastus gives the action which the internal feel- 
 ings produce. 
 
 Of these different modes of delineating characters, 
 each has its peculiar advantages. The best method 
 of giving a full and comprehensive view of the dif- 
 ferent parts of a character, may be by a general enu- 
 meration of the qualities of mind with which the 
 person is endowed. At the same time, however, it 
 is, perhaps, impossible, to mark the nice and delicate 
 shades of character, without bringing the image 
 more fully before the eye, and placing the person in 
 that situation which calls him forth into action. 
 
 In these two different manners, there are faults into 
 which authors, following the one or the other, are apt 
 to fall, and which they should studiously endeavour 
 to avoid. An author who gives the internal qualities 
 of the character, should guard against being too ge- 
 neral : he who gives views of the conduct, and re- 
 presents the actions themselves, should avoid being 
 too particular. When the internal qualities of the 
 mind are described^ they may be expressed in such 
 vague and general terms, as to lay before the reader 
 no marked distinguishing feature ; when, again, in 
 the views which are given of the conduct, the detail 
 is too particular, the author is apt to tire by becoming 
 tedious, or to disgust by being trifling or familiar, or 
 by approaching to vulgarity. Some of our most ce- 
 lebrated historians have committed errors of the first 
 
154 THE MIRROR. 
 
 f 
 
 sort ; when, at the end of a reign, or at the exit o 
 a hero, they draw the character of the ldug, or great 
 man, and tell their readers, that the person they are 
 taking leave of was brave, generous, just, humane ; 
 or the tyrant they have been declaiming against, was 
 cruel, haughty, jealous, deceitful; these general qua- 
 lities are so little distinguishing, that they may be 
 applied, almost, to any very good, or very bad man, 
 in the history. When, on the other hand, an author, 
 in order to give a particular view of the person of 
 whom he writes, tells his readers, what such person 
 did before, and what after dinner ; what before, and 
 what after he slept; if his vivacity prevent him from 
 appearing tedious, he will at least be in danger of 
 displeasing by the appearance of vulgarity or affec- 
 tation. 
 
 It may be proper here to observe, that, in making 
 a right choice of the different manners in which a 
 character may be -drawn, much depends upon the 
 subject, or design of the author ; one method may 
 be more suited to one kind of composition than to 
 another. Thus the author who confines himself 
 merely to drawing characters, the historian who 
 draws a character arising only from, or illustrating 
 the events he records, or the novelist who delineates 
 characters by feigned circumstances and situations, 
 have each their several objects, and different manners 
 may be properly adopted by each of them. Writers, 
 such as Theophrastus and La Bruyer, take for their 
 object a character governed by some one pass-on, 
 absorbing all others, and influencing the man in every 
 thing ; the miser, the epicure, the drunkard, &c. 
 The business of the historian is more difficult and 
 more extensive ; he takes the complicated charac- 
 ters in real life ; he must give a view of every dis- 
 tinguishing characteristic of the personage, the good 
 and the bad, the fierce and the gentle, all the strange 
 diversities which life presents. 
 
THE MIRROR. 155 
 
 Novel writers ought, like the professed writers of 
 character, to have it generally in view to illustrate 
 some one distinguishing feature or passion of the 
 mind ; but then they have it in their power, by the 
 assistance of story, and by inventing circumstances 
 and situation, to exhibit its leading features in every 
 possible point of view. The great error, indeed, into 
 which novel writers commonly fall is, that they at- 
 tend more to the story and to the circumstances they 
 relate, than to giving new and just views of the cha- 
 racter of the person they present. Their general 
 method is to affix names to certain personages, whom 
 they introduce to their readers, whom they lead 
 through dangers and distresses, or exhibit in circum- 
 stances of ridicule, without having it in view to illus- 
 trate any one predominant or leading principle of the 
 human heart ; without making their readers one bit 
 better acquainted with the characteristic features of 
 those persons at the end of the story than at the be- 
 ginning. Hence there are so few novels which give 
 lasting pleasure, or can bear to be perused oftener 
 than once. From tke surprize or interest occasioned 
 by the novelty of the events, they may carry their 
 readers once through them ; but, as they do not il- 
 lustrate any of the principles of the mind, or give 
 any interesting views of character, they raise no de- 
 sire for a second perusal, and ever after lie neglected 
 on the shelf. 
 
 How very different from these are the novels, which, 
 in place of reiving upon the mere force of incident, 
 bring the characters of their personages fully before 
 us, paint all their shades and attitudes, and, by mak- 
 ing us, as it were, intimately acquainted with them, 
 deeply engage our hearts in every circumstance which 
 can affect them ? This happy talent of delineating 
 with truth and delicacy all the features and nice tints 
 of human character, never fails to delight, and will 
 often atone for many defects. It is this which ren- 
 
156 THE MIRROR. 
 
 ders Richardson so interesting, in spite of his im- 
 measurable tediousness : it is this which will render 
 Fielding ever delightful, notwithstanding the indeli- 
 cate coarseness with which he too often offends us. 
 
 No. XXXII. SATURDAY, MAY 15. 
 
 HAPPINESS has been compared, by one of my 
 predecessors, to a game ; and he has prescribed cer- 
 tain rules to be followed by the players. These, in- 
 deed, are more necessary than one might suppose at 
 first sight ; this game, like most others, being as often 
 lost by bad play, as by ill-luck. The circumstances I 
 am placed in, some of which I communicated to my 
 readers in my introductory paper, make me often a 
 sort of looker-on at this game ; and, like all lookers- 
 on, I think I discover blunders in the play of my 
 neighbours, who frequently lose the advantages their 
 fortune lays open to them. 
 
 To chase the allusion a little farther, it is seldom 
 that opportunities occur of brilliant strokes or deep 
 calculation. With most of us, the ordinary little 
 stake is all that is played for ; and he who goes on 
 observing the common rules of the game, and keep- 
 ing his temper in the reverses of it, will find himself 
 a gainer at last. In plainer language, happiness, 
 with the bulk of men, may be said to consist in the 
 power of enjoying the ordinary pleasures of life, and 
 in not being too easily hurt by the little disquietudes 
 of it. There is a certain fineness of soul, and deli- 
 cacy of sentiment, with which few situations accord, 
 to which many seeming harmless ones give the great- 
 est uneasiness. The art, " desipere in loco," (by 
 which I understand being able not only to trifle, upon 
 occasion, ourselves, but also to bear the foolery of 
 
THE MIRROR. 157 
 
 others) is a qualification extremely useful for smooth- 
 ing a man's way through the world. 
 
 I have been led into this train of thinking, by some 
 circumstances in a visit I had lately the pleasure of 
 receiving from my friend Mr. Umphraville, with 
 whom I made my readers acquaint d in some former 
 numbers. A particular piece of business occurred, 
 which made it expedient for him to coma to town ; 
 and though he was, at first extremely averse from the 
 journey, having never liked great towns, and now 
 relishing them less than ever, yet the remonstrances 
 of his man of business, aided by very urgent requests 
 from me, at length overcame him. He set out, there- 
 fore, attended by his old family servant John, whom 
 I had not failed to remember in my invitation to his 
 muster. 
 
 At the first stage on the road, John told me, his 
 master looked sad, eat little, and spoke less. Though 
 the landlord ushered in dinner in person, and gave 
 his guest a very minute description of his manner of 
 feeding his mutton, Mr. Umphraville remained a 
 hearer only, and shewed no inclination to have him 
 sit down and partake of his own dishes ; and, though 
 he desired him, indeed, to taste the wine, of which 
 he brought in a bottle after dinner, he told him, at 
 the same time, to let the ostler know he should want 
 his horses as soon as possible. The landlord left 
 the room, and told John, who was eating his dinner, 
 somewhat more deliberately, in the kitchen, that his 
 master seemed a melancholy kind of a gentleman, 
 not half so good-humoured as his neighbour Mr. 
 Jolly. 
 
 John, who is interested both in the happiness and 
 honour of his master, endeavoured to mend matters 
 in the evening, by introducing the hostess very 
 particularly to Mr. Umphraville ; and, indeed, ven- 
 turing to invite her to sup with him. Umphra- 
 ville was too shy, or too civil, to decline the lady's 
 
158 THE MIRROR. 
 
 company, and John valued himself on having pro 
 cured him so agreeable a companion His mas- 
 ter complained to me since he came to town, of the 
 oppression of this landlady's company ; and declared 
 his resolution of not stopping at the George on his 
 way home. 
 
 The morning after his arrival at my house, while 
 we were sitting together, talking of old stories, and 
 old friends, with all the finer feelings about us, John 
 entered, with a look of much satisfaction, announ- 
 cing the name of Mr. Bearskin. This gentleman is 
 a first cousin of Umphraville's, who resides in town, 
 and whom he had not seen these six years. He 
 was bred a mercer, but afterwards extended his deal- 
 ings with his capital, and has been concerned in se- 
 veral great mercantile transactions. While Umphra- 
 ville, with all his genius, and all his accomplishments, 
 was barely preserving his estate from ruin at home, 
 this man, by dint of industry and application, and 
 partly from the want of genius and accomplishments, 
 has amassed a fortune greater than the richest of his 
 cousin's ancestors was ever possessed of. He holds 
 Umphraville in some respect, however, as the repre- 
 sentative of his mother's family, from which he de- 
 rives all his gentility, his father having sprung no- 
 body knows whence, and lived nobody knows how, 
 till he appeared behind the counter of a woollen dra- 
 per, to whose shop and business he succeeded. 
 
 My friend, though he could have excused his visit 
 at this time, received him with politeness. He intro- 
 duced him to me as his near relation : on which the 
 other, who mixes the flippant civility of his former 
 profession with somewhat of the monied confidence 
 of his present one, made me a handsome compli- 
 ment, and congratulated Mr. Umphraville on the 
 possession of such a friend. He concluded, however, 
 with a distant insinuation of his house's being a more 
 natural home for his cousin when in town than that 
 
THE MIRROR. I5t 
 
 ef any other person. This led to a description of 
 that house, its rooms and and its furniture, in which 
 he made no inconsiderable eulogium on his own taste, 
 the taste of his wife, and the taste of the times. 
 Umphraville blushed, bit his lips, complained of the 
 heat of the room, changed his seat, in short suffered 
 torture all the way from the cellar to the garret. 
 
 Mr. Bearskin closed this description of his house 
 with an expression of his and his wife's earnest de- 
 sire to see their cousin there. Umphraville declared 
 his intention of calling to enquire after Mi's. Bear- 
 skin and the young folks, mentioning, at the same 
 time, the shortness of his proposed stay in town, and 
 the hurry his business would necessarily keep him in 
 while he remained. But this declaration by no 
 means satisfied his kinsman ; he insisted on his 
 spending a day with them so warmly, that the other 
 was at last overcome, and the third day after was 
 fixed on for that purpose, which Mr. Bearskin in- 
 formed us would be the more agreeable to all parties, 
 ^as he should then have an opportunity of introducing 
 us to his 1 oncion correspondent, a man of great for- 
 tune, who had just arrived here on a jaunt to see the 
 country, and had promised him the favour of eating 
 a bit of mutton with him on that day. I would have 
 excused myself from being of the party ; but not 
 having, any more than Umphraville, a talent at refu- 
 sal, was like him, overpowered by the solicitations of 
 his cousin. 
 
 The history of that dinner I may possibly give my 
 reader- hereafter, in a separate paper, a dinner, now- 
 a-day : being a matter, of consequence, and not to be 
 mana ; in an episode. The time between was de- 
 voted V. Umphraville to business, in which he 
 was pi . nmonly to ask my advice, and to com- 
 muuicate -inions. The last I found generally 
 unfavourable of men and things; my friend 
 carries the " pris :a fides" too much about with hint 
 
 vol. i, p 
 
160 THE MIRROR. 
 
 to be perfectly pleased in his dealings with people of 
 business. When we returned home in the evening, 
 he seemed to feel a relief in having got out of the 
 reach of the world, and muttered expressions, not to 
 mention the inflexions of his countenance, which, if 
 fairly set down on paper, would almost amount to 
 calling his banker a Jew, his lawyer not a gentleman, 
 and his agent a pettifogger. He was, however, very 
 ready to clap up a truce with his ideas when in com- 
 pany with these several personages ; and though he 
 thought he saw them taking advantages, of which I am 
 persuaded they were perfectly innocent, he was con- 
 tented to turn his face another way and pass on. A 
 man of Umphraville's disposition, is willing to suf- 
 ter all the penalties of silliness, but that of being 
 thought silly. 
 
 No. XXXIII. TUESDAY, MAY 18. 
 
 AMONG the many advantages arising from cul- 
 tivated sentiment, one of the first and most truly va- 
 luable, is that delicate complacency of mind which 
 leads us to consult the feelings of those with whom 
 we live, by shewing a disposition to gratify them as 
 far as in our power, and by avoiding whatever has a 
 contrary tendency. 
 
 They must, indeed, have attended little to what 
 passes in the world, who, do not know the importance 
 of this disposition ; who havenpt observed, that the 
 want of it often poisons the domestic happiness of fa- 
 milies, whose felicity every other circumstance con- 
 curs to promote. 
 
 Among the letters lately received from my correspon- 
 dents, are two, which, as they afford a lively picture 
 
THE MIRROR. 161 
 
 of the bad consequences resulting from the neglect 
 of this complacency, I shall here lay before my 
 readers. The first is from a lady, who writes as fal- 
 lows : 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror, 
 
 Sir, 
 
 MY father was a merchant of some eminence, 
 who gave me a good education, and a fortune of seve- 
 ral thousand pounds. With these advantages, a to- 
 lerable person, and I think not an unamiable temper, 
 I was not long arrived at womanhood before I found 
 myself possessed of many admirers. Among others 
 was Mr. Gold, a gentleman of a very respectable 
 character, who had some connections in trade with 
 my father ; to him, being a young man of a good 
 figure, and of very open and obliging manners, I soon 
 gave the preference, and we were accordingly mar- 
 ried with the universal approbation of my friends. 
 
 We have now lived together above three years, 
 and I have brought him two boys and a girl, all very- 
 fine child? en. I go little abroad, attend to nothing 
 so much as the economy of our family, am as oblig- 
 ing as possible to all my husband's friendn, and study 
 in every particular to be a kind and dutiful wife. Mr. 
 Gold's reputation and success in business daily in- 
 creases, and he is, in the main, a kind and attentive 
 husband ; yet I find him so particular in his temper, 
 and so often out of humour about trifles, that, in spite 
 of all those comfortable circumstances, I am perfect- 
 ly unhappy. 
 
 At one time he finds fault with the dishes at table ; 
 at another with the choice of my maid servants ; 
 sometimes he is displeased with the trimming of my 
 gown, sometimes with the shape of my cloak, or the 
 figure of my head dress ; and should I chance to 
 give an opinion on any subject which is not perfectly 
 
16t THE MIBRCX. 
 
 to his mind, he probably looks out of humour at the 
 time, and is sure to chide me about it when we are 
 by ourselves. 
 
 It is of no consequence whether I have been right 
 or wrong in any of those particulars. If I say a 
 word in defence of my choice or opinion, it is sure 
 to make matters worse, and I am only called a fool 
 for my pains ; or, if I express my wonder that he 
 should give himself uneasiness about such trifles, he 
 answers, sullenly, that, to be sure, every thing is a 
 trifle in which I chuse to disoblige him. 
 
 It was but the other day, as we were just going 
 cut to .dine at a friend's house, he told me my gown 
 ;was extremely ugly. I answered, his observation 
 surprised me, for k was garnet, and I had taken it 
 off on hearing him say he wondered I never chose 
 one of that colour. Upon this he flew in a passion, 
 said it was very odd I should charge my bad taste 
 upon him ; he never made any such observation, for 
 the colour was his aversion. The dispute at last 
 grew so warm, that I threw myself down on a settee, 
 unable to continue it, while he flung out of the room, 
 ordered away the coach from the door, and wrote 
 an apology to his friend for our not waiting upon 
 him. 
 
 We dined in cur different apartments; and though, 
 I believe, we were equally sorry for what had passed, 
 and Mr. Gold, when we met at supper, asked my 
 pardon for having contradicted me so roughly ; yet 
 we had not sat half an hour together, when he told 
 me, that, after all, I was certainly mistaken, in say- 
 ing he had recommended a garnet colour ; and when 
 I very coolly assured him I was not, he renewed the 
 dispute with as much keenness as ever. We parted 
 in the same bad humour we had done before 
 dinner, and I have hardly had a pleasant look frcm 
 him since. 
 
THE MIRROR. 163 
 
 In a word, Mr. Gold will allow me to have no mind 
 but his ; and, unless I can see with his eyes, hear 
 with his ears, and taste with his palate, (none of which 
 I can very easily bring myself to do, as you must 
 know all of them are somewhat particular) I see no 
 prospect of our situation changing for the better ; 
 and what makes our present one doubly provoking, 
 is, that, but for this unfortunate weakness, Mr. Gold, 
 who is, in other respects, a very worthy man, would 
 make one of the best of husbands. 
 
 Pray tell me, Sir, what I should do in this situa- 
 tion, or take your own way of letting my husband see 
 his weakness, the reformation of which would be the 
 greatest of all earthly blessings to 
 Yours, Sec. 
 
 Susannah Gold. 
 
 I was thinking how I should answer this letter, or 
 in what way I could be useful to my correspondent, 
 when I received the followiag, the insertion of which 
 is, I believe, the best reply I can make to it. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, i 
 
 I WAS bred a merchant ; by my success in trade 
 I am now in affluent circumstances, and have reason 
 to think that I am so with an unblemished character. 
 
 Some years ago, I married the daughter of a re- 
 spectable citizen, who brought a comfortable addition 
 to my fortune ; and, as she had been virtuously edu- 
 cated, and seemed cheerful and good tempered, as I 
 was my self naturally of a domestic turn, and resolved 
 to make a good husband, I thought we bade fair for 
 being happy in each other. 
 
 But, though I must do my spouse the justice to 
 say, that she is discreet and prudent, attentive to the 
 affairs of her family, a careful and fond mother to 
 p 2 
 
I£4 THI MIRROR. 
 
 her children, and, in many respects, an affectionate 
 and dutiful wife ; yet one foible in her temper de- 
 stroys the effect of all these good qualities. She is 
 so much attached to her own opinion in every trifle, 
 so impatient of contradiction in them, and with all so 
 ready to dispute mine, that, if I disapprove of her 
 taste or sentiments in any one particular, or seem 
 dissatisfied when she disapproves of my taste or sen- 
 timents, it is the certain source of a quarrel ; and 
 while we perfectly agree as to our general plan of 
 life, and every essential circumstance of our domes- 
 tic economy, this silly fancy, that I must eat, dress, 
 think, and speak, precisely as she would have me, 
 while she will not accommodate herself to me in the 
 most trifling of these particulars, give me perpetual 
 uneasiness ; and, with almost every thing I could 
 wish, a genteel income, a good reputation, a fine fa- 
 mily, and a virtuous wife, whom I sincerely esteem, 
 I have the mortification to find myself absolutely 
 unhappy. 
 
 I am sure this foible of my poor wife's will appear 
 to you, MK Mirror, in its proper light ; your making 
 it appear so to her, may be the means of alleviating 
 our mutual distress ; for, to tell you the truth, I be- 
 lieve, she is almost as great a sufferer as I am. I 
 hope you will gratify me in this desire ; by doing 
 so you may be of general service, and will particu- 
 larly oblige 
 
 Your constant reader, and 
 Obedient humble servant, 
 
 Nathaniel Gold. 
 
 On comparing these two letters, it is evident, that, 
 from the want of that complacency mentioned in the 
 beginning of this paper, the very sensibility of tem- 
 per, and strength of affection, which, under its influ- 
 ence, would have made this good couple happy, has 
 >ad a- quite contrary effect. The source of the dia- 
 
THE MIRROR. 165* 
 
 quiet they complain of, is nothing else than the want 
 of that respect for taste, feelings, and opinions of 
 each other, which constitutes the disposition I have 
 recommended above, and which, so far from being 
 inconsistent with a reasonable desire of reforming 
 each other in these particulars, is the most probable 
 means of accomplishing it. 
 
 Nor is the case of Mr. and Mrs. Gold singular in 
 this respect. By much the greatest part of domestic 
 quarrels originate from the want of this pliancy of 
 disposition, which people seem, very absurdly, to sup- 
 pose may be disoensed with in trifles. 1 have known 
 a man who would have parted with half his estate to 
 serve a friend, to whom he would not have yielded a 
 hair's breadth in an argument. But the lesser vir- 
 tues must be attended to as well was the greater ; 
 the manners as well as the duties of life. They form 
 a sort of Pocket Coin, which, though it does not enter 
 into great and important transactions, is absolutely 
 necessary for common and ordinary intercourse. 
 
 No. XXX IV. SATURDAY, MAY 22. 
 
 IN compliance with a promise I made my readers 
 at the close of last Saturday's paper, (at least it was 
 that sort of promise which a man keeps when the 
 thing suits his inclination,) I proceed to give them 
 an account of that dinner to which my friend Mr. 
 Umphraville and I were invited by his cousin Mr. 
 Bearskin. 
 
 On our way to the house, I perceived certain symp- 
 toms of dissatisfaction, which my friend could not 
 help bringing forth, though he durst not impute them 
 
166" THE MIRROR. 
 
 to the right cause, as I have heard of men beating 
 their wives at home, to revenge themselves for the 
 crosses they have met with abroad. He complained 
 of the moistness of the weather, and the dirtiness, of 
 the street ; was quite fatigued with the length of the 
 way, (Mr. Bearskin's house being fashionably eccen- 
 tric,) and almost cursed the taylor for the tightness 
 of a suit of cloaths, which he had bespoke on his 
 arrival in town, and had now put on for the first time. 
 His chagrin, I believe, was increased by his having 
 just learned from his lawyer, that the business he 
 came to town about, could not be finished at the time 
 he expected, but would probably last a week longer. 
 
 When we entered Mr. Bearskin's drawing-room, 
 we found his wife sitting with her three daughters 
 ready to receive us. It was easy to see, by the air of 
 the lady, that she v?as perfectly mistress of the house, 
 and that her husband was only a secondary person 
 there. He seemed, however, contented with his si- 
 tuation, and an admirer of his wife ; a sort of lap-dog 
 husband (of whom I have seen many) who looks 
 sleek, runs about briskly, and though he now and 
 then gets a kick from his mistress, is as ready to play 
 over his tricks again as ever. 
 
 Mr. Bearskin, after many expressions of his hap- 
 piness in seeing his cousin in his new house, proposed 
 walking us down stairs again, to begin shewing it 
 from the ground-story upwards. Umphraville, though 
 I saw him sweating at the idea, was ready to follow 
 his conductor, when we were saved by the interpo- 
 sition of the lady, who uttered a " Psha 1 Mr. Bear- 
 " skin," with so significant a look, that her husband 
 instantly dropped his design, saying, " to be sure 
 " there was not much worth seeing, though he could 
 " have wished to have shewn his cousin his study, 
 " which he thought was tolerably clever." " I 
 " thought, Papa," said the eldest of the Misses, " it 
 " was not quite in order yet." — * Why, not altege- 
 
THE MIRROR. 167 
 
 * ther," replied her father ; " I have not been able 
 *' to get up my heads, as Pope has lost an ear, and 
 
 * Homer the left side of his beard, by the careless- 
 
 * ness of a packer ; and I want about three feet ar.d 
 u a half of folios for my lowest shelf." — " I don't 
 ** care if there was not a folio in the world," rejoined 
 Miss. " Child 1" said her mother, in a tone of re- 
 buke. — Miss bridled up, and was silent ; — I smiled ; 
 Umphraville walked to th« window, and wiped his 
 forehead. 
 
 Bearskin now pulled out his watch, and telling the 
 hour, said, he wondered his friend Mr. Blubber was 
 not come, as he was generally punctual to a minute* 
 While he spoke, a loud rap at the door announced 
 the expected company ; and presently Mr. Blubber, 
 his wife, a son, and two daughters, entered the room. 
 The first had on an old-fashioned pompadour coat, 
 with gold buttons, and very voluminous sleeves, his 
 head adorned by a large major wig, with curls as 
 white and as stiff as if they had been cast in plaster 
 of Paris; but the females, and heir of the family, 
 were dressed in the very height of the mode. Bear- 
 skin introduced the old gentleman to his cousin Mr. 
 
 Umphraville : " Mr. Blubber, Sir, a very particu- 
 
 u lar friend of mine, and (turning to me with a whi&- 
 " per) worth fourscore thousand pounds, if he's worth 
 " a farthing." Blubber said, he feared they had kept 
 us waiting ; but that his wife and daughters had got 
 under the hands of the hair-dresser, and he verily 
 thought would never have had done with him. The 
 lidies were too busy to reply to this accusation ; they 
 had got into a committee of enquiry on Mr. Edward 
 Blubber's waistcoat, which had been tamboured, it 
 seems, by his sisters, and was universally declared 
 to be monstrous handsome. The young man himself 
 seemed to be highly delighted with the reflection of 
 it in a mirror that stood opposite to him. " Isn't it 
 «' vastly pretty, Sir," said one of the young ladies 
 
168 THE MIRROR. 
 
 to Umphraville? M Ma'am," said he, starting from 
 a reverie, in which I saw, by his countenance, he 
 was meditating on the young gentleman and his waist- 
 coat in no very favourable manner. I read her 
 countenance, too: she thought Umphraville just the 
 fool he did her brother. 
 
 Dinner was now announced, and the company, af- 
 ter some ceremonial, got into their places at table, 
 in the centre of which stood a sumptuous epargne, 
 filled, as Bearskin informed us, with the produce of 
 his farm. This joke, which, I suppose, was as re- 
 gular as the grace before dinner, was explained to the 
 ignorant to mean, that the sweet-meats came from 
 a plantation in one of the West-India islands, in which 
 he had a concern. The epargne itself now produced 
 another dissertation from the ladies, and, like the 
 waistcoat, was also pronounced monstrous handsome. 
 Blubber, taking his eye half off a plate of salmon, 
 to which he had just been helped, observed, that it 
 would come to a handsome price too: — " sixty ounces, 
 " I'll warrant it," said he, " but, as the plate-tax is 
 M now repealed, it will cost but the interest a-keep- 
 « ing." — » La ! Papa," said Miss Blubber, " you 
 " are always thinking of the money things cost." — 
 " Yes," added her brother, " Tables of interest are 
 " an excellent accompaniment for a desert." — At this 
 speech all the ladies laughed very loud. Blubber 
 said, he was an impudent dog, but seemed to relish 
 his son's wit notwithstanding. Umphraville locked 
 sternly at him ; and, had not a glance of his waist- 
 coat set him down as something beneath a man's an- 
 ger, I do not know what consequences might have 
 followed. During the rest of the entertainment, I 
 could see the fumes of fool and coxcomb on every 
 morsel that Umphraville swallowed, though Mrs. 
 Bearskin, next whom he sat, was at great pains, to 
 help him to the nice bits of every thiog within her 
 reach. 
 
THE MIRROR. I 69 
 
 When dinner was over, Mr. Blubber mentioned his 
 design of making a tour through the Highlands, to 
 visit Stirling, Taymouth, and Dunkeld ; and applying 
 to our landlord for some description of these places, 
 was by him referred to Mr. Umphraville and me. 
 Mr. Umphraville was not in a communicative mood ; 
 so I was obliged to assure Mr. Blubber, who talked 
 with much uncertainty and apprehension of these 
 matters, that he would find beds and bed-cloaths, 
 meat for himself, and corn for his horses, at the se- 
 veral places above mentioned ; that he had no dan- 
 gerous seas to cross in getting at them ; and that 
 there were no highwaymen upon the road. 
 
 After this there was a considerable interval of si- 
 lence, and we were in danger of getting once more 
 upon Mr. Edwards's fine waistcoat, when Mr. Bear- 
 skin, informing the company, that his cousin was a 
 great lover of music, called on his daughter, Miss 
 Polly, for a song, with which, after some of the usual 
 apologies, she complied ; and, in compliment to Mr. 
 Umphraville's taste, who she was sure must like 
 Italian music, she sung, or rather squalled a song of 
 Sachini's, in which there was scarce one bar in time 
 from beginning to end. Miss Blubber said, in her 
 usual phraseology, that it was a monstrous sweet 
 air — Her brother swore it was divinely sung. — Um- 
 phraville gulped down a falsehood with a very bad 
 grace, and said, Miss would be a good singer with a 
 little more practice.... Acompliment which was not more 
 distant from truth on one side, than from Miss's ex- 
 pectations on the other, and I could plainly perceive, 
 did not set him fonvard in the favour of the family. 
 
 " My father is a judge of singing too," said Mr. 
 Edward Blubber ; " what is your opinion of the song, 
 " Sir ?" — " My opinion is," said he, " that your 
 " Italianos always set me asleep ; English ears 
 " should have English songs, I think." — " Then sup- 
 " pose one of the ladies should give us an English 
 
170 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " song," said I. " 'Tis a good motion," said Mr. 
 Bearskin, " I second it ; Miss Betsy Blubber sings 
 " an excellent English song." — Miss Betsy denied 
 stoutly that she ever sung at all ; but evidence being 
 produced against her, she, at last, said she would try if 
 she could make out, " The Maid's Choice." M Ay, 
 " ay, Betsy," said her father, " a very good song ; 
 ** I have heard it before." 
 
 -" If I could but find, 
 
 I care not for fortune — Umh! — a man to my mind." 
 
 Miss Betsy began the song accordingly, and to make 
 up for her want of voice, accompanied it with a great 
 deal of action. Either from the accident of his being 
 placed opposite to her, or from a sly application to 
 his state as an old bachelor, she chose to personify 
 the maid's choice in the figure of Umphraville, and 
 pointed the description of the song particularly at 
 him. Umphraville, with all his dignity, his abilities, 
 and his knowledge, felt himself uneasy and ridicu- 
 lous under the silly allusion of a ballad ; he blushed, 
 attempted to laugh, blushed again, and still looked 
 with that awkward importance which only the more 
 attracted the ridicule of the fools around him. Not 
 long after the ladies retired ; and no persuasion of 
 his cousin could induce him to s>tay the evening, or 
 even to enter the drawing-room where they were 
 assembled at tea. 
 
 " Thank Heaven !" said Umphraville, when the 
 door was shut, and we had got fairly into the street. 
 " Amen!" I replied, smiling, " for our good dinner 
 
 " and excellent wine!" "How the devil, Charles," 
 
 said he, " do you contrive to bear all this nonsense 
 " with the composure you do?" — u Why, I have 
 " often told ycu, my friend, that our earth is not a 
 " planet fitted up only for the reception of wise men. 
 " Your Blubbers and Bearskins are necessary parts 
 
THE MIRROR. 171 
 
 " of the system ; they deserve the enjoyments they 
 are capable of feeling; — and I am not sure if he who 
 suffers from his own superiority does not deserve his 
 sufferings." 
 I 
 
 No. XXXV. TUESDAY, MAY 25. 
 
 To the Anther of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, 
 TILL I arrived at the age of twenty, my time was 
 divided between my books, and the society of a few 
 friends, whom a similarity of pursuits and disposi- 
 tions recommended to me. About that period, find- 
 ing that the habits of reserve and retirement had ac- 
 quired a power over me, which my situation, as heir 
 to a considerable fortune, would render inconvenient, 
 I was prevailed upon, partly by a sense of this, partly 
 by the importunity of my relations, to make an effort 
 for acquiring a more general acquaintance, and fa- 
 shionable deportment. As I was conscious of an in- 
 clination to oblige, and a quick sense of propriety, 
 two qualities which I esteemed the ground of good- 
 breeding ; as my wit was tolerably ready, and my 
 figure not disadvantageous, I own to you that I enter- 
 tained some hopes of success. 
 
 I was, however, unsuccessful. The novelty of the 
 scenes in which I found myself engaged, the multi- 
 plicity of observances and attention requisite upon 
 points which I had always regarded as below my no- 
 tice, embarrassed and confounded me. The feelings 
 to which I had trusted for my direction, served only 
 to make me awkward, and fearful of offending. My 
 obsequious services in the drawing-room passed unre- 
 vol. i. q_ 
 
172 THE MIRROR. 
 
 warded ; and my observations, when I ventured to 
 mingle, either in the chat of the women, being de- 
 livered with timidity and hesitation, were overlooked 
 or neglected. Some of the more elderly and discreet 
 among the former seemed to pity me ; and I could 
 not help remarking, that they often, as if they had 
 meant the hint forme, talked of the advantage to be 
 derived from the perusal of Lord Chesterfield's Let- 
 ters. To this author, then, as soon as I learned his 
 subject, I had recourse, as to a guide that would 
 point out my way, and support me in my journey. 
 But, how much was I astonished, when, through a 
 veil of wit, ridicule, elegant expression, and lively 
 illustration, I discerned a studied system of frivolity, 
 meanness, flattery, and dissimulation, inculcated as 
 the surest and most eligible road to eminence and 
 popularity ! 
 
 Young as I am, Mr. Mirror, and heedless as I 
 may consequently be supposed, 1 cannot think that 
 this work is a code proper for being held up to us as 
 the regulator of our conduct. The talents insisted 
 on with peculiar emphasis, the accomplishments most 
 earnestly recommended, are such as. in ^ur days, if 
 they ought to be treated of at all, should be mention- 
 ed only to put us on our guard against them. If 
 riches naturally tend to render trifles of importance ; 
 if they direct our attention too much toward exterior 
 accomplishments ; if they propagate the courtly and 
 complying spirit too extensively at any rate, we cer- 
 tainly, in this country, so wealthy and luxurious, have 
 no need of exhortation to cultivate or acquire those 
 qualifications. The habits that may arrest for a little 
 time the progress of this corruption, ought now to 
 be insisted on. Independence, fortitude, stubborn 
 integrity, and pride that disdains the shadow of ser- 
 vility ; these are the virtues which a tutor should in- 
 culcate ; these the blessings which a fond father 
 should supplicate from Heaven for his offspring. 
 
THE MIRROR. ' 173 
 
 It is, throughout, the error of his lordship's system, 
 to consider talents and accomplishments, according 
 to the use that may be made of them, rather than 
 their intrinsic worth. In his catechism, applause is 
 rectitude, and success is morality. That, in our days, 
 a person may rise to eminence by trivial accomplish- 
 ments, and become popular by flattery and dissimu- 
 lation, may, perhaps, be true. But, from this it sure- 
 ly does .or follow, that these are the means which 
 an honourable character should employ. There is a 
 dignit) ii the mind, which cultivates those arts alone 
 that are valuable; which courts those characters alone 
 that are worthy, which disdains to conceal its own 
 sentiments, or minister to the foibles of others ; 
 there is, I say, a conscious dignity and satisfaction in 
 these feelings, which neither applause, nor power* 
 nor popularity, without them, can ever bestow. 
 
 Many of his lordship's distinctions are too nice 
 for my faculties. I cannot, for my part, discern the 
 difference between feigned confidence and insincerity ; 
 between the conduct that conveys the approbation of 
 a sentiment, or the flattery of a foible, and the words 
 that declare it. I should think the man whose coun- 
 tenance was open, and his thoughts concealed, a 
 hypocrite ; I should term him, who could treat his 
 friends as if they were at the same time to be his 
 enemies, a monster of ingratitude and duplicity. It 
 is dangerous to trifle thus upon the borders of virtue. 
 By teaching us that it may insensibly be blended 
 with vice, that their respective limits are not in every 
 case evident and certain, our veneration for it is di- 
 minished. Its chief safeguard is a jealous sensibility, 
 that startles at the co'our or shadow of deceit. When 
 this barrier has been insulted, can any other be op- 
 posed at which conscience will arise and proclaim, 
 thus far, and no farther, shalt thou advance ? 
 
 The love of general applause, recommended by 
 bis lordship, as the great principle of conduct, is a 
 folly and a weakness. He that directs himself by 
 
i74 1»>TK MIRROR. 
 
 this compass, cannot hope to steer through life with 
 steadiness and consistency. He must surrender his 
 own character, and assume the hue of every company 
 he enters. To court the approbation of any one» is, 
 in a tacit manner, to do homage to his judgment or 
 his feelings. He that extends his courtship of it 
 beyond the praise-worthy, violates the exclusive pri- 
 vilege of virtue, and must seek it by unworthy arts. 
 
 On the other hand, though I am by no means a 
 friend to rash and unguarde€ censure, yet I cannot 
 help considering the conduct of him who will censure 
 nothing, who will speak his sentiments of no charac- 
 ter with freedom, who palliates every error, and apo- 
 logizes for every failing, as more nearly allied to 
 meanness, timidity, and a time-serving temper, than 
 it is connected with candour, or favourable to the 
 cause of virtue. 
 
 Nor can I persuade myself that his lordship's sys- 
 tem will be attended with general success. The 
 real character is the only one that can be maintained 
 at all times, and in all dispositions. Professions of 
 friendship and regard will lead to expectations of 
 service that cannot be answered. The sentiments 
 delivered in one company, the manners assumed upon 
 one occasion, will be remembered, and contrasted 
 with those that are presented on another. Suspicion, 
 once awakened, will penetrate the darkest cloud 
 which art can throw around a person in the common 
 intercourse of life. 
 
 Let us consider, too, were this system generally 
 adopted, what a dull insipid scene must society be- 
 come ? No distinction, no natural expression, of cha- 
 racter ; no confidence in professions of any kind ; 
 no assurance of sincerity ; no secret sympathy, nor 
 delightful correspondence of feeling. All the sallies 
 of wit, all the graces of polite manners, woidd but 
 ill supply the want of these pleasures, the purest 
 and most elegant which human life affords. 
 
 Iiu genius. 
 
THE MIRROR. 17$ 
 
 To the Author of Che Mirror. 
 
 AS you treat much of politeness, I wish you would 
 take notice of a particular sort of incivility, from 
 which one suffers, without being thought intitled to 
 complain. I mean -that of never contradicting one 
 at all. 
 
 I have come lately from my father's in the coun- 
 try, where I was reckoned a girl of tolerable parts, 
 to reside for some time at my aunt's in town. Here 
 is a visitor, Mr. D*pperwit, a good-looking young 
 man, with white teeth, a fine complexion, his cheeks 
 dimpled, and rather a little full and large at bottom ; 
 in short, the civilest, most complying sort of face 
 you can imagine. As I had often taken notice of his 
 behaviour, I was resolved to minute down his dis- 
 course the other evening at tea. The conversation 
 began about the weather, my aunt observing, that 
 the seasons were wonderfully altered in her memory. 
 " Certainly, my lady/* said Mr. Dapperwit, " ama- 
 " zingly altered indeed.'* — u Now I have heard my 
 " father say, (said 1) that is a vulgar error; forthatit 
 " appears from registers kept for the purpose, that 
 u the state of the weather, though it may be differ- 
 il ent in certain seasons, months, or weeks, preserves 
 iC a wonderful equilibrium in general." — " Why, to 
 " be sure, Miss, I believe, in general, as you say ; 
 " — but, talking of the weather, I hope your lady- 
 " ship caught no cold at the play t'other night ; we 
 iv were so awkwardly situated in getting out." — " Not 
 ** in the least, Sir ; I was greatly obliged to your 
 " services there." — " You were well entertained, I 
 4< hope, my lady." — " Very well, indeed : I laughed 
 ' 4 exceedingly ; there is a great deal of wit in 
 " Shakespeare's comedies ; 'tis a pity there is sc» 
 u much of low life in them." — (( Your ladyship's cii- 
 2 
 
176 THE MIRROR. 
 
 u ticism is extremely just; every body must be struck 
 " with it." — " Why now, I think, (said I again) that 
 11 what you call low life, is nature, which I would 
 " not lose for all the rest of the play." — u Oh I 
 " doubtless, Miss ; for nature Skakespeare is inimi- 
 44 table ; every body must allow that." — " What do 
 44 you think, Sir, (said my cousin Betsy, who is a 
 44 piece of a poetess herself) of that monody you 
 44 were so kind as to send us yesterday ?" — 44 I never 
 44 deliver my opinion, Ma'am, before so able a judge, 
 44 till I am first informed of hers." — " I think it the 
 44 most beautiful poem, Sir, I have read of a great 
 44 while." — 44 Your opinion, Ma'am, natters me ex- 
 44 tremely, as it agrees exactly with my own ; they 
 44 are, I think, incontestibly the sweetest lines." — 
 *< Sweet they may be, (here I broke in) : I allow 
 44 them merit in the versification ; but that is only 
 44 one ; and, with me, by no means the chief, requi- 
 44 site in a poem ; they want force altogether." — 
 44 Nay, as to the matter of force, indeed it must be 
 kt owned." — 44 Yes, Sir, and unity, and propriety, 
 44 and a thousand other things ; but, if my cousin 
 44 will be kind enough to fetch the poem from her 
 44 dressing-room, we will be judged by you, Mr. 
 44 Dapperwit." — u Pardon me, ladies, you would not 
 44 have me be so rude. 
 
 " Who shall decide when doctors disagree J** 
 
 And, with that, he made one of the finest bows in 
 the world. 
 
 If all this, Sir, proceed from silliness, we must 
 pity the man, and there's an end on't ; if it arise 
 from an idea of silliness in us, let such gentlemen 
 as Mr. Dapperwit know, that they are very much 
 mistaken. But if it be the effect of pure civility — 
 pray inform them, Mr. Mirror, that it is the most 
 
THE MIRROR. 177 
 
 provoking piece of rudeness they can possibly 
 commit. 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 Bridget Nettlewit. 
 
 No. XXXVI. SATURDAY, MAY 29. 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Gray. 
 
 NOTHING has a greater tendency to elevate and 
 affect the heart than the reflection upon those per- 
 sonages who have performed a distinguished part 
 on the theatre of life, whose actions were attended 
 with important consequences to the world around 
 them, or whose writings have animated or instructed 
 mankind. The thought that they are now no more, 
 that their ashes are mingled with those of the mean- 
 est and most worthless, affords a subject of contemp- 
 lation, which, however melancholy, the mind, in a 
 moment of pensiveness, may feel a secret sort of de- 
 light to indulge. " Tell her," says Hamlet, " that 
 " she may paint an inch thick ; yet to this she must 
 " come at last." 
 
 When Xerxes, at the head of his numerous army, 
 saw all his troops ranged in order before him, he burst 
 into tears at the thought, that, in a short time, they 
 would be sweeped from the face of the earth, and be 
 removed to give place to those who would fill other 
 armies, and rank under other generals. 
 
 Something of what Xerxes felt, from the conside- 
 ration that those who then were, should cease to be, 
 it is equally natural to feel from the reflection, that 
 all who have formerly lived have ceased to live, and 
 that nothing more remains than the memory of a very 
 
178 THE MIRROR. 
 
 fev/ who have left some memorial which keeps alive 
 their names, and the fame with which those names 
 are accompanied. 
 
 But serious as this reflection may be, it is not so 
 deep as the thought, that even of those persons who 
 were possessed of talents for distinguishing themselves 
 in the world, for having their memories handed down 
 from age to age, much the greater part, it is likely, 
 from hard necessity, or by some of the various fatal 
 accidents of life, have been excluded from the possi- 
 bility of exerting themselves, or of being useful either 
 to those who lived in the same age, or to posterity. 
 Poverty in many, and " disastrous chance" in others, 
 have chill'd the " genial current of the soul," and 
 numbers have been cut ofY by premature death in the 
 midst of project and ambition. How many have 
 there been in the ages that are past, how many may 
 exist at this very moment, who, with all the talenis. 
 fitted to shine in the world, to guide or to instruct 
 it, may, by some secret misfortune, have had their 
 minds depressed, or the fire of their genius extin- 
 guished I 
 
 I have been led into these reflections from the pe- 
 rusal of a small volume of poems which happens now 
 to lie before me, which, though possessed of very 
 considerable merit, and composed in this country r 
 are, I believe very little known. In a well-written 
 preface, the reader is told, that most of them are the 
 production of Michael Bruce ; that this Michael 
 Bruce was born in a remote village in Kinross-shire, 
 and descended from parents remarkable for nothing 
 but the innocence and simplicity of their lives : that, 
 in the twenty-first year of his age, he was seized with 
 a consumption, which put an end to his life. 
 
 Nothing, methinks, has more the power of awak- 
 ening benevolence, than the consideration of genius 
 thus depressed by situation, suffered to pine in obscu- 
 rity and sometimes, as in the case of this unfortunate: 
 
THE MIRROR. 179 
 
 young man, to perish, it may be, for want of those 
 comforts and convenicncies which might have foster- 
 ed a delicacy of frame or of mind, ill-calculated to 
 bear the hardships which poverty lays on both. For 
 my own part, I never pass the place, (a little hamlet, 
 skirted with a circle of old ash-trees, about three 
 miles on this side of Kinross) where Michael Bruce 
 resided ; I never look on his dwelling — a small thatch- 
 ed house, distinguished from the cottages of the other 
 inhabitants only by a sashed window at the end, in- 
 stead of a lattice, fringed with a honeysuckle plant, 
 which the poor youth had trained around it ; — I ne- 
 ver find myself in that spot, but I stop my horse in- 
 voluntarily ; and looking on the window, which the 
 honeysuckle has now almost covered, in the dream 
 of the moment, I picture out a figure for the gentle 
 tenant of the mansion ; I wish, and my heart swells, 
 while I do so, that he were alive, and that I were a 
 great man to have the luxury of visiting him there, 
 
 and bidding him be happy. 1 cannot carry my 
 
 readers thither ; but, that they may share some of 
 my feelings, I will present them with an extract from 
 the last poem in the little volume before me, which, 
 from its subject, and the manner in which it is writ- 
 ten, cannot fail of touching the heart of every one 
 who reads it. 
 
 A young man of genius, in a deep consumption, 
 at the age of twenty-one, feeling himself every mo- 
 ment going faster to decline, is an object sufficiently 
 interesting ; but how much must every feeling on the 
 occasion be heightened, when we know that this per- 
 son possessed so much dignity and composure of 
 mind, as not only to contemplate his approaching 
 fate, but even to write a poem on the subject I 
 
 In the French language there is a much-admired 
 poem of the Abbe de Chaulieu, written, in expecta- 
 tion of his own deatih, to the Marquis de la Farre, 
 lamenting his approaching separation from his friend* 
 
180 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Micbafel Bruce, who, it is probable, never heard of 
 the Abbe de Chaulieu, has also written a poem on his 
 own approaching death ; with the latter part of which 
 I shall conclude<this paper. 
 
 Now spring returns ; but not to me returns 
 The vernal joys my better days have known : 
 
 Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, 
 
 And all the joys of life with health are flown. 
 
 Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconstant %vind, 
 Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, 
 
 Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd, 
 And count the silent moments as they pass. 
 
 The winged moments, whose unstaying speed 
 No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; 
 
 Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, 
 And lay me down in peace with them that rest. 
 
 Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate ; 
 
 And morning-dreams, as poets tel), are true. 
 Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate, 
 
 And bid the realms of light and life adieu. 
 
 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 
 
 I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, 
 The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 
 
 Which mortals visit, and return no more. 
 
 Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! 
 
 Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, 
 Where melancholy with still silence reigns, 
 
 And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. 
 
 There let me wander at the close of eve, 
 
 When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes, 
 
 The world and all its busy follies leave, 
 
 And talk with wisdom where my Daphivs lies. 
 
THE MIRROR. 181 
 
 There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay, 
 
 When death shall shut these weary aching eyes, 
 
 Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, 
 
 Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. 
 P 
 
 No." XXXVII. TUESDAY, JUNE 1. 
 
 ■Credula vitam 
 
 Spes fovet, et melius eras fore semper ait. Tibul. 
 
 THE following essay I received some time ago 
 from a correspondent, to whom, if I may judge from 
 the hand-writing, I was once before indebted for an 
 ingenious communication. 
 
 THE experience which every day affords, of the 
 mortifying difference between those ideal pleasures 
 which we conceive to flow from the possession of cer- 
 tain objects of our wishes, and the feelings conse- 
 quent upon their actual attainment, has furnished to 
 most moralists a text for declaiming on the vanity 
 of human pursuits, the folly of covetousness, the mad- 
 ness of ambition, and the only true wisdom of being 
 humbly satisfied with the lot and station which Pro- 
 vidence has assigned us. 
 
 It will not appear extraordinary, that those moral- 
 ists have hitherto laboured in vain, when it is con- 
 sidered that their doctrine, taken in the latitude in 
 which they usually preach it, would cut off the great- 
 est source of our happiness, overthrow every social 
 establishment, and is nothing less than an attempt to 
 alter the nature cf man. It may be a truth, that the 
 balance of happiness and misery is much the same 
 
182 THE MIRROR. 
 
 in most conditions of life, artd consequently that no 
 change of circumstances will either greatly enlarge 
 the one or diminish the other. But, while we know 
 that, to attain an object of our wishes, or to change 
 our condition is not to increase our happiness, we feel, 
 at the same time, that the pursuit of this object, and 
 the expectation of this change, can increase it in a 
 very sensible degree. It is by hope that we truly ex- 
 ist ; our only enjoyment is the expectation of some- 
 thing which we do not possess : the recollection of 
 the past serves us but to direct and regulate those ex- 
 pectations i the present is employed in contemplating 
 them : it is therefore only the future which we may 
 be properly said to enjoy. 
 
 A philosopher who reasons in this manner, has a 
 much more powerful incentive to cheerfulness and 
 contentment of mind, than what is furnished by that 
 doctrine which inculcates a perpetual warfare with 
 ourselves, and a restraint upon the strongest feelings 
 of our nature. For, while he feels that the posses- 
 sion of the object of his most earnest desires has 
 given him far less pleasure than was promised by 
 a distant view of it ; he is consoled by reflecting that 
 the expectation of this object has, perhaps, brighten- 
 ed many years of his life, enabled him to toil for its 
 attainment with vigour and alacrity, to discharge, with 
 honour, his part in society ; in short, has given him, 
 in reality, as substantial happiness as human nature is 
 capable of enjoying. 
 
 Though several years younger than Euphanor, I 
 have been long acquainted with him. He is now in his 
 fifty -second year; an age when, with most men, the 
 romantic spirit and enthusiasm of youth, have long 
 given place to the cool and steady maxims of busi- 
 ness and the world. It is, however, a peculiarity of 
 my friend's disposition, that the same sanguine tem- 
 perament of mind which, from infancy, has attended 
 him through life, still continues to actuate him as 
 strongly as ever. As he discovered, very early, a 
 
THE MIRROR. 183 
 
 fomfhess for classical learning, his father, at his own 
 desire, advanced his patrimony for his education at 
 the univer c >y. At the age of twenty he was left 
 without a shilling, to make the best of his talents, 
 In any way he thought proper. Certain concurring 
 circumstances, rather than choice, placed him as an 
 under-clerk in a counting-house. His favourite stu- 
 dies were here totally useless ; but, while he gave 
 to business th« most scrupulous attention, they still, 
 at the intervals of relaxation, furnished his chief 
 amusement. It would be equally tedious and foreign 
 to my purpose, to mark minutely the steps by which 
 Euphanor, in the course of thirty years application 
 to business, rose to be master of the moderate for- 
 tune of fifteen thousand pounds. My friend alw&ys 
 considered money not in the common light, as merely 
 the end of labour, but as the means of purchasing 
 certain enjoyments, which his fancy had pictured as 
 constituting the supreme happiness of life. 
 
 In the beginning of last spring I received from 
 Euphanor the following letter : 
 
 " My Dear Sir, 
 " YOU, who are familiar with my disposition, will 
 " not be surprised at a piece of information, which, 
 " I doubt not, will occasion some wonder in the ge- 
 " neral circle of my acquaintance. I have now fairly 
 " begun to execute that resolution, of which you have 
 " long heard me talk, of entirely withdrawing my- 
 " self from business. You know with what ardour 
 « I have longed for that period, when fortune should 
 " ble^s me with a competence, just sufficient to pro- 
 " secute my favourite scheme of retiring to the coun- 
 " try. It was that darling prospect which made the 
 " toils of busing (for which, God knows, I never 
 " was intended by nature,) light, and even pleasant 
 " to me. I have acquux:!, by honest industry, a for- 
 " tune equal to my wishes. These were 'always 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
184 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " moderate ; for my aim was not wealth, but happi- 
 11 ness. Of that, indeed, I have been truly covetous ; 
 " for I must confess, that, for these thirty years past, 
 " I have never laid my head to my pillow, without 
 " that ardent wish, which my favourite Horace so 
 u beautifully expresses : 
 
 ** O rus ! quando ego te aspiciam ? quandoque licebit 
 " Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno et inertibus horis, 
 ♦' Ducere sollicitse juounda oblivia vitae ?" 
 
 " Or the same sentiment, in the words of the pen- 
 M sive moral Cowley : 
 
 " Oh fountains ! when in you shall I 
 
 " Myself eas'd of unpeaceful thoughts espy ? 
 
 " Oh fields ! oh woods ! when, when shall I be made 
 
 " The happy tenant of your shade ?" 
 
 " That blissful period, my dear friend, is at length 
 u arrived. I yesterday made a formal resignation of 
 " all concern in the house, in favour of my nephew, 
 " a deserving young man, who, I doubt not, will have 
 " the entire benefit of those numerous connections 
 " with persons in trade, whose good opinion his uncle 
 " never, to his knowledge, forfeited. 
 
 u I have made a purchase of a small estate in 
 
 u shire, of about 200 acres. The situation is de- 
 lightfully romantic ;" 
 
 (( 
 
 "Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata, 
 
 -hie nemus 
 
 " My house is small, but wonderfully commodious. 
 u It is embosomed in a tall grove of oak and elm, 
 " which opens only to the south. A green hill rises 
 " behind the house, partly covered with furze, and 
 " seamed with a winding sheep-path. On one side 
 " is an irregular garden, or rather border of shrub- 
 
THE MIRROR. 185 
 
 " bery, adorning the sloping bank of a rivulet ; but 
 
 " intermixed, without the smallest injury to its beau- 
 
 " ty, with all the variety of herbs for the kitchen. 
 
 " On the other side, a little more remote, but still 
 
 " in sight of the house, is an orchard filled with ex- 
 
 " cellent fruit-trees. The brook, which runs through 
 
 " my garden, retires into a hollow dell, shaded with 
 
 " birch and hazle copse, and, after a winding course 
 
 c * of half a mile, joins a large river. These are the 
 
 " outlines of my little paradise. — And now, my dear 
 
 *• friend, what have I more to wish, but that you, 
 
 * and a very few others, whose souls are congenial 
 " to my own, should witness my happiness ? In two 
 " days hence, I bid adieu to the town, a long, a last 
 " adieu 1 
 
 " Farewell, thou busy world ! and may 
 " We never meet again ! " 
 
 " The remainder of my life, I dedicate to those pur- 
 u suits in which the best and wisest of men did not 
 " blush to employ themselves ; the delightful occu- 
 <w pations of a country life, which Cicero well laid, 
 " and after him Columella, are next in kindred to 
 
 * true philosophy. What charming schemes have 
 
 * I already formed ; what luxurious plans of sweet 
 " and rational entertainment ! But these, my friend, 
 " you must approve and participate. 1 shall look 
 " for you about the beginning of May, when, if you 
 " can spare me a couple of months, I can venture to 
 " promise that time will not linger with us. I am, 
 " with much regard, yours, 8cc." 
 
 As I am, myself, very fond of the country, it was 
 with considerable regret that I found it not in my 
 power to accept of my friend's invitation ; an unex- 
 pected piece of business having detained me in town 
 during the greatest part of the. summer. I heard 
 
IS6 THE MIKUOR. 
 
 nothing of Eupbanor till about nine months after, 
 when he again wrote me as follows : 
 
 « Mr Dear Sir, 
 44 IT was a sensible mortification to me not to have 
 
 " the pleasure of seeing you last summer in 
 
 " shire, when I should have been much the better 
 44 for your advice, in a disagreeable affair, which, I 
 44 am afraid, will occasion my paying a visit to town 
 44 much sooner than I expected. I have always had 
 4i a honor at going to law, but now I find myself 
 44 unavoidably compelled to it. Sir Ralph Surly, 
 44 whose estate adjoins to my little property, has, for 
 44 the purpose of supplying a new barley-mill, turned 
 " aside the course of a small stream, which ran 
 41 through my garden and inclosures, and which 
 44 formed, indeed, their greatest ornament. In place 
 44 of a beautiful winding rivulet, with a variety of 
 44 fine natural falls, there is nothing but a dry ditch, 
 44 or rather crooked gulph, which is hideous to look 
 44 at. The malice of this procedure is sufficiently 
 44 conspicuous, when I tell you, that there is another, 
 4t and a larger stream, in the same grounds, which 
 44 I have offered to be at the sole expence of con- 
 44 ducting to his mill. I think the law must do me 
 44 justice. At any rate, it is impossible tamely to 
 u bear such an injury. I shall probably see you in a 
 44 few days. To say the truth, my dear friend, even 
 14 before this last mortification, I had begun to find, 
 44 that the expectations I had formed of the pleasures 
 44 of a country-life were by far too sanguine. I must 
 44 confess, that, notwithstanding the high relish I 
 44 have for the beauties of nature, I have often felt, 
 44 amid«t the most romantic scenes, that langour of 
 44 spirit, which nothing but society can dissipate. 
 44 Even when occupied with my favourite studies, I 
 " have sometimes thought, with the bard of Mantua, 
 « that the ease and retirement which I courted were 
 
THE MIRROR. 187 
 
 44 rather ignoble. I have suffered an additional dis- 
 ♦ % appointment in the ideas I had formed of the cha- 
 44 racters of the country-people. It is but a treache- 
 44 rous picture, my friend, which the poets give us, 
 44 of their innocence and honest simplicity. I have 
 " met with some instances of insincerity, chicane, 
 44 and even downright knavery, in my short acquaint- 
 44 ance with them, that have quite shocked and 
 44 mortified me. 
 
 44 Whether I shall ever again enter into the busy 
 44 world (a small concern in the house, without al- 
 44 lowing my name to appear, would perhaps be 
 * some amusement) I have not yet determined. 
 4k Of this, and other matters, we shall talk fully 
 ♦ 4 at meeting. Meantime, believe me, dear Sir, 
 u yours, 
 
 44 Euphanor." 
 
 Euphanor has been, for this month past, in town, 
 I expected to have found him peevish, chagrined, and 
 out of humour with the world. But in this I was dis- 
 appointed. I have never seen my friend in better 
 health, or higher spirits. I have been with him at 
 several convivial meetings, with our old acquaint- 
 ances, who felt equal satisfaction with himself at 
 what they term his recovery. He has actually re- 
 sumed a small share in trade, and purposes, for the 
 future, to devote one half of the year to business. 
 His counsel have given him assurance of gaining his 
 law suit : he expects in a few months, to return in 
 
 triumph to shire, and has invited all his friends 
 
 to be present at a Fete Champetre he intends to cele- 
 brate, on the restoration of his beloved rivulet to its 
 wonted channel. 
 
 The life of Euphanor must be a series of disap- 
 pointments ; but, on the whole, I must consider hint 
 as a. happy man. 
 
 r % 
 
188 THE MIRROtt, 
 
 No. XXXVIII. SATURDAY, JUNE 5. 
 
 n 
 THE following letter I received only yesterday ; 
 but, as I am particularly interested in every project 
 of ingenious men, I postponed another essay which 
 was ready for publication, and put my printer to 
 considerable inconvenience to get it ready for this 
 day's paper. I was the more solicitous, likewise, to 
 give it a place as soon after my 35th number as pos- 
 sible, in order to shew my impartiality. This paper 
 (as the London Gazetteer says) is open to all parties ; 
 with this proviso, however, which is exactly the re- 
 verse of the terms of admission into the Gazetteer, 
 that my correspondents do not write politics. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 
 IN a late paper, you shewed the necessity of ac- 
 commodating ourselves to the temper of persons with 
 whom wc are particularly connected, by sometimes 
 submitting our own taste, inclination, and opinions 
 to the taste, inclination, and opinions of those per- 
 sons. I apprehend, Sir, you might have carried 
 your idea a good deal farther, and have prescribed to 
 us the same receipt for happiness in our intercourse 
 not only with our wives and children, but with our 
 companions, our acquaintance, in short, with all man- 
 kind. 
 
 But, as the disposition to this is not always born 
 with one, and as to form a temper is not so easy as 
 to regulate a behaviour, it is the business of masters 
 in the art of politeness, to teach people, at least the 
 better sort of them, to counterfeit as much of this 
 complacency in their deportment as possible. In 
 this, indeed, they begin at quite the different end of 
 the matter from you, Sir ; complacency to husbands^ 
 wives, children, and relations, they leave people to 
 
THE MIRROR. 189 
 
 teach themselves ; but the art of pleasing every body- 
 else, as it is a thing of much greater importance, 
 they take proportionably greater pains to instil into 
 their disciples. 
 
 I have, for some time past, b«en employed in re- 
 ducing this art into a system, and have some thoughts 
 of opening a subscription for a course of lectures on 
 the subject. To qualify myself for the task, I have 
 studied, with unwearied attention, the letters of the 
 immortal Earl of Chesterfield, which I intend to use 
 as my text-book on this occasion, allowing only for 
 the difference which even a few years produce in an 
 art so fluctuating as this. Before I lodge my sub- 
 scription-paper with the booksellers, I wish to give a 
 specimen of my abilities to the readers of the Mir- 
 ror ; for which purpose I beg the favour of you to 
 insert in your next number the following substance of 
 Simulation. Our noble author, indeed, extends his 
 doctrine to the length of dissimulation only, from 
 which he distinguishes Simulation as something not 
 quite so fair and honest. Bwt, for my part, I have 
 not sufficient nicety of ideas to make the distinction, 
 and would humbly recommend to every person who 
 wishes to be thoroughly well bred, not to confuse his 
 head with it. Taking, therefore, the shorter word 
 as the more gentlemanlike, I proceeded to my sub- 
 ject of 
 
 « SIMULATION. 
 
 « SIMULATION is the great basis of the art 
 " which I have the honour to teach. I shall humbly 
 " endeavour to treat this branch of my subject, though 
 " much less ably, yet more scientifically than my 
 " great master, by reducing it into a form like that 
 " adopted by the professors of the other sciences, 
 " and even borrowing from them some of the terms 
 u by which I mean to illustrate it. 
 
190 THE MIRROR. 
 
 44 This rule of false (to adopt an algebraical term) 
 u I shall divide into two parts ; that which regards 
 " the external figure of the man or woman ; and 
 44 that which is necessary in the accomplishment of 
 44 the rnmd, and its seeming developement to others. 
 "*" Fashion may be termed the regulator of the 
 44 first, decorum of the latter. But I must take this 
 M opportuioity of informing my audience, that the sig» 
 44 nification of words, when applied to persons of con- 
 " dition, is often quite different from that which they 
 44 are understood to bear in the ordinary standard of 
 " language. With such persons (if I may be allowed 
 "'so bold an expression) it may often be the fashion 
 " to De unfashionable, and decorum to act against all 
 u propriety ; good breeding may consist in rudeness, 
 <4 and poHter.ess in being very impertinent. This 
 44 will hold in the passive, as well as in the active of 
 44 our art people of fashion will be pleased with 
 44 such treatment from people of fashion, the natural 
 44 feelings in this, as in the other, fine arts, giving 
 44 way, amongst connoisseurs, to knowledge and 
 4t taste. 
 
 44 Having made this preliminary observation, I re- 
 44 turn to my subject of Simulation. 
 
 44 It will be found, that appearing what one is not, 
 44 is, in both divisions of my subject, the criterion of 
 44 politeness. The man who is rich enough to afford 
 44 fine cloaths,- is, by this rule of false, intitled to 
 44 wear very shabby ones ; while he who has a nar- 
 44 row fortune is to be dressed in the brvcrse ratio to 
 44 his finances. One corollary from this proposition 
 44 is obvious : he who takes off his suit on credit', 
 44 and has neither inclination nor ability to pay for it, 
 44 is to be dressed the most expensively of the three. 
 44 The same rule holds in houses, dinners, servants, 
 44 horses, equipages, &c. and is to be followed, as 
 44 far as the law will allow, even the length of bank- 
 44 ruptcy, or, perhaps, a little beyond it. 
 
THE MIRROR. 191 
 
 tC On the same principle, a simple Gentleman, or 
 " Esquire, must, at all places of public resort, be 
 <4 apparelled like a Gentleman or Esquire. A Baro- 
 " net may take the liberty of a dirty shirt ; a Lord 
 44 need not shew any shirt at all, but wear a hand- 
 44 kerchief round his neck in its stead ; an Earl may 
 44 add to all this a bunch of uncombed hair hanging 
 44 down his back ; and a Duke, over and above the 
 * 4 privileges above mentioned, is intitled to appear in 
 44 boots and buck-skin breeches. 
 
 44 Following the same rule of inversion, the scholar 
 44 of a provincial dancing-master must bow at coming 
 44 into, and going out of, a drawing room, and that pretty 
 44 low too. The pupil of Gallini is to push forward 
 4i with the rough stride of a porter, and make only 
 44 a slight inclination of his head, when he has got 
 44 into the middle of the room. At going out of it, 
 M he is to take no notice of the company at all. 
 
 44 In the externals of the female world, from the 
 44 great complication of the machine, it is not easy 
 44 to lay down precise regulations. Still, however, 
 44 the rule of false may be traced as the governing 
 44 principle. It is very feminine to wear a riding- 
 44 habit and a smart cocked hat one half of the day ; 
 44 because that dress approaches nearer to the mas- 
 44 culine apparel than any other. It is very modest 
 44 to lay open the greatest part of the neck and bosom 
 44 to the view of the beholders ; and it is incumbent 
 44 on those ladies, who occupy the front-row of a 
 44 box at a play, to wear high feathers, and to wave 
 44 them more unceasingly than any other ladies, be- 
 44 cause otherwise the company who sit behind might 
 44 be supposed to have some desire of seeing the 
 44 stage. Since I have mentioned the theatre, I may 
 44 re mirk (though it is foreign to this part of my 
 44 discourse) that, in the most affecting scenes of a 
 44 tragedy, it is polite to laugh ; whereas, in the or- 
 44 dinary detail of the two first acts, it is not required 
 
192 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " that a lady should make any greater noise than to 
 u talk aloud to every one around her. 
 
 " Simulation of Person, which is only, indeed, a 
 " sort of dress, is also necessary among ladies of 
 " fashion Nature is to be falsified, as well in those 
 " parts of the shape which she has left small, as in 
 " those she has made large. 
 
 " The Simulation of Face, I am happy to find, 
 " from an examination of the books of some perfu- 
 " mers and colourmen of my acquaintance, is daily 
 " gaining ground among the politer females of this 
 " country. But it has hitherto been regulated by 
 " principles somewhat different from those which 
 f govern other parts of external appearance, laid 
 " down in the beginning of this paper, as it is gene- 
 " rally practised by those who are most under the 
 " necessity of practising it. I would, therefore, hum- 
 u bly recommend to that beautiful young lady, whom 
 11 I saw'at the last assembly of the season, with a 
 « coat of rouge on her cheeks, to lay it aside for 
 M these three or four years at least : at present, it 
 ** too much resembles their natural colour to be pro- 
 " per for her to wear — though, on second thoughts, 
 " I believe I may retract my advice, as the laying 
 " it on for a little while longer will reduce her skin 
 " to that dingy appearance which the rule of false 
 " allows to be converted, by paint, into the complex- 
 « ion of lilies and roses." 
 
 The second part of my observations on this subject 
 I shall send you at some future period, if I find you 
 so far approve of my design as to favour this with a 
 speedy insertion. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 Simulator. 
 
 V. 
 
THE MIRROR. t93 
 
 No. XXXIX. TUESDAY, JUNE 8. 
 
 Non miki res, s€d me rebus, submittere conor. Hor. 
 
 AS it is the business of the politician to bestow his 
 chief attention on the encouragement and regulation 
 of those members of the community, who contribute 
 most to the strength and permanency of the state ; 
 so it is the duty of the moral writer to employ his 
 principal endeavours to regulate and correct those 
 affections of the mind, which, when carried to excess, 
 often obscure the most deserving characters, though 
 they are seldom or never -to be found among the 
 worthless. 
 
 It is vain to think of reclaiming, by human means, 
 those rooted vices which proceed from a depraved or 
 unfeeling heart. Avarice is not to be overcome by 
 a panegyric on generosity, nor cruelty and oppres- 
 sion by the most eloquent display of the beauties of 
 compassion and humanity. The moralist speaks to 
 them a language they do not understand ; it is not 
 therefore surprising, that they should neither be con- 
 vinced nor reclaimed. I would not be understood to 
 mean, that the enormity of a vice should free it from 
 censure : on the contrary, I hold such glaring devi- 
 ations from rectitude the most proper objects for the 
 severest lash of satire, and that they should frequently 
 be held up to public view, that, if the guilty cannot 
 be reclaimed, the wavering may be confirmed, and 
 the innocent warned to avoid the danger. 
 
 But it is a no less useful, and a much more pleasing 
 task, to endeavour to remove the veil that covers the 
 lustre of virtue, and to point out, for the purpose of 
 amending, those errors and imperfections which tar- 
 nish deserving characters, which render them useless, 
 in some cases hurtful, to society. 
 
194 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Ajn honest ambition for that fame which ought t© 
 follow superior talents, employed in the exercise of 
 virtue, is one of the best and most useful passions that 
 can take root in the mind of man ; and, in the lan- 
 guage of the Roman poet, " Terrarum dominos eve- 
 hit ad Deos ;*' — " Heroes lifts to gods." But when 
 thir; laudable ambition happens to be joined with great 
 delicacy of taste and sentiment, it is often the source 
 of much misery and uneasiness. In the earlier peri- 
 ods @f society, before mankind are corrupted by the 
 excesses of luxury and refinement, the candidates for 
 fame enter the lists upon equal terms, and with a 
 reasonable degree of confidence, that the judgment 
 of their fellow-citizens will give the preference where 
 it is due. In such a contest, even the vanquished 
 have no inconsiderable share of glory ; and that vir- 
 tue which they cultivate, forbids them to withhold 
 their respect and applause from the superiority by 
 which they are overcome. Of this, the first ages of 
 the Grecian and Roman republics are proper exam- 
 ples, when merit was the only road to fame, because 
 fame was the only reward of merit. 
 
 Though it were unjust to accuse the present age 
 of being totally regardless of merit, yet this will not 
 be denied, that there are many other avenues which 
 lead to distinction, many other qualities by which 
 competitors carry away a prize, that, in less corrupt- 
 ed times, could have been attained only by a steady 
 perseverance in the paths of virtue. 
 
 When a man of acknowledged honour and abilities, 
 not unconscious of his worth, and possessed of those 
 delicate feelings I have mentioned, sees himself set 
 aside, and obliged to give way to the worthless and 
 contemptible, whose vices are sometimes the means 
 of their promotion, he is too apt to yield to disgust or 
 despair ; that sensibility which, with better fortune, 
 and placed in a more favourable situation* would have 
 afforded him the most elegant pleasures, made him 
 
THE MIRROR, 
 
 195 
 
 the delight of his friends, and an honour to his conn 
 try, is in danger of changing him into a morose an . 
 surly misanthrope, discontented with himself, the 
 world, and all its enjoyments. 
 
 This weakness (and I think it a grxat one) of quar- 
 relling with the world, would never have been carri- 
 ed the length I have lamented in some of my friends, 
 had they allowed themselves to reflect on the folly of 
 fupposing, that the opinions of the rest of mankind 
 are to be governed by the standard which they have 
 been pleased to erect, had they considered what a 
 state of langour and insipidity would be produced, if 
 every individual should have marked out to him the 
 rank he was to hold, and the line in which he was t» 
 move, without any danger of being jostled in his pro- 
 gress. 
 
 The Author of Nature has diversified the mind of 
 man with different and contending passions, which 
 are brought into action as chance or circumstances 
 direct, or as he is pleased to order in the wisdom of 
 his providence. Our limited faculties, far from com- 
 prehending the universal scale of being, or taking in 
 at one glance what is best and fittest for the purposes 
 of creation; cannot even determine the best mode of 
 governing the little spot that surrounds us. 
 
 I believe most men have, at times, wished to be 
 creators, possessed of the power of moulding the 
 world to their fancy ; but they would act more wisely 
 to mould their own prepossessions and prejudices to 
 the standard of the world, which may be done, in 
 every age and situation, without transgressing the 
 bounds of the most rigid virtue. A distaste at man- 
 kind never fails to produce peevishness and discon- 
 tent, the most unrelenting tyrants that ever swayed 
 the human breast ; that cloud which they cast upon 
 the soul, shuts out every ray that should warm to 
 manly exertion, and hides, in the bosom of indolence 
 and spleen, virtues formed to illumine the mind, 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
196 THE MIRROR. 
 
 I must, therefore, earnestly recommend to my 
 readers to guard against the first approaches of mis- 
 anthropy, by opposing reason to sentiment, and re- 
 flecting on the injury they do themselves and society, 
 by tamely retreating from injustice. The passive vir- 
 tues onhy are fit to be buried in a cloister ; the firm 
 and active mind disdains to recede, and rises upon 
 opposition. 
 
 The cultivation of cheerfulness and good-humour, 
 will be found another sovereign antidote to this mental 
 disorder. They are the harbingers of virtue, and 
 produce that serenity which disposes the mind to 
 friendship, love, gratitude, and every other social af- 
 fection ; they make us contented with ourselves, our 
 friends, and our situation, and expand the heart to all 
 the interests of humanity. 
 
 T 
 
 No. XL. SATURDAY, JUNE 12. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 
 ACCORDING to my promise, I send you the se- 
 cond division of my lecture on Simulation, as it re- 
 spects the internal part of the science of politeness. 
 
 " Among barbarous nations, it has been observed, 
 " the emotions of the mind are not more violently 
 " felt than strongly expressed. Grief, anger and 
 " jealousy, not only tear the heart, but disfigure the 
 " countenance ; while love, joy and mirth, have their 
 " opposite effects on the soul, and are visible, by op- 
 " posite appearances, in the aspect. Now, as a very 
 " refined people are in a state exactly the reverse of 
 " a very rude one, it follows, that, instead of allow- 
 
THK MIRROR. 197 
 
 ing the passions thus to lord it over their minds 
 and faces, it behoves them to mitigate and restrain 
 those violent emotions, both in feeling and appear- 
 ance ; the latter, at least, is within the power of art 
 and education, and to regulate it is the duty of a 
 well-bred person. On this truly philosophical prin- 
 ciple is founded that ease, indifference, or non- 
 chalance, which is the great mark of a modern 
 man of fashion. 
 
 " That instance of politeness which I mentioned 
 (somewhat out of place indeed) in the first part of 
 this discourse, the conduct of a fine lady at a tra- 
 gedy, is to be carried into situations of real sorrow 
 as much as possible. Indeed, though it may seem 
 a bold assertion, I believe the art of putting on in- 
 difference, about the real object, is not a whit more 
 difficult than that of assuming it about the theatri- 
 cal. I have known several ladies and gentlemen 
 who have acquired the first in perfection, without 
 being able to execute the latter, at least to execute 
 it in that masterly manner which marks the per- 
 formances of an adept. One night, last winter, I 
 heard Bob Bustle talking from a front-box, to an 
 acquaintance in the pit, about the death of their 
 late friend Jack Riot. — " Riot is dead, Tom ; 
 kick'd-this morning, egad ["— " Riot dead I poor 
 Jack 1 what did he die of?" — " One of your dam- 
 nation apoplectics kill'd him in the chucking of a 
 bumper ; you could scarce have heard him w'hea- 
 zle ! — u Damn'd bad that ! Jack was an honest fel- 
 low ! — What becomes of his grey poney ? — " The 
 poney is mine." — Yours 1" — Why, yes ; I staked 
 my white and liver-coloured bitch Phillis against 
 the grey poney. Jack's life to mine for the season." 
 
 At that instant, a lady entering the box (it was 
 
 about the middle of the fourth act) obliged Bob to 
 shift his place ; he sat out of ear-shot of his friend 
 in the pit, biting his naiis. and looking towards the 
 
198 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " stage, in a sort of nothing-to doish way, just as the 
 " last parting scene between Jaffier and Belvidera was 
 " going on there. I observed (I confess, with regret, 
 " for he is one of my favourite pupils) the progress 
 u of its victory over Bob's politeness. He first grew 
 " attentive, then humm'd a tune, then grew attentive 
 " again, then took out his toothpick case, then looked 
 " at the players in spite of him, then grew serious, 
 
 " then agitated till, at last, he was fairly beat out 
 
 " of his ground, and obliged to take shelter behind 
 " Lady Cockatoo's head, to prevent the disgrace of 
 " being absolutely seen weeping. 
 
 " But, to return from this digression. This Si- 
 
 " mulation of indifference in affliction is equally a 
 '« female as a male accomplishment. On the death 
 " of a very, very near relation, a husband, for in- 
 " stance, cu&tom has established a practice, which 
 " polite people have not yet been able to overcome ; 
 w a lady must stay at home, and play at cards for a 
 * week or two. But the decease of any one more dis- 
 " tant, she is to talk of as a matter of very little moment, 
 " except when it happens on the eve of an assembly, 
 M a ball, or a ridotto ; at such seasons she is allowed 
 " to regret it as a very unfortunate accident. This 
 " rule of deportment extends to distresses poignant 
 " indeed ; as, in perfect good-breeding, the fall of a 
 M set of Dresden, the spilling of a plate of soup on 
 M a new brocade, or even a bad run of cards, is to be; 
 4 ' borne with as equal a countenance as may be. 
 
 " Anger, the second passion above enumerated, rs 
 M to be covered with the same cloak of ease and good 
 " manners ; injury, if of a deep kind, with profes- 
 " sions of esteem and friendship. Thus, though it 
 k( would be improper. to squeeze a gentleman's hand,. 
 u and call him my dear Sir, or my best friend, when 
 u we mean to hit him a slap on the face, or to throw a 
 " bottle at his head ; yet it is perfectly consistent 
 " with politeness, to shew him all those marks of ci- 
 
THE MIRROR. 109 
 
 44 vility and kindness, when we intend to strip him o/ 
 44 his fortune at play, to counterplot him at an elec- 
 " tion, or to seduce his wife. The last-mentioned 
 " particular should naturally lead to the consideration 
 44 of jealousy ; but on this it is needless to insist, as, 
 " among well-bred people, the feeling itself is quite 
 44 in disuse. 
 
 u Love is one of those passions which politeness 
 " lays us under a particular obligation to disguise, as 
 " the discovery of it to third persons is peculiarly of- 
 " fensive and disagreeable. Therefore, when a man 
 " happens to sit by a tolerably handsome girl, for 
 44 whom he does not care a farthing, he is at liberty 
 " to kiss her hand, call her an angel, and tell her 
 44 he dies for her ; but, if he has a real tendrc for her, 
 44 he is to stare in her face with a broad unfeeling 
 44 look, tell her she looks monstrous ill this evening, 
 • 4 and that her coiffeuse has pinned her cap shocking- 
 44 ly awry. From not attending to the practice of 
 44 this rule amongst people of fashion, the inferior 
 44 world has been led to imagine, that matrimony 
 M with them is a state of indifference or aversion ; 
 44 whereas, in truth, the appearances from which 
 44 that judgment is formed, are the strongest indica- 
 44 tions of connubial happiness and affection. 
 
 44 On the subject of joy, or at least of mirth, that 
 44 great master of our art, my Lord Chesterfield, has 
 44 been precise in his directions. He does not allow 
 44 of laughter at all ; by which, however, he is to be 
 44 understood as only precluding that exercise as a 
 " sign, common with the vulgar, of internal satisfac- 
 44 tion : it is by no means to be reprobated as a dis- 
 14 guise for chagrin, or an engine of wit ; it is, in- 
 44 deed the readiest of all repartees, and will often 
 44 give a man of fashion the victory over an inferior, 
 44 with every talent, but that of assurance, on his 
 « side. 
 
 s 2 
 
200 THF MIRROR. 
 
 " As the passions and affections, so are the vir- 
 u tues of a polite man to be carefully concealed or 
 M disguised. In this particular, our art goes far bey- 
 il ond the rules of philosophers, or the precepts of 
 M the Bible : they enjoined men not to boast of their 
 ** virtues ; we teach them to brag of their vices, 
 " which is certainly a much sublimer pitch of self- 
 " denial. Besses, the merit of disinterestedness lies 
 u altogether on fl\ir side, the disciples of those anti- 
 " quatcd teachers expecting, as they confess, a re- 
 " ward somewhere ; our conduct has only the pure 
 M consciousness of acting like a man of fashion for 
 " its recompence, as we evidently profit nothing by 
 " it at present, and the idea of future retribution, 
 " were we ever to admit of it, is rather against us." 
 
 Such, Mr. Mirror, is the substance of one of my 
 \ectures, which, I think, promise so much edification 
 
 our country (yet only in an improving state with 
 regard to the higher and more refined parts of po- 
 liteness) that it must be impossible for your patriotism 
 to refuse their encouragement. If you insert this in 
 your next paper (if accompanied with some commen- 
 datory paragraphs of your own, so much the better.) 
 I shall take care to present you with a dozen admission 
 tickets, as soon as the number of my subscribers ena- 
 bles me to begin my course. 
 
 I have the honour to be, &c. 
 
 V Simulator. 
 
THE MIRROR. 20l 
 
 No XLI. TUESDAY, JUNE 15. 
 
 Sit mihi fas audita ioqui. . , Virc. 
 
 PASSING the Exchange a few days ago I per- 
 ceived a little before me a short, plump-looking man, 
 seeming to set his watch by St. Giles's clock, which 
 had just then struck two. On observing him a little 
 more closely, I recognised Mr. Blubber, with whom I 
 had become acquainted at the house of my friend 
 Umphraville's cousin, Mr. Bearskin. He also recol- 
 lected me, and shaking me cordially by the hand, told 
 me he was just returned safe from his journey to the 
 Highlands, and had been regulating his watch by our 
 town-clock, as he found the sun did not go exactly 
 in the Highlands as it did in the Low country. He 
 added, that, if I would come and eat a Welsh-rabbit, 
 and drink a glass of punch with him and his family 
 that evening, at their lodgings hard by,theywouldgive' 
 me an account of their expedition. He said, they found 
 my description of things a very just one : and was 
 pleased to add, that his wife and daughters had taken 
 a very great liking to me ever since the day that we 
 met at his friend Bearskin's. After this, it was im- 
 possible to resist his invitation, and 1 went to his 
 lodgings in the evening accordingly, where I found 
 all the family assembled, except Mr. Edward, whom 
 they accounted for in the history of their expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 I could not help making one preliminary observa- 
 tion, that it was much too early in the season for view- 
 ing the country to advantage ; but to this Mr. Blub- 
 ber had a very satisfactory answer; they were resolved 
 to complete their tour before the new tax upon post- 
 horses should be put in execution. 
 
 The first place they visited after they left Edin- 
 totfgh was Carron, which Mr. Blubber seemed to 
 
202 THE MIRROR. 
 
 prefer to any place he had seen ; but the ladies did 
 not appear to have relished it much. The mother 
 said, " She had like to have fell into a fit at the noise 
 * of the great bellows.'* Miss Blubber agreed, that 
 it was monstrous frightful indeed. Miss Betsy had 
 spoiled her petticoat in getting in, and said it was a 
 nasty place, not fit for genteel people, in her opinion. 
 Blubber put on his wisest face, and observed, that 
 women did not know the use of them things. There 
 was much the same difference in their sentiments 
 with regard to the Great Canal ; Mr. Blubber took 
 out a bit of paper, on which he had marked down 
 the lockage duty received in a week there ; he shook 
 his head, however, and said, he was sorry to find the 
 shares were below par. 
 
 Of Stirling, the young ladies remarked, that the 
 view from the castle was very fine, and the windings 
 of the river very curious. But neither of them had 
 ever been at Richmond. Mrs. Bubber, who had been 
 oftener than once there, told us, " that from the hill 
 « was a much grander prospect ; that the river 
 " Thames made two twists for one that the Forth 
 ** made at Stirling ; besides, there was a wood so 
 " charming thick, that, unless when you got to a 
 M rising ground, like what the Star and Garter 
 " stands on, you could scarce see a hundred yards 
 " before you." 
 
 Tay mouth seemed to strike the whole family. The 
 number and beauty of the temples were taken parti- 
 cular notice of; nor was the trimness of the walks 
 and hedges without commendation. Miss Befrey 
 Blubber declared herself charmed with the shady 
 walk by the side of the Tay, and remarked, what an 
 excellent fancy it was to shut out the view of the ri- 
 ver, so that you might hear the stream without seeing 
 it. Mr. Blubber, however, objected to the vicinity 
 of the hills, and Mrs. Blubber to that of the lake, 
 •which Bhe was sure must be extremely unwholesome. 
 
THE MIRROR. 203 
 
 To this circumstance she imputed her rheumatism, 
 which she told us, " had been very troublesome to 
 " her the first night she lay'd there ; but that she 
 u had always the precaution of carrying a bottle of 
 M Beaume de Vie in the chaise, and that a dose of it 
 " had effectually cured her." 
 
 The ladies were delighted with the Hermitage. 
 Mrs. Blubber confessed, " she was somewhat afeard 
 " at first to trust herself with the guide, down a dark 
 " narrow path, to the Lord knows where ; but then 
 u it was so charming when he let. in the light upon 
 " them.'* — " Yes, and so natural," said her eldest 
 daughter, " with the flowers growing out of the wall, 
 " and the Bear-skins so pure osoft for the Hermit to 
 
 " sleep on." " And their garter-blue colour so 
 
 " lively and so pretty," said Miss Betsy ; " I vow I 
 
 ''• could have stay'd there for ever. You wa'n't 
 
 " there, Papa." ."No," replied he, rather sul- 
 lenly, " but I saw one of them same things at Dun- 
 " keld, next day." — The young ladies declared they 
 were quite different things, and that no judgment 
 could be formed of the one from the other ; upon 
 which Mr. Blubber began to grow angry ; and Mrs. 
 Blubber interposing, put an end to th» question ; 
 whispering me at the same time, that her husband 
 had fallen asleep, after a hearty dinner at the inn 
 near Tay mouth, and that she and her children had 
 gone to see the Hermitage without him. I was far- 
 ther informed, that Mr. Edward Blubber had left 
 their party at this place, having gone along with two 
 English gentlemen whom he met there, to see a great 
 many curiosities farther off in the Highlands. " For 
 " my part," said Blubber, " though I was told it was 
 " a great way off, and over terrible mountains, as 
 " indeed we could perceive them to be from the win- 
 " dows, I did not care to hinder his going, as I like 
 w to see spirit in a young man." 
 
204 THE MIPRCR. 
 
 The rest of the family returned by the way of 
 Eunkeld, which the ladies likewise commended as a 
 monstrous pleasant place. Mr. Blubber dissented a 
 little, saying, «* he could not see the pleasure of al- 
 " ways looking at the same things ; hills, and wood, 
 4i and water, over and over again. The river here, 
 " he owned, was a pretty rural thing enough ; but, 
 u for his part he should think it much more lively if 
 " it had a few ships and lighters on it." Miss Blub- 
 ber did not agree with him as to the ships and light- 
 ers ; but she confessed, she thought a little company 
 would improve it a good deal. Miss Betsy differed 
 from both, and declared, she relished nothing so 
 much as solitude and retirement. This led to a de- 
 scription of a second hermitage they had visited at 
 this place, from which, and some of the grottos ad- 
 joining, Miss Betsy had taken down some sweet co- 
 pies of verses, as she called them, in her memoran- 
 dum-book. The fall of water here had struck the 
 family much. Mrs. Blubber observed, how like it 
 was to the cascade at Vauxhall ; her eldest daughter 
 remarked, however, that the fancy of looking at it 
 through panes of different coloured glass in the Her- 
 mitage-room, was an improvement on that at Spring- 
 gardens. 
 
 The bridge at Perth was the last section of the 
 family journal that we discoursed on. The ladies 
 had inadvertently crossed it in the carriage to see the 
 palace at Scone, at which they complained there was 
 nothing to be seen ; and Mr. Blubber complained of 
 the extravagance of the toll on the bridge, which he 
 declared was higher than at Blackfriars. He was 
 assured, however, that he had paid no more than the 
 legal charge, by his landlord, Mr. Marshall, at whose 
 house he received some consolation from an excellent 
 dinner, and a bed, he said, which the Lord Mayor 
 of London might have laid on. w I hope there is 
 " no offence (continued Mr. Blubber, very politely ;) 
 
THE MIRROR. 205 
 
 " as I understand the landlord is an Englishman ; 
 " but at the King's Arms, I met with the only real 
 " good buttered toast that I have seen in Scotland." 
 But however various were the remarks of the fa- 
 mily on the particulars of their journey in detail, I 
 found they had perfectly settled their respective opi- 
 nions of travelling in general. The ladies had form- 
 ed their conclusion, that it was monstrous pleasant, 
 and the gentleman his, that it was monstrous dear. 
 I 
 
 No. XLII. SATURDAY, JUNE 12. 
 
 WHEN I. first undertook this publication, it was 
 suggested by some of my friends, and, indeed, ac- 
 corded entirely with my own ideas, that there should 
 be nothing of religion in it. There is a sacredness 
 in the subject that might seem profaned by its intro- 
 duction into a work, which, to be extensively read, 
 must sometimes be ludicrous, and often ironical. This 
 consideration will apply, in the strongest manner, to 
 any thing mystic or controversial ; but it may per- 
 haps, admit of an exception, when religion is only 
 introduced as a feeling, not a system, as appealing to 
 the sentiments of the heart, not to the disquisitions 
 of the head. The following stcry holds it up in that 
 light, and is therefore, I think, admissible into the 
 Mirror. It was sent to my editor as a translation 
 from the French. Of this my readers will judge. 
 Perhaps they might be apt to suspect, without any 
 suggestion from me, that it is an original, not a 
 translation. Indeed, I cannot help thinking, that it 
 contains in it much of that picturesque description, 
 and that power of awakening the tender feelings, 
 
 • 
 
206 THE MIRROR. 
 
 which so remarkably distinguish the composition of 
 a gentleman whose writings I have often read with 
 pleasure. But, be that as it may, as 1 felt myself 
 interested in the narrative, and believed that it would 
 aflect my readers in the like manner, 1 have ventured 
 to give it entire as I received it, though it will take 
 up the room of three successive papers. 
 S 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror, 
 
 Sir, 
 
 "MORE than forty years ago, an English philoso- 
 pher, whose works have since been read and admired 
 by all Europe, resided at a little town in France. 
 Some disappointments in his native country had first 
 driven him abroad, and he was afterwards induced 
 to remain there, from having found, in his retreat, 
 where the connections even of nation and language 
 were avoided, a perfect seclusion and retirement 
 highly favourable to the developement of abstract 
 subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his 
 time. 
 
 Perhaps, in the structure of such a mind as Mr. 
 ■ — 's, the finer and more delicate sensibilities are 
 seldom known to have place, or, if originally implant- 
 ed there, are in a great measure extinguished by 
 the exertions of intense study and profound investi- 
 gation. Hence the idea of philosophy and unfeeling- 
 ness being united, has become proverbial, and in 
 common language, the former word is often used to 
 express the latter. — Our philosopher has been cen- 
 sured by some, as deficient in warmth and feeling : 
 but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by 
 all ; and it is certain, that, if he was not easily melted 
 into compassion, it was, at least, not difficult to awa- 
 ken his benevolence. 
 
 * 
 
THE MIRROR. 207 
 
 One morning, while he sat busied in those specu- 
 lations, which afterwards astonished the world, an 
 old female domestic, who served him for a house- 
 keeper, brought him word, that an elderly gentleman 
 and his daughter had arrived in the village, the pre- 
 ceding evening, on their way to some distant country, 
 and that the father had been suddenly seized in the 
 night with a dangerous disorder, which the people 
 of the inn where they lodged feared would prove 
 mortal : that she had been sent for, as having some 
 knowledge in medicine, the viilage-surgeon being 
 then absent ; and that it was truly piteous to see the 
 good old man, who seemed not so much afflicted by 
 his own distress as by that which it caused to his 
 
 daughter, Her mrister laid aside the volume in 
 
 his hand, and broke off the chain of ideas it had in- 
 spired. His night-gown was exchanged for a coat, 
 and he followed his gouverncuitc to the sick man's 
 apartment. 
 
 'Twas the best in the little inn where they lay, 
 
 but a paltry one notwithstanding. Mr. was 
 
 obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was floored with 
 earth, and above were the joists not plastered, and 
 hung with cobwebs. — On a flock bed, at one end, lay 
 the old man he came to visit ; at the foot of it sat his 
 daughter. She was dressed in a clean white bed- 
 gown ; her dark locks hung loosely over it as she 
 bent forward, watching the languid looks of her fa- 
 ther. Mr. and his housekeeper had stood 
 
 some moments in the room without the young lady's 
 being sensible of their entering it.— .'•' Mademoi- 
 " selle 1" said the old woman at last in a soft tone, 
 — She turned and shewed one of the finest faces in 
 the world. — It was touched, not spoiled with sorrow; 
 and when she perceived a stranger, whom the old 
 woman now introduced to her, a blush at first, and 
 then the gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which 
 the affliction of the time tempered, but did not ex- 
 
 VOL. I. t 
 
2C8 TH£ MIllKOR. 
 
 tinguish, crossed it for a moment, and changed its 
 expression. 'Twaa sweetness all, howe\er, and our 
 philosopher felt it strongly. It was not a time for 
 words ; he offered his services in a few sincere ones. 
 ** Monsieur lies miserably ill here," said the gouver- 
 nante ; " if he could possibly be moved any where." 
 — . — " If he could be moved to our house," said 
 her master. — He had a spare bed for a friend, 
 and there was a garret room unoccupied, next to the 
 gouvernante's. It was contrived accordingly. The 
 scruples of the stranger, who could look scruples, 
 though he could not speak them, were overcome, and 
 the bashful reluctance 6f his daughter gave way to 
 her belief of its use to her father. The sick man 
 was wrapt in blankets, and carried across the street 
 to the English gentleman's. The old woman helped 
 his daughter to nurse him there. The surgeon, who 
 arrived soon after, prescribed a little, and nature did 
 much for him ; in a week he was able to thank his 
 benefactor. 
 
 By this time his host had learned the name and 
 character of his guest. He was a protestant clergy- 
 man of Switzerland, called La Roche, a widower, who 
 had lately buried his wife, after a long and lingering 
 illness, for which travelling had been prescribed, and 
 was now returning home, after an ineffectual and 
 melancholy journey, with his only child, the daughter 
 we have mentioned. 
 
 He was a devout man, as became his profession. 
 He possessed devotion in all its warmth, but with 
 none of its asperity ; I mean that asperity. which men, 
 
 called devout, sometimes indulge in. Mr. , 
 
 though he felt no devotion, never quarrelled with it 
 in others. His gouvemante joined the old man and 
 his daughter in the prayers and thanksgivings which 
 they put up on his recovery ; for she, too, was a he- 
 retic, in the phrase of the village. The philoso- 
 pher walked out, with his long staff and his dog, and 
 
THE MIRROR. 20* 
 
 left them to their prayers and thanksgivin^s.- 
 
 Ci My master," said the old woman, " alas ! he is 
 " not a Christian ; but lie is the- best of unbeliev- 
 « ers." " Not a Christian !" —exclaimed Ma- 
 demoiselle La Roche, " yet he saved my lather 1 
 " Heaven bless him for't ; I would he were a Chris- 
 " tianl" " There is a- pride in human knowledge, 
 " my child," s?'A her father, " which often blind 
 4 men to the sublime truths of revelation ; hence 
 u opposers of Christianity are found among men of 
 " virtuous lives, as well as among those of dissipated 
 «' and licentious characters. Nay, sometimes I have 
 " known the latter more easily converted to the true 
 " faith than the former, because the fume of passion 
 <; is more easily dissipated than the mist of false 
 " theory and delusive speculation." — "But Mr.—," 
 said his daughter, " alas 1 my father, he shall be a 
 
 " Christian before he dies." She was interrupted 
 
 by the arrival of their landlord. He took her hand 
 
 with an air of kindness : She drew it away from 
 
 him in silence ; threw down her eyes to the ground, 
 
 and left the room. " I have been thanking God," 
 
 said the good La Roche, " for my recovery." " That 
 " is right," replied his landlord — u I would not wish" 
 continued the old man, hesitatingly, " to think otber- 
 " wise ; did I not look up with gratitude to that Be- 
 44 ing, I. should barely be satisfied with my recovery, 
 " as a continuation of life, which, it may be, is not a 
 " real good : — Alas 1 I may live to wish 1 had died, 
 (i that you had left me to die, Sir, instead of kindly 
 " relieving me (he clasped Mr. — r-'s hand ;) but, 
 " when I look on this renovated being as the gift of 
 " the Almighty, I feel a far different sentiment — 
 " my heart dilates with gratitude and love to him ; 
 «' it is prepared for doing 1 is will, not as a duty but 
 " as a pleasure, and regards every breach of it, not 
 44 with disapprobation, but with horror." — u You say 
 •' right, my dear Sir," replied the philosopher ; 4i but 
 
2 20 THE MIRK OR. 
 
 " you arc not yet re- established enough to talk much 
 ** — you must take care of your health, and neither 
 " study nor preach for some time. 1 have been 
 " thinking over a scheme that struck me to-day, 
 " when you mentioned your intended departure. I 
 t; never was in Switzerland ; 1 have a great mind to 
 " accompany your daughter and you into that coun- 
 <» try. — 1 will help to take care of /ou by the road ; 
 rt for, as I was your first physician, I hold myself 
 " responsible for your cure." La Roche's eyes glis- 
 tered at the proposal , his daughter was called in and 
 told of it. She was equally pleased with her father; 
 for they really loved their landlord — not perhaps the 
 less for his infidelity ; at least that circumstance 
 mixed a sort of pity with their regard for him — their 
 souls were not of a mould for harsher feelings ; hatred 
 never dwelt in them. 
 
 No. XLIII. TUESDAY, JUNE 22. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF LA ROCHE. 
 
 THEY travelled by short stages ; for the philoso- 
 pher was as good as his word, in taking care that the 
 old man should not be fatigued. The party had time 
 to be well acquainted with one another, and their 
 friendship was increased by acquaintance. La Roche 
 found a degree of simplicity and gentleness in his 
 companion, which is not always annexed to the cha- 
 racter of a learned or a wise man. His daughter, 
 who was prepared to be afraid of him, was equally 
 undeceived. She found in him nothing of that self- 
 importance which superior parts, or great cultivation 
 of them, is apt to confer. He talked of every thine; 
 
THE MIRROR. 211 
 
 but philosophy or reiigion ; he seemed to enjoy every 
 pleasure and amusement of ordinary life, and to be 
 interested in the most common topics of discourse ; 
 when his knowledge or learning at any time appeared, 
 it was delivered with the utmost plainness, and with- 
 out the least shadow of dogmatism. 
 
 On his part, he was charmed with the society of 
 the good clergyman and his lovely daughter. He 
 found in them the guileless manner of the earliest 
 times, with the culture and accomplishment of the 
 most refined ones. Every better feeling, warm and 
 vivid ; every ungentle one, repressed or overcome. 
 He was not addicted to love ; but he felt himself 
 happy in being the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, 
 and sometimes envied her father the possession of 
 such a child. 
 
 After a journey of eleven days, they arrived at the 
 dwelling of La Roche. It was situated in one of 
 those valleys of the canton of Berne, where nature 
 stems to repose, as it were, in quiet, and has en- 
 closed her retreat with mountains inaccessible. ■ 
 
 A stream, that spent its fury in the hills above, ran in 
 front of the house, and a broken water-fall was seen 
 through the wood that covered its sides ; below, it 
 circled round a tufted plain, and formed a little lake 
 in front of a village, at the end of which appeared 
 the spire of La Roche's church, rising above a clump 
 of beeches. 
 
 Mr. enjoyed the beauty of the scene ; but, 
 
 to his companions, it recalled the memory of a wife 
 and parent they had lost. — The old man's sorrow was 
 silent ; his daughter sobbed and wept. Her father 
 took her hand, kissed it twice, pressed it to his bo- 
 som, threw up his eyes to heaven ; and, having wiped 
 off a tear that was just about to drop from each, be- 
 £an to point out to his guest some of the most strik- 
 ing objects which the prospect afforded. The philo- 
 
 t 2 
 
212 THE jtflRROR. 
 
 sopher interpreted all this ; and he could but slightly 
 censure the creed from which it arose. 
 
 They had not been long arrived, when a number 
 of La Roche's parishioners, who had heard of his re- 
 turn, came to the house to see and welcome him. 
 The honest folks were awkward, but sincere, in their 
 professions of regard.— They made some attempts of 
 condolence ; — it was tco delicate for their handling ; 
 but La Roche took it in good part. " It has pleased 
 God"— said he ; and they saw he had settled the 
 matter with himself. — Philosophy could hot have 
 done so much with a thousand words. 
 
 It was now evening, and the good peasants were 
 about to depart, when a clock was heard to strike 
 seven, and the hour was followed by a particular 
 chime. The country lolks, who had come to wel- 
 come their pastor, turned their looks towards him at 
 the sound ; he explained their meaning to his guest. 
 
 * That is the signal," said he, " for our evening ex- 
 
 * ercise ; this is one of the nights of the week in 
 * 4 which some of my parishioners are wont to join 
 11 in it ; a little rustic saloon serves for the chapel of 
 " our family, and such of the good people as are 
 <l with us ;— if you chuse rather to walk out, I will 
 i; furnish you with an attendant ; or here are a fetf 
 t; old books that may aflbrd you some entertainment 
 " within."—" By no means," answered the philoso- 
 pher ; " I- will attend Ma'moiselle at her devotions." 
 — " Ske is our organist," said La Roche ; " our 
 w neighbourhood is the country of musical mechan- 
 ** ism : and I have a small organ fitted up for the 
 *'* purpose of assisting our singing." — " 'Tis an addi- 
 " tional inducement," replied the other ; and they 
 walked into the room together. At the end stood 
 the organ mentioned by La Roche $ before it was a 
 curtain, which his daughter drew aside, and, placing 
 herself on a seat within, and drawing the curtain 
 close, so as to save her the awkwardness of an ex» 
 
TriR MIRROR. 313 
 
 tiibition, began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in 
 
 the highest degree. Mr. - — was no musician, 
 
 but he was not altogether insensible to music ; this 
 fastened on his mind more strongly, from its beauty 
 being unexpected. The solemn prelude introduced a 
 hymn, in which such of the audience as could sing* 
 immediately joined ; the words were mostly taken 
 from holy writ ; it spoke the praises of God, and his 
 care of good men. Something was said of the death 
 
 of the just, of such as die in the Lord. The organ 
 
 Mas touched with a hand less firm ; — it paused, it 
 ceased ; — and the sobbing of Ma'moiselle La Roche 
 was heard in its stead. Her father gave a sign for 
 stopping the psalmody, and rose to pray. He was 
 discomposed at first, and his voice faultere"d as he 
 spoke ; but his heart was in his words, and his 
 warmth overcame his tmbarrassment. He addressed 
 a Being whom he loved, and he spoke for those he 
 loved. His parishioners catched the ardour of the 
 good old man ; even the philosopher felt himself 
 moved, and forgot, for a moment, to think why he 
 should not. 
 
 La Roche's religion was that of sentiment, not 
 theory, and his guest was averse from disputation ; 
 their discourse, therefore, did not lead to questions 
 concerning the belief of either ; yet would the old 
 man sometimes speak of his, from the fullness of a 
 heart impressed with its force, and wishing to spread 
 the pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of his 
 God, and his Saviour, were so congenial to his miild* 
 that every emotion of it naturally awaked them.- A 
 philosopher might have called him an enthusiast ; 
 but, if he possessed the fervour of enthusiasts ; he 
 was guiltless of their bigotry. " Our Father which 
 44 art in heaven V might the good man say — for he 
 felt it — and all mankind were his brethren. 
 
 4 - You regret my friend," said he to Mr. ---, 
 
 " when my daughter and I talk of the exquisite pled- 
 
214 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " sure derived from music^ you regret your want of 
 " musical powers and musical feelings ; it is a de- 
 " partment of soul, you say, which nature has almost 
 U denied you. which from the effects you see it have 
 cl on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. 
 « — Why should not the same thing be said of refi- 
 " gion I Trust" me, I feel it in the same way, an 
 " energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for 
 " all the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the 
 
 world ; yet, so far from lessening my relish of the 
 " pleasures of life, methinks I feel it heighten them 
 " all. The thought of receiving it from God, adds 
 " the blessing of sentiment to that of sensation in 
 " every good thing I possess ; and when calamities 
 
 Ck overtake me and I have had my share— it 
 
 44 confers a dignity on my affliction, so lifts me 
 
 " above the vorid. Man, I know, is but a worm 
 
 " — yet, methinks, I am then allied to God !" — It 
 would have been inhuman in our philosopher to have 
 cjouded, even with a doubt, the sunshine of this be- 
 ,ief. 
 
 His discourse, indeed, was very remote from meta- 
 physical disquisition, or religious controversy. Of 
 all men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was 
 the least tinctured with pedantry, or liable to disserta- 
 tion. With La Roche and his daughter, it was per- 
 fectly familiar. The country round them, the man- 
 ners of the village, the comparison of both with those 
 of England, remarks on the works of fatourite au- 
 thors, on > the sentiments they conveyed, and the 
 passions they excited, with many other topics in 
 which there was an equality, or alternate advantage, 
 among the speakers were the subjects they talked on. 
 Their hours too of riding and walking were many, 
 
 in which Mr. , as a stranger, was shewn 
 
 the remarkable scenes and curiosities of the country. 
 They would sometimes m:ke little expeditions to 
 contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing 
 
THE MIRHOK. 215 
 
 mountains, the cliffs of which, covered with eternal 
 snows, and sometimes shooting into fantastic shapes, 
 form the termination of most of the Swiss prospects. 
 Our philosopher asked many questions as to their na- 
 tural history and productions. La Roche observed 
 the sublimity of the ideas which the view of their 
 stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot, was 
 calculated to inspire, which naturally, said he, leads 
 the mind to that Being by whom their foundations 
 were laid. — " They are not seen in Flanders i" said 
 Ma'moiselle with a sigh. u That's an odd remark," 
 
 said Mr. , smiling. She blushed, and he 
 
 enquired no farther. 
 
 'Twas with regret he left a society in which he 
 found himself so happy ; but he settled with La Roche 
 and his daughter a plan of correspondence ; and they 
 took his promise, that, if ever he came within fifty 
 leagues of their dwelling, he should travel those fifty 
 leagues to visit them. 
 
 No. XLIV. SATURDAY, JUNE 26. 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF LA ROCHE. 
 
 ABOUT three years after, our philosopher was 
 on a visit at Geneva ; the promise he made to La 
 Roche and his daughter, on his former visit, was re- 
 called tD his mind, by the view of that range of 
 mountains, on a part of which they had often looked 
 together. There was a reproach, too, conveyed along 
 with the recollection, for his having failed to write 
 to either for several months past. The truth was, 
 that indolence was the habit most natural to him., from 
 which he was not easily roused by the claims of cor- 
 
216 THE MIRROR. 
 
 respondence either of his friends or of his enemies -, 
 when the latter drew their pens in controversy, they 
 were often unanswered, as well as the former. While 
 he was hesitating about a visit to La Roche, which 
 he wished to make, but found the effort rather too 
 much for him, he received a letter frcvm the old man,, 
 which had been forwarded to him from Paris, where 
 he had then his fixed residence. It contained a gen- 
 tle complaint of Mr. 's w r ant of punctuality,, 
 but an assurance of continued gratitude for his former 
 good offices ^ and, as a friend whom the writer con- 
 sidered interested in his family, it informed him of 
 the approaching nuptials of Ma'moiselle La Roche, 
 with a young man, a relation of her own, and for- 
 merly a pupil of her father's, of the most amiable dis- 
 position, and respectable character. Attached from 
 their earliest years, they had been separated by his 
 joining one of the subsidiary regiments of the Can- 
 ton, then in the service of a foreign power. In this 
 situation, he had distinguished himself as much for 
 courage and military skill, as for the other endow- 
 ments which he had cultivated at home. The term 
 of his service was now expired, and they expected 
 him to return in a few weeks, when the old man 
 hoped, as he expressed it in his letter, to join their 
 hands, and see them happy before he died. 
 
 Our philosopher felt himself interested in this 
 event ; but he was not, perhaps, altogether so happy 
 in the tidings of Ma'moiselle La Roche's marriage, 
 as her father supposed him. — Not that he was ever a 
 lover of the lady's ; but he thought her oue of the 
 most amiable women he had seen, and there was 
 something in the idea of her being another's for ever, 
 that struck him, he knew not why, like a disappoint- 
 ment. — After some little speculation on the matter, 
 however, he could lock on it as a thing fitting, if not 
 quite agreeable-, and determined on this visit to sec 
 his old friend and his daughter happy. 
 
THE MIRROR. 217 
 
 On the last day of his journey, different accidents 
 had retarded his progress ; he was benighted before 
 he reached the quarter, in which La Roche resided. 
 His guide, however, was well acquainted with the 
 road, and he found himself at last in view of the lake, 
 which I have before described, in the neighbourhood 
 of La Roche's dwelling. A light gleamed on the 
 water, that seemed to proceed from the house ; it 
 moved slowly along as he proceeded up the side of 
 the lake, and at last he saw it glimmer through the 
 trees, and stop at some distance from the place where 
 he then was. He supposed it some piece of bridal 
 merriment, and pushed on his horse, that he might 
 be a spectator of the scene ; but he was a good deal 
 shocked, on approaching the spot, to find it proceeded 
 from the torch of a person clothed in the dress of 
 an attendant on a funeral, and accompanied by se- 
 veral others, who, like him, seemed to have been 
 employed in the rites of sepulture. 
 
 On Mr. 's making enquiry who was the 
 
 person they had been burying ? one of them, with an 
 accent more mournful than is common to their pro- 
 fession, answered, " then you knew not Mademoi- 
 " selle, Sir ? — you never beheld a lovelier" — " La 
 " Roche 1" exclaimed he in reply — M Alas ! it was 
 '• she indeed 1" — The appearance of surprize and grief 
 which his countenance assumed, attracted the notice 
 of the peasant with whom he talked.— He came up 
 closer to Mr. ■« — ; M I perceive, Sir, you were 
 " acquainted with Mademoiselle La Roche." — " Ac- 
 * ; quainted with her I — Good God i — when — !vow — . 
 " where did she die ? — Where is her father r" — 
 u She died, Sir, of heart-break, I believe ; the young 
 u gentleman to whom she was soon to have been 
 u married, was killed in a duel by a French officer, 
 " his intimate companion, and to whom, before their 
 " quarrel, he had often done the greatest favours. 
 " Her worthy father bears her death, as he has often 
 
218 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " told us a Christian should ; he is even so composed 
 " as to be now in his pulpit, ready to deliver a few 
 " exhortations to his parishioners, as is the custom 
 " with us on such occasions : — follow me, Sir, and 
 " you shall hear him." — Ke followed the man with- 
 out answering. 
 
 The church was dimly lighted, except near the 
 pulpit, where the venerable La Roche was seated. 
 His people were now lifting up their voices in a psalm 
 to that Being whom their pastor had taught them 
 ever to bless and to revere. La Roche sat, his fi- 
 gure bending gently forward, his eyes half-closed, 
 lifted tip in silent devotion. A lamp placed near 
 him threw its light strong on his head, and marked 
 the shadowy lines of age across the paleness of his 
 brow, thinly covered with grey hairs. 
 
 The music ceased ; — La Roche sat for a moment, 
 and nature wrung a few tears from him. His peo- 
 ple were loud in their grief. Mr. was not 
 
 less affected than tjiey. — La Roche arose. — " Father 
 " of Mercies 1" said he, " forgive these tears ; assist 
 " thy servant to lift up his soul to thee ; to lift to 
 " thee the souls of thy people I — My friends 1 it is 
 u good so to do : at all seasons it is good ; but in 
 " the days of our distress, what a privilege it is ! 
 " Well saith the sacred book, " Trust in the Lord : 
 « at ail times trust in the Lord." " When every 
 " other support fails us, when the fountains of world- 
 " ly comfort are dried up, let us then seek those 
 " living waters which flow from the throne of God. — 
 u 'Tis only from the belief of the goodness and wis- 
 " dom of a supreme* Being, that our calamities can 
 " be borne in that manner which becomes a man. 
 " Human wisdom is here of little use ; for, in pro- 
 " portion as it bestows comfort, it represses feeling, 
 " without which we may cease to be hurt by cala- 
 « mity. but we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. — 
 " I will not bid you be insensible, my friends i I 
 
THE MIRROR. 
 
 219 
 
 cannot. I cannot, if I would (his tears flowed afresh) 
 I feel too much myself, and I am not ashamed of 
 my feelings ; but therefore may I the more wil- 
 lingly be heard ; therefore have I prayed God to 
 give me strength to speak to you ; to direct you 
 to him, not with empty words, but with these tears ; 
 not from speculation, but from experience, — that 
 while you see me suffer, you may know also my 
 consolation. 
 
 " You behold the mourner of his only child, the 
 last earthly stay and blessing of his declining years I 
 Such a child too ! — It becomes not me to speak of 
 her virtues ; yet it is but gratitude to mention 
 them, because they were exerted towards my- 
 self. Not many days ago you saw her young, 
 
 beautiful, virtuous, and happy ;■— ye who are pa- 
 rents will judge of my felicity then, — ye will judge 
 of my affliction now. But I look towards him who 
 struck me ; I see the hand of a father amidst the 
 
 chastenings of my God. Oh ! could I make you 
 
 feel what it is to pour out the heart, when it is 
 pressed down with many sorrows, to pour it out 
 with confidence to him, in whose hands are life and 
 death, on whose power awaits all that the first en- 
 joys, and in contemplation of whom disappears all 
 that the last can inflict '. — For we are not as those 
 who die without hope ; we know that our Re- 
 deemer liveth — that we shall live with him, with 
 our friends his servants, in that blessed land where 
 sorrow is unknown, and happiness is endless as it 
 is perfect. — Go then, mourn not for me ; I have 
 not lost my child : but a little while, and we shall 
 meet again, never to be separated — But ye are 
 also nay children : would ye that I should not 
 grieve without comfort ? — So live as she lived ; 
 that, when your death cometh, it may be the death 
 of the righteous, and your latter end like his." 
 
 VOL. I. U 
 
220 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Such was the exhortation of La Roche ; hU audi- 
 ence answered it with their tears. The good old 
 man had dried up his at the altar of the Lord ; his 
 countenance had lost its sadness, and assumed the 
 
 glow of faith and of hope. — Mr. followed him 
 
 into his house. — The inspiration of the pulpit was 
 past ; at sight of him, the scene they last met in 
 rushed again on his mind ; La Roche threw his arms 
 round his neck, and watered it with his tears. The 
 other was equally affected ; they went together, in 
 silence, into the parlour where the evening service 
 was wont to be performed. — The curtains of the or- 
 gan were open : La Roche started back at the sight, 
 " Oh 1 my friend V said he, and his tears burst 
 forth again. Mr. . had now recollected him- 
 self ; he stept forward, and drew the curtains close — 
 the old man wiped off his tears, and taking his friend's 
 hand, " You see my weakness," said he, " 'tis the 
 •* weakness of humanity ; but my comfort is not 
 
 u therefore lost." " I heard you," said the other, 
 
 " in the pulpit ; I rejoice that such consolation is 
 
 u your's." ** It is, my friend," said he, " and I 
 
 " trust I shall ever hold it fast ; — if there are any 
 " who doubt our faith ? let them think of what im- 
 " portance religion is to calamity, and forbear to 
 «' weaken its force ; if they cannot restore our hap- 
 " piness, let them not take away the solace of our 
 « affliction." 
 
 Mr. 's heart was smitten ; — and I have 
 
 heard him, long after, confess that there were mo- 
 ments when the remembrance overcame him even 
 to weakness ; when, amidst all the pleasures of phi- 
 losophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, 
 he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the 
 good La Roche, and wished that he had never 
 doubted. 
 
THE MIRROR. 221 
 
 No. XLV. TUESDAY, JUNE 29. 
 
 IS he a man of fashion ? is the usual question on 
 the appearance of a stranger, or the mention of a per- 
 son with whom we are unacquainted. But, though 
 this phrase be in the mouth of every body, I have 
 often found people puzzled when they attempted to 
 give an idea of what they meant by it ; and, indeed, 
 so many and so various are the qualities that enter 
 into the composition of a modern man of fashion, that 
 it is difficult to give an accurate definition or a just 
 description of him. Perhaps he may, in the general, 
 be denned, a being who possesses some quality or 
 talent which intitles him to be received into every 
 company ; to make one in all parties, and to asso- 
 ciate with persons of the highest rank and the first 
 distinction. 
 
 If this definition be just, it may be amusing to 
 consider the different ideas that have prevailed, at 
 different times, with regard to the qualities requi- 
 site to constitute a man of fashion. Not to go far- 
 ther back, we are told by Lord Clarendon, that, in 
 the beginning of the last century, the men of rank 
 were distinguished by a stately deportment, a dig- 
 nified manner, and a certain stiffness of ceremonial, 
 admirably calculated to keep their inferiors at a pro- 
 per distance. In those days, when pride of family 
 prevailed so universally, it is to be presumed, that no 
 circumstance could atone for the want of birth. Nei- 
 ther riches nor genius, knowledge nor ability, could 
 then have entitled their possessor to hold the rank of 
 a man of fashion, unless he fortunately had sprung 
 from an ancient and honourable family. The im- 
 mense fortunes which we are now accustomed to 
 see acquired, almost instantaneously, were then un- 
 known. In imagination, however, we may fancy what 
 an awkward appearance a modern nabob, or con- 
 
222 THE MIRROR. 
 
 tractor, would have made in a circle of these proud 
 and high-minded nobles. With all his wealth, he 
 would have been treated as a being of a different 
 species ; and any attempt to imitate the manners 
 of the great, or to rival them in expence and splen- 
 dour, would only have served to expose him the more 
 to ridicule and contempt. 
 
 As riches, however, increased in the nation, men 
 became more and more sensible of the solid advan- 
 tages they brought along with them ; and the pride 
 cf birth gradually relaxing, monied men rose pro- 
 portionally into estimation. The haughty lord, or 
 prcud country gentleman, no longer scrupled to give 
 Lis daughter in marriage to an opulent citizen, or to 
 repair his ruined fortune by uniting the heir of his 
 title or family with a rich heiress, though cf plebeian 
 extraction. These connections daily becoming more 
 common, removed, in some measure, the distinction 
 of rank ; and every man, possessed of a certain for- 
 tune, came to think himself intitled to be treated as 
 a gentleman, and received as a man of fashion. A- 
 bove all, the happy expedient of purchasing Seats in 
 Parliament, tended to add weight and consideration 
 to what came to be called the Monied Interest. 
 WJien a person, who had suddenly acquired an en- 
 ormous fortune, could find eight or ten proper, well- 
 dressed, gentlemen-like figures, ready to vote for 
 him, as his proxies, in the House of Commons, it is 
 not surprising, that, in his turn, he should come to 
 look down on the heirs of old established families, 
 who could neither cope with him in influence at court, 
 nor vie with him in show and ostentation. 
 
 About the beginning of this century, there seems 
 to have been an intermediate, though short interval, 
 when genius, knowledge, talents, and elegant accom- 
 plishments, intitled their possessor to hold the rank 
 of a man of fashion, and were even deemed essentially 
 requisite to form that character. The society of 
 
THE MIRROR. 225 
 
 Swift, Pope, Gay, and Prior was courted by all ; and, 
 without the advantages of high, birth, or great for- 
 tune, an Addison and a Craggs attained the first offi- 
 ces in the state. 
 
 In the present happy and enlightened age, neither 
 birth nor fortune, superior talents, nor superior abili- 
 ties, are requisite to form a man of fashion. On the 
 contrary, all these advantages united are insufficient 
 to entitle their owners to hold that rank, while we 
 daily see numbers received as men of fashion, though 
 sprung from the meanest of the people and though 
 destitute of every grace, of every polite accomplish- 
 ment, and of all pretensions to genius or ability. 
 
 This, I confess, I have often considered as one of 
 the greatest and most important improvements in 
 modern manners. Formerly it behoved every person 
 born in obscurity, who wished to rise into eminence, 
 either to acquire wealth by industry or frugality, or 
 following a still more laborious and difficult pursuit, 
 to distinguish himself by the exertion of superior ta- 
 lents in the field or in the senate. But now nothing 
 of all this is necessary. A certain degree of know- 
 ledge the man of fashion must indeed possess. He 
 must be master of the principles contained in the ce- 
 lebrated treatise of Mr. Hoyle ; he must know the 
 chances of Hazard ; he must be able to decide on any 
 dispute with regard to the form of a hat, or the fashion 
 of a buckle ; and he must be able to tell my Lady 
 Duchess, whether Marechalle powder suits best a 
 brown or a fair complexion. 
 
 From the equipage, the dress, the external show 
 of a modern man of fashion, a superficial observer 
 might be apt to think that fortune, at least, is a ne- 
 cessary article ; but a proper knowledge of the world 
 leaches us the contrary. A man of fashion must, 
 indeed, live as if he were a man of fortune. He must 
 rival the wealthiest in expence of every kind ; he 
 must push to excess every species of extravagant dis- 
 u 2 
 
224 THE MIRROR. 
 
 sipation ; and he must game for more money than he 
 can pay. But all these things a man of fashion can 
 do, without possessing any visible revenue whatever. 
 This, though perhaps the most important, is not the 
 only advantage which the man of fashion enjoys over 
 the rest of mankind. Not .o mention that he may 
 seduce the daughter, and corrupt the wife of his 
 friend, he may also, with perfect honour, rob the son 
 of that friend of his whole fortune in an evening ; 
 and it is altogether immaterial that the one party was 
 intoxicated, and the other sober, that the one was 
 skilled in the game, and the other ignorant of it ; 
 for, if a young man will insist upon p'aying in such 
 circumstances, who but himself can be blamed for 
 the consequences ? 
 
 The superiority enjoyed by a man of fashion, in 
 his ordinary dealings and intercourse with mankind, 
 is still more marked. He may, without any impeach- 
 ment on his character and with the nicest regard to 
 his honour, do things which, in a common man, 
 would be deemed infamous Thus the man of 
 fashion may live in luxury and splendour, while his 
 creditors are starving in the streets, or rotting in a 
 jail ; and, should they attempt to enforce the laws of 
 their country against him, he would be entitled to 
 complain of it as a gross violation of the respect that 
 is due to his person and character. 
 
 The last time my friend Mr. Umphraville was in 
 town, I was not a little amused with his remarks on 
 the men of fashion about this city, and on the change 
 that had taken place in our manners since the time 
 he had retired from the world. When we met a 
 young man gaily dressed, lolling in his chariot, he 
 seldom failed to ask, " What young lord is that ?*' 
 One day we were invited to dine with an old acquaint- 
 ance, who had married a lady passionately fond of the 
 ton, and of every thing that had the appearance of 
 tashion. We w T ent at the common hour of dining} 
 
THE MIRROK. 225 
 
 and after waiting some time, our host (who had in- 
 formed us that he would invite nobody else, that we 
 might talk over old stories without interruption) pro- 
 posed to order dinner ; on which his lady, after chid- 
 ing his impatience, and observing that nobody kept 
 such unfashionable hours, said, she expected Mr. 
 
 , and another friend, whom she had met at the 
 
 play the evening before, and had engaged to dine 
 with her that day. After waiting a full hour longer, 
 the noise of a carriage, and a loud rap at the door, 
 announced the arrival of the expected guests. They 
 entered, dressed in the very pink of the mode ; and 
 neither my friend's dress nor mine being calculated to 
 inspire them with respect, they brushed past us, and 
 addressed the lady of the house, and two young ladies 
 wh« were with her, in a strain of coarse familiarity, 
 so different from the distant and respectful manner to 
 which Mr. Umphraville had been accustomed, that 
 I could plainly discover he was greatly shocked 
 with it. When we were called to dinner, the two 
 young gentlemen seated themselves on each hand of 
 the lady of the house, and there ingrossed the whole 
 conversation, if a recital of the particulars of their 
 adventures at the tavern the evening before deserved 
 that name. For a long time, every attempt made by 
 our landlord to enter into discourse with Mr. Umphra- 
 ville and me proved abortive. At last, taking advan- 
 tage of an accidental pause, he congratulated my 
 friend on the conquest of Pondicherry. The latter, 
 drawing his brows together, and shaking his head 
 with an expression of dissent, observed, that although 
 he was always pleased with the exertions of our coun- 
 trymen, and the bravery of our troops, he could not 
 receive any satisfaction from an Indian conquest. He 
 then began an harangue on the corruption of manners 
 — the evils of luxury — the fatal consequences of a 
 sudden influx of wealth — and would I am persuaded, 
 "ere he had done, have traced the loss of liberty in 
 
226 THK MIRROR. 
 
 Greece and the fall of Rome to Asiatic connections, 
 had he not been, all at once cut short with the excla- 
 mation of " Damn it, Jack, how does the old boy do 
 *' to-day ? I hope he begins to get better. — Nay, 
 « 4 pr'ythee don't look grave ; you know I am too 
 44 much your friend to wish him to hold out long ; 
 " but if he tip before Tuesday at twelve o'clock, I 
 
 " shall lose a hundred to Dick Hazard. After 
 
 44 that time, as soon as you please." " Don't you 
 
 44 think, Madam," (addressing himself to one of the 
 young ladies) " that when an old fellow has been scrap- 
 4i ing money together with both hands for forty years, 
 " the civilest thing he can do is to die, and leave it to 
 44 a son, who has spirit to spend it ?" Without utter- 
 ing a word, the lady gave one look, that, had he been 
 able to translate it into language, must, for a time at 
 least, have checked his vivacity. But the rebuke be- 
 ing too delicate to make any impression on our hero, 
 he ran on in the same strain ; and being properly sup- 
 ported by his companion, effectually excluded the dis- 
 course of every body else. Umphraviile did not once 
 again attempt to open his mouth ; and, for my own 
 part, as I had heard enough of the conversation, his 
 countenance served as a sufficient fund of entertain- 
 ment for me. A painter, who wished t© express in- 
 dignation, contempt, and pity, blended together, could 
 not have found a finer study. 
 
 At length we withdrew ; and we had no sooner got 
 fairly out of the house, than Umphraviile began to 
 interrogate me with regard to the gentlemen who had 
 dined with us. u They are men of fashion," said I — 
 44 But who are they ? of what families are they de- 
 " scended ?" — " As to that," replied I, " you know 
 44 I am not skilled in the science of genealogy ; but, 
 44 though I were, it would not enable me to answer 
 44 your present enquiries ; for I believe, were you to 
 41 put the question to the gentlemen themselves, it 
 11 would puzzle either of them to tell you who his 
 
THE MIRROR. 227 
 
 " grandfather was." — What then," said he, in an de- 
 rated tone of voice, " entitles them to be received 
 " into company as men of fashion ? Is it extent of 
 " ability, superiority of genius, refinement of taste, 
 " elegant accomplishments or polite conversation ? I 
 " admit, that where these are to be found in an emi- 
 " nent degree, they may make up for the want of 
 " birth ; but where a person can neither talk like a 
 " man of sense, nor behave like a gentleman, I must 
 *» own I cannot easily pardon our men of rank for al- 
 " lowing every barrier to be removed, and every fri- 
 " volous, insignificant fellow, who can adopt the 
 u reigaing vices of the age, to be received on an equal 
 " footing with themselves. — But after all" continued 
 he, in a calm tone, " if such be the manners of our 
 u men of rank, it may be doubted whether they, or 
 " their imitators, are the greatest objects of con- 
 tempt." 
 R. 
 
 u 
 
 No. XLVI. SATURDAY, JULY 3. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 
 I HAPPENED lately to dine in a large company, 
 where I was in a great measure, unknowing and un- 
 known. To enter into farther particulars, would be 
 to tell you more than is necessary to my story. 
 
 The conversation, after dinner, turned on that com- 
 mon-place question, " Whether a parent ought to 
 " chuse a profession for his child, or leave him to 
 " chuse for himself?" 
 
 Many remarks and examples were produced on 
 both sides of the question ; and the argument hung 
 
22S THE MIRltOR. 
 
 in equilibrio, as is often the case, when al! the spea- 
 kers are moderately well-informed, and none of them 
 are very eager to convince, or unwilling To be con- 
 vinced. 
 
 At length an elderly gentleman began to give his 
 opinion. He was a stranger to most of the company ; 
 had been silent, but not sullen ; of a steady but not 
 voracious appetite ; and one rather civil than polite. 
 
 " In my younger days," said he, " nothing would 
 " serve but I must needs make a campaign against 
 
 " the Turks in Hungary." At mention of the 
 
 Turks in Hungary, I perceived a general impatience 
 to seize the company. 
 
 " I rejoice exceedingly, Sir," said a young physi- 
 cian, " that fortune has placed me near one of your 
 " character, Sir, from whom I may be informed with 
 " precision, whether lavement of ol. amygd. did in- 
 " deed prove a specific in the Hungarian Dysenteria, 
 " which desolated the German army V* 
 
 " Ipecacuanha in small doses," added another gen- 
 tleman of the faculty, " is an excellent recipe, and 
 " was generally prescribed at our hospitals in West- 
 ** phalia, with great, although not infallible success : 
 " but that method was not known in the last wars 
 " between the Ottomans, vulgarly termed Turks, 
 " and the Imperialists, whom, through an error ex- 
 M ceedingly common, my good friend has clcnomina- 
 " ted GermaHS." 
 
 " You must pardon me,Doctor," said a third> " ipe- 
 " cacuanha, in small doses, was administered at the 
 u siege of Limerick, soon after the Revolution ; and 
 " if you will be pleased to add seventy-nine, the 
 " years of this century, to ten or eleven, which car- 
 " ries us back to the siege of Limerick in the last, you 
 " will find, if I mistake not, that this recipe has been 
 " used for fourscore and nine, or for ninety years." 
 
 " Twice the years of the longest prescription, 
 " Doctor," cried a pert barrister from the other end 
 
THE MIRROR. 229 
 
 of the table, " even after making a reasonable allow- 
 44 ance for minorities." 
 
 " You mean if that were necessary," said a thought- 
 ful aged person who sat next him. 
 
 " As I was saying," continued the third physician, 
 " ipecacuanha was administered in small doses at the 
 ,k siege of Limerick : for it is a certain fact, that a 
 " surgeon in King William's army communicated 
 " the receipt of that preparation to a friend of his, 
 " and that friend communicated it to the father, or 
 " rather, as I incline to believe, to the grandfather, of 
 " a friend of mine. I am peculiarly attentive to the 
 •' exactitude of my facts ; for iadeed, it is by facts alone 
 " that we can proceed to reason with assurance. It 
 u was the great Bacon's method." 
 
 A grave personage in black then spoke : — " There 
 " is another circumstance respecting the last wars in 
 " Hungary, which, I must confess, does exceedingly 
 44 interest my curiosity ; and that is, whether General 
 " Doxat was justly condemned for yielding up a for- 
 " tified city to the Infidels : or whether, being an in- 
 u nocent man, and a Protestant, he was persecuted 
 " unto death by the intrigues of the Jesuits at the 
 u court ©f Vienna ? 
 
 " I knew nothing of General Doxy," said the 
 stranger, who had hitherto listened attentively ; " but, 
 " if he was persecuted by the Jesuits, I should sup- 
 " pose him to have been a very honest gentleman ; 
 " for I never heard any thing but ill of the people of 
 " that religion." 
 
 " You forget," said the first physician, " the Quin- 
 « quina, that celebrated febrifuge, which was brought 
 " into Europe by a father of that order, or, as you 
 " are pleased to express it in a French idiom, of that 
 " religion." 
 
 u That of the introduction of the Quinquina into 
 " Europe by the Jesuits is a vulgar error," said the 
 second physician : " the truth is, that the secret was 
 " communicated by the natives of South-America to 
 
230 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " a humane Spanish governor whom they loved. He 
 44 lold his chaplain of it ; the chaplain, a German 
 K Jesuit, gave some of the bark to Dr. Helvetius, of 
 44 Amsterdam, father of that Helvetius, who, having 
 " composed a book concerning matter, gave it the 
 " title of spirit." 
 
 44 What !" cried the third physician, " was that 
 " Dr. Helvetius who cured the Queen of France of 
 44 an intermittent, the father of Helvetius the re- 
 44 nowned philosopher ? The fact is exceedingly cu- 
 44 rious ; and I wonder whether it has come to the 
 44 knowledge of my correspondent Dr. B ." 
 
 44 As the gentleman speaks of his campaigns," 
 said an officer of the army, 44 he will probably be in 
 44 a condition to inform us, whether Marshal Saxe is 
 44 to be credited when he tells us in his Reveries, 
 44 that the Turkish horse, after having drawn out 
 44 their fire, mowed down the Imperial infantry I" 
 
 44 Perhaps we shall have some account of Petro- 
 44 nius found at Belgrade," said another of the com- 
 pany ; 44 but I suspend my enquiries until the gentle- 
 44 man has finished his story." 
 
 r 44 I bare listened with great pleasure," said the 
 stranger, 44 and, though I cannot say that I under- 
 44 stand all the ingenious things spoken, I can see 
 u the truth of what I have often been told, that the 
 44 Scots, with all their faults, are a learned nation. 
 
 44 In my younger days, it is true, that nothing 
 44 would serve me but I must needs make a campaign 
 44 against the Turks, or the Hotmen in Hungary ; 
 44 but my father could not afford to breed me like a 
 44 gentleman, which was my own wish, and so he 
 44 bound me for seven years to a ship-chandler in 
 44 WappiRg. Just as my time was out, my master 
 44 died, and I married the widow. What by marri- 
 <4 ages, and what by purchasing damaged stores, 
 44 got together a pretty capital. I then dealt in sai- 
 44 lors' tickets, and I peculated, as they call it, in 
 44 divers things. lam now well known about 'Change ;. 
 
THK MIRROR. 2 3"1 
 
 " aye, and, somewhere else too," said he, with a sig- 
 nificant nod. 
 
 " Now, Gentlemen, you will judge whether my 
 " father did not chuse better for me than I should 
 " have done for myself. Had I gone to the wars, I 
 " might have lost some of my precious limbs, or 
 u have had my tongue cut out by the Turks. But 
 *' suppose that I had returned safe to Old England, I 
 44 might indeed have been able to brag, that I was 
 44 acquainted with the laughing man of Hungary, and 
 " with Peter, o — I can't hit on his name; and I might 
 44 have learnt the way of curing Great Bacon, and 
 4 ' known whether a l^urkish horse mowed down Im- 
 < 4 perial Infants ; but my pockets would have been 
 44 empty all the while, and I should have been put to 
 44 hard shifts for a dinner. And so you will see that 
 44 my father did well in binding me apprentice to a 
 4< ship-chandler — Here is to his memory in a bumper 
 " of port ; and success to omnium, and the Irish Tong- 
 " tcing I" 
 
 I am, Sir, Sec 
 
 EuTRAPELUS. 
 
 Though I early signified my resolution of declining 
 to take any public notice of communications or let- 
 ters sent me ; yet there is a set of correspondents 
 whose favours, lately received, I think myself bound 
 to acknowledge ; and this I do the more willingly, as 
 it shows the fame of my predecessors to have ex- 
 tended farther than even I had been apt to imagine. 
 
 The Spectator's Club is well known to the literary 
 and the fashionable of both sexes ; but I confess I 
 was not less surprised than pleased to find it familiar 
 (much to the credit of the gentlemen who frequent 
 such places) to the very tavern keepers of this city ; 
 the greatest part of whom, not doubting that I was to 
 follow so illustrious an example, in the institution of 
 a convivial society, have severally applied to me, 
 
 vol. i. x 
 
332 THE MIRROR. 
 
 through the channel of my Editor, to beg that they 
 may be honoured with the reception of the Mirror 
 Club. 
 
 Like all other candidates for employment, none of 
 them has been at a loss, for reasons why his proposal 
 should have the preference. One describes his house 
 as in the most public, another recommends his as in 
 the most private part of the town. One says, his 
 tavern is resorted to by the politest company ; ano- 
 ther, that he only receives gentlemen of the most re- 
 gular and respectable characters. One offers me 
 the largest room of its kind ; another the most quiet 
 and commodious. I am particularly pleased with 
 the attention of one of these gentlemen, who tells 
 me he has provided an excellent elbow-chair for Mr. 
 Umphraville ; and that he shall take care to have no 
 children in his house to disturb Mr. Fleetwood. 
 
 I am sorry to keep these good people in suspence ; 
 but I must inform them, for many obvious reasons, 
 that though my friends and I visit them oftener per- 
 haps than they are aware cf, it may be a considerable 
 time before we find it convenient to constitute a regu- 
 lar club, or to make known, even to the master of 
 the house which has the honour of receiving us, 
 where we have fixed the place of our convention. 
 
 Mean time, as all of them rest their chief preten- 
 sions on the character of the clubs who already favour 
 them with their countenance, and as the names of 
 most of these clubs excite my curiosity to be ac- 
 quainted with their history and constitution, I must 
 hereby request the landlords who entertain the re- 
 spective societies of the Capillaire, the Whin-bush, 
 the Knights of the Cap and Feather, the Tabernacle, 
 the Stoic, the Poker, the Hum-drum, and the Ante- 
 manum, to transmit me a short account of the origin 
 and nature of these societies ; — I say the landlords, 
 because I do not think myself entitled to desire such 
 an account from the clubs themselves ; and because 
 
THE MIRROR. 
 
 it is probable that the most material transactions car- 
 ried on at their meetings are perfectly well known, 
 and. indeed, may be said to come through the hands 
 of the hosts and their deputies. 
 L 
 
 Quid minuat curas, quid te tibi reddat amicum. Hon. 
 
 THAT falsi refinement and mistaken delicacy I 
 have formerly described in my friend Mr. Fleetwood, 
 a constant indulgence in which has rendered all his 
 feelings so acute, as to make him be disgusted with 
 the ordinary societies of men, not only attends him 
 when in company, or engaged in conversation, but 
 sometimes disturbs those pleasures, from which a mind 
 like his ought to receive the highest enjoyment. 
 Though endowed with the most excellent taste, and 
 though his mind be fitted for relishing ail the beau- 
 ties of good composition ; yet. such is the effect of 
 that- excess of sensibility he has indulged, that he 
 hardly ever receives pleasure from any of these, 
 which is not mixed with some degree of pain. In 
 reading, though he can feel ail the excellencies of 
 the author, and enter into his sentiments with warmth, 
 yet he generally meets with something to offend 
 him. If a poem, he complains that, with all its me- 
 rit, it is, in some places, turgid, in others languid ; 
 if a prose composition, that the style is laboured or 
 careless, stiff or familiar, and that the matter is either 
 trite or obscure. In his remarks, there is always 
 some foundation of truth ; but that exquisite sensi- 
 bility which leads to the too nice perception of b'e- 
 
23* THE MIRROR. 
 
 mishes, is apt to carry him away from the contem- 
 plation of the beauties of the author, and gives him 
 a degree of uneasiness which is not always compen- 
 sated by the pleasure he receives. 
 
 Very different from this turn of mind is that of 
 Robert Moiley, Esq. He is a man of very consi- 
 derable abilities. His father, (possessed of a consi- 
 derable fortune) sent him, when a boy, to an English 
 academy. He contracted, from the example of hia 
 teachers, an attachment to ancient learning ; and he 
 was led to think that he felt and relished the classic*, 
 and understood the merits of their composition. From 
 these circumstances, he began to fancy himself a man 
 of fine taste, qualified to decide with authority upon 
 every subject of polite literature. But, in reality, 
 Mr. Morlcy possesses as little taste as any one I 
 ever knew of his talents and learning. Endowed, by 
 Nature, with great strength of mind, and ignorant of 
 the feeeleness and weakness of human character, he 
 is a stranger to all those finer delicacies of feeling 
 and perception which constitute the man of genuine 
 taste. But, this notwithstanding, from the persuasion 
 that he is a person of fine taste, he reads and talks 
 with fancied rapture, of a poem, or a poetical de- 
 scription. All his remarks, however, discover that 
 he knows nothing of what he talks about ; and almost 
 every opinion which he gives differs from the most 
 approved upon the subject. Catched by that spirit 
 which Homer's heroes are possessed of, he agrees 
 with the greatest part of the world in thinking that 
 author the first of all poets ; but Virgil he considers 
 as a poet of very little merit. To him he prefers 
 Lucan ; but thinks there are some passages in Sta- 
 tius superior to either. He says Ovid gives a better 
 picture of love than Tibullus ; and he prefers Quintus 
 Curtius, as an historian, to Livy. The modern writers, 
 particularly the French, he generally speahs of with 
 contempt. Amongst the Erglish, he likes the style 
 
THE MIRROR. 235 
 
 of the Rambler better than that of Mr. Addison's 
 Spectator ; and he prefers Gordon and Macpherson 
 to Hume and Robertson. I have sometimes heard 
 him repeat an hundred lines at a stretch, from one 
 of the most bombast of our English poets, and have 
 seen him in apparent rapture at the high-sounding 
 words, and swell of the lines, though I am pretty 
 certain that he could not have a distinct picture or 
 idea of any one thing the poet meant. Though he 
 has no ear, I have heard him talk with enthusiasm 
 in praise of music, and lecture, with an air of supe-" 
 riority, upon the different qualities of the greatest 
 masters in the art. 
 
 Thus, while Mr.* Fleetwood is often a prey to dis- 
 appointment, and rendered uneasy by excessive re- 
 finement and sensibility, Mr. Morley, without any 
 taste at all, receives gratification unmixed and un- 
 alloyed. 
 
 The character of Morley is not more different from 
 Fleetwood's, than that of Tom Dacres is from both. 
 Tom is a young man of six-and-twenty, and being 
 owner of an estate of about five hundred pounds a- 
 year, he resides constantly in the country. He is not 
 a man of parts ; nor is he possessed of the least de- 
 gree of taste ; but Tom lives easy, contented, and 
 happy. He is one of the greatest talkers I ever knew ; 
 he rambles, with great volubility, from subject to sub- 
 ject ; but he never says any thing that is worth being 
 heard. He is every where the same ; and he runs 
 on with the like undistinguishing ease, whether in 
 company with men in high or in low rank, with the 
 knowing or the ignorant. The morning, if the wea- 
 ther be good, he employs in traversing the fields, 
 dressed in a short coat, and an old slouched hat with 
 tarnished gold binding. He is expert at all exercises ; 
 and he passes much of his time in shooting, playing 
 at cricket, or at nine-pins. If the weather be rainy, 
 he moves from the farm-yard to the stable, or from 
 x 2 
 
236 THE MIRROR. 
 
 the stable to the farm-yard. He walks from one end 
 of the parlour to the other, humming a tune, Gr whist- 
 ling to himself; sometimes he plays on the fiddle, 
 or takes a hit at back-gammon. Tom's sisters, who 
 are very accomplished girls, now and then put into 
 his hands any new book with which they are pleased ; 
 but he always returns it, says he does not see the use 
 of reading, that the book may be good, is well pleased 
 that they like it, but that it is not a thing of his suit. 
 Even in the presence cf ladies, he often indulges in 
 jokes coarse and indecent, which could not be heard 
 without a blush from any other person ; but from 
 Tom, for his way is known, they are heard without 
 offence. Tom is pleased with «himself, and with 
 every thing around him, and wishes for nothing that 
 he is not possessed of. He says he is much happier 
 than your wiser and graver gentlemen. Tom will 
 never be respected or admired ; but he is di-liked by 
 none, and made welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 In reflecting upon these characters, I have some- 
 times been almost tempted to think, that taste is an 
 acquisition to be avoided. I have been apt to make 
 this conclusion, when I considered the many unde- 
 scribable uneasinesses which Mr. Fleetwood is ex- 
 posed to, and the many unalloyed enjoyments of 
 Morley and Dacres ; the one without taste, but be- 
 lieving himself possessed of it ; the other without 
 taste, and without thinking that he has any. But I 
 have always been withdrawn from every such reflec- 
 tion, by the contemplation of the character of my 
 much-valued friend Mr. Sidney. 
 
 Mr. Sidney is a man of the best understanding, and 
 of the most correct and elegant taste ; but he is not 
 more remarkable for those qualities, than for that un- 
 common goodness and benevolence which presides 
 in all he says and does. To this it is owing that his 
 refined taste has never been attended with any other 
 consequence than to add to his own happiness, and to 
 
THE MIRROR. 237 
 
 that of every person with whom he has any connec- 
 tion. Mr. Sidney never unbosoms the secrets of his 
 heart, except to a very few particular friends ; but 
 he is polite and complaisant to all. It is not, howe- 
 ever, that politeness which arises from a desire to 
 comply with the rules of the world ; it is polite- 
 ness dictated by the heart, and which, therefore, sits 
 always easy upon him. At peace with his own mind, 
 he is pleased with every one about him ; and he re- 
 ceive the most sensible gratification from the thought, 
 that the little attentions which he bestows upon others, 
 contribute to their happiness. No person ever knew 
 better how to estimate the different pleasures of life ; 
 but none ever entered with more ease into the en- 
 joyments of others, though not suited to his own 
 taste. This flows from the natural benevolence of 
 his heart ; and I know he has received more delight 
 from taking ?/ -hare in the pleasures of others, than 
 in cultivating his own. In reading, no man has a 
 nicer discernment of the faults of an author ; but 
 he always contrives to overlook them ; and says, that 
 he hardly ever read any book from which he did not 
 receive some pleasure or instruction. 
 
 Mr. Sidney has, in the course of his life, met with 
 disappointments and misfortunes, though few of them 
 are known, except to his most particular friends. 
 While the impression of those misfortunes was 
 strongest on his mind, his outward conduct in the 
 world remained invariably the same ; and those few 
 friends whom he honoured by making partners of his 
 sorrows, know that one great source of his consola- 
 tion was the consciousness that, under the pressure 
 of calamity, his behaviour remained unaltered, and 
 that he was able to go through the duties of life with 
 becoming dignity and ease. Instead of being peevish 
 and discontented with the world, the disappointments 
 he has met with have only taught him to become 
 more detached from those enjoyments of life which 
 
238 THE MIRROR. 
 
 are beyond his power, and have made him value more 
 highly those which he possesses. Mr. Sidney has, 
 for a long time past, been engaged in business of a 
 very difficult and laborious nature : but he conducts 
 it with equal ease and spirit. Far from the elegance 
 and sensibility of his mind unfitting him for the 
 management of those transactions which require 
 great firmness and perseverance, I believe it is his 
 good taste and elegant refinement of mind, which 
 enable him to suppert that load cf business ; because 
 he knows that, when it is finished, he has pleasure 
 in store. He is married to a very amiable and beau- 
 tiful woman, by whom he has four fine children. He 
 says that, when he thinks it is for them, all toil is 
 easy, and all labour light. 
 
 The intimate knowledge I have of Mr. Sidney has 
 taught me, that refinement and delicacy of mind, 
 when kept within proper bounds, contribute to hap- 
 piness ; and that their natural effect, instead of pro- 
 ducing uneasiness and chagrin, is to add to the en- 
 joyments of life. In comparing the two characters 
 of Fleetwood and Sidney, which nature seems to have 
 cast in the same mould, I have been struck with the 
 fatal consequences to Fleetwood, of indulging his 
 spleen at those little rubs in life, which a juster sense 
 of human imperfection would make him consider 
 equally unavoidable, and to be regarded with the same 
 indifference, as a rainy day, a dusty road, or any the 
 like trifling inconvenience. There is nothing so in- 
 considerable which may not become of importance, 
 when made an object of serious attention. Sidney 
 never repines like Fleetwood ; and, as he is much 
 more respected, so he has much more real happi- 
 ness than either Morley or Dacres. Fleetwood's 
 weaknesses are amiable ; and, though we pity, we 
 must love him ; but there is a complacent dignity in 
 the character of Sindey, which excites at once our 
 love, respect, and admiration. 
 
 A 
 
THE MIRROR. 239 
 
 No. XLVIII. SATURDAY, JULY 10. 
 
 THE following paper was lately received from a 
 correspondent, who accompanied it with a promise 
 of carrying his idea through some of the other tine 
 arts. I have since been endeavouring to make it a 
 little less technical, in order to fit it more for general 
 perusal ; but, finding I could not accomplish this, 
 without hurting the illustrations of the writer, I have 
 given it to my readers in the terms in which I re- 
 ceived it. 
 
 THE perceptions of different men, arising from 
 the impressions of the same object, are very often 
 different. Of these we always suppose one to be just 
 and true ; all the others to be false. But which is 
 the true, and which the false, we are often at a loss 
 to determine ; as the poet has said, 
 
 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none 
 
 Go just alike, vet each believes his own. Pope. 
 
 With regard to our external senses, this diversity 
 of feeling, as far as it occurs, is of little consequence ; 
 but the truth of perception, in our internal senses, 
 employed in morals and criticism, is more interest- 
 ing and important. 
 
 In the judgments we form concerning the beauty 
 and excellency of the several imitative arts, this dif- 
 ference of feeling is very conspicuous ; and it is dif- 
 ficult to say why each man may not believe his own, 
 or how a standard may be established, by which the 
 truth of different judgments may be compared and 
 tried. Whether there is, or is not, a standard of 
 t .ote, I shall not attempt to determine ; but there is 
 a question connected with that, which, properly an- 
 swered, may have some effect in the decision : whe- 
 
240 THE MIRROR. 
 
 therm the imitative arts, a person exercised in the 
 practice of the art, or in the frequent contemplation 
 of its productions, be better qualified to judge of these, 
 than a person who only feels the direct and immedi- 
 ate effects of it ? In the words of an ancient critic, 
 " An docti, qui rationem operis intelligunt, an qui 
 " voluptatem tantum percipiunt, optime dijudicant ?" 
 or, as I may express it in English, Whether the artist 
 or connoisseur have any advantage over other persons 
 of common sense or common feeling ? 
 
 This question shall be considered at present with 
 regard to one art only, to wit, that of painting ; but 
 some of the principal which I shall endeavour to il- 
 lustrate, will have a general tendency to establish a 
 decision in all. In the first place, it is proper to 
 mention the chief sources of the pleasure we receive 
 in viewing pictures. One arises from the perception 
 of imitation, however produced ; a second from the 
 art displayed in producing such imitation ; and a 
 third, from the beauty, grace, agreeableness, and pro- 
 priety of the object imitated. These may all occur 
 in the imitation of one single object ; but a much 
 higher pleasure arises from several objects combined 
 together in such a manner, that, while each of them 
 singly affords the several sources of pleasure already 
 mentioned, they all unite in producing one effect, 
 one particular emotion in the spectator, and an im- 
 pression much stronger than could have been raised 
 by one object alone. 
 
 These seem to be the chief sources of the pleasure 
 we receive from pictures ; and, with regard to the 
 true and accurate perceptions of each, let us consider 
 who is most likely to form them, the painter and con- 
 noisseur, or the unexperienced spectator. 
 
 In viewing imitation, we are more or less pleased 
 according to the degree of exactness with which the 
 object is expressed ; and, supposing the object to be 
 a common one, it might be imagined, that every per- 
 
THE MIRROR. 241 
 
 son would be equally a judge of the exactness of the 
 imitation; but, in truth, it is otherwise. Our recol- 
 lection of an object does not depend upon any secret 
 remembrance of the several parts of which it con- 
 sists, of the exact position of these, or of the dimen- 
 sions of the whole. A very inaccurate resemblance 
 serves the purpose of memory, and will often pass 
 with us for a true representation, even of the sub- 
 jects that we fancy ourselves very well acquainted 
 with. 
 
 The self-applause of Zeuxis was not well founded, 
 when he valued himself on having painted grapes, 
 that so far deceived the birds, as to bring them to 
 peck at his picture. Birds are no judges of an accu- 
 rate resemblance, when they often mistake a scare- 
 crow for a man. Nor had Parrhasius much reason to 
 boast of his deceiving even Zeuxis, who, viewing it 
 hastily, and from a distance, mistook the picture of 
 a linen cloth for a real one. It always requires study 
 to perceive the exactness of imitation ; and most 
 persons may find, by daily experience, that, when 
 they would examine the accuracy of any representa- 
 tion, they can hardly do it properly, but by bringing 
 together the picture and its archetype, so that they 
 may quickly pass from the one to the other, and 
 thereby compare the foim, size, and p.oportions of 
 all the different parts. Without such study of ob- 
 jects as the painter employs to imitate them, or the 
 connoisseur employs in comparing them with their 
 imitations, there is no person can be a judge of the 
 exactness of the representation. The painters, there- 
 fore, or the connoisseurs, are the persons who will 
 best perceive the truth of imitation, and best judge 
 of its merit. It is true, some persons may be ac- 
 quainted with certain objects, even better than the 
 painters themselves, as the shoemaker was with the 
 shoe in the picture of Apelles : but most persons, 
 like the same shoemaker, are unfit to extend their 
 
242 THE MIRROR. 
 
 judgment beyond their last ; and must in other 
 parts, yield to the more general knowledge of the 
 painter. 
 
 As we are, in the first place, pleased with viewing 
 imitation ; so we are, in the second pUce, with con- 
 sidering the art by which the imitation is performed. 
 The pleasure we derive from this, is in proportion 
 to the difficulty we apprehend in the execution, and 
 the degree of genius necessary to the performance of 
 it. But this difficulty, and the degree of genius ex- 
 erted in surmounting it, can only be well known to 
 the persons exercised in the practice of the art. 
 
 When a person has acquired an exact idea of an 
 object, there is still a great difficulty in expressing 
 that corrc ctedly upon his canvas. With regard to 
 objects of a steady figure, they may perhaps be imi- 
 tated by an ordinary artist ; but transient objects, of 
 a momentary appearance, require still a nicer hand. 
 To catch the more delicate expressions of the human 
 soul, requires an art of which few are possessed, and 
 none can sufficiently admire, but those who have 
 themselves attempted it. These are the difficulties 
 of painting, in forming even a correct outline ; and 
 the painter has yet more to struggle with. To re- 
 present a solid upon a plain surface, by the position 
 and size of the several parts ; to be exact in the per- 
 spective ; by these, and by the distribution of light 
 and shade, to make every figure stand out from the 
 canvass ; and, lastly, by natural and glowing colours, 
 to animate and give life to the whole : these are parts 
 of the painter's art^Trom which chiefly the pleasure 
 of the spectator, arising from his consciousness of 
 the imitation, is derived, but at the same lime, such 
 as the uninformed spectator has but an imperfect no- 
 tion of, and, therefore, must feel an inferior degree 
 of pleasure in contemplating. 
 
 The next soiu.ee of the pleasures derived from 
 painting, above taken notice of, is that arising from 
 
THE MIRROR. 243 
 
 the beauty, the grace, the elegance of the object, 
 imitated. When a painter is happy enough to make 
 such a choice, he does it by a constitutional taste 
 that may be common to all. Raphael could not learn 
 it fiom liis master Pietro Perugino ; Rubens, though 
 conversant with the best models of antiquity, could 
 never acquire it. In judging, therefore, of this part 
 of painting, the artist has scarcely any advantage 
 above the common spectator. But it is to be observ- 
 ed, that a person of the finest natural taste cannot 
 become suddenly an elegam formarum spectator, an 
 expression which it is scarce possible to translate. 
 It is only by comparison that we arrive at the know- 
 ledge of what is most perfect in its kind. The Ma- 
 donas of Carlo Maratt appear exquisitely beautiful ; 
 and it is only when we see those of Raphael that we 
 discern their imperfections. A person may even be 
 sensible of the imperfections of forms ; but, at the 
 same time, may find it impossible to conceive, with 
 precision, an idea of the most perfect. Thus Ra- 
 phael could not form an idea of the Divine Majesty, 
 till he saw it so forcibly expressed in the paintings of 
 Michael Angelo. As our judgment, therefore, of 
 beauty, grace, and elegance, though founded in per- 
 ception, becomes accurate only by comparison and 
 experience^ so the painter, exercised in the contem- 
 plation of forms, is likely to be a better judge of 
 beauty than any person less experienced. 
 
 The last and most considerable pleasure received 
 from painting, is that arising from composition. This 
 is properly distinguished into two kinds, the pictu- 
 resque, and the poetical. To the first belongs the dis- 
 tribution of the several figures, so that they may all 
 be united and conspire in one single effect ; while 
 each is so placed, as to present itself in proportion to 
 its importance in the action represented. To this 
 also belongs the diversifying and contrasting the atti- 
 tudes of different figures, as well as the several mem- 
 
 vol. i. y 
 
244 THE MIRROR. 
 
 bers of each. Above all, the picturesque composi- 
 tion has belonging- to it the distribution of light and 
 shade, while every single figure has its proper share 
 of each. One mass of light, and its proportionable 
 shade, should unite the whole piece, and make every 
 part of it conspire in one single effect. To this also 
 belongs the harmony, as well as the contrast, of co- 
 lours. Now, in all this ordonnance picturesque there 
 appears an exquisite art only to be acquired by cus- 
 tom and habit ; and of the merit of the execution, 
 no person can be a judge but one who has been in 
 some measure in the practice of it. It is enough to 
 say, that hardly any body will doubt, that Paulo Ve- 
 ronese was a better judge of the disposition of figures 
 than Michael Angelo ; and that Caravaggio was a 
 better judge of the distribution of light and shade 
 than Raphael ; so, in some measure, every painter, 
 in proportion to his knowledge, must be a better 
 judge of the merit of picturesque composition, than 
 any person who judges from the effects only. 
 
 With regard to poetical composition, it compre- 
 hends the choice of the action to be represented, and 
 of the point of time at which the persons are to be 
 introduced, the invention of circumstances to be em- 
 ployed, the expression to be given to every actor ; 
 and, lastly, the observance of the costume, that is, 
 giving to each person an air suitable to his rank, re- 
 presenting the complexion and features that express 
 his temperament, his age, and the climate of his 
 country, and dressing him in the habit of the time 
 in which he lived, and of the nation to which he be- 
 longs. 
 
 From this enumeration of the several considerations 
 that employ the history -painter, it will immediately 
 appear, why this department of painting is called 
 poetical composition ; for here, in truth, it is the 
 imagination of a poet that employs the hand of a 
 painter. This imagination is nowise necessarily con- 
 
THE MIRRCR. 245 
 
 nected with the imitative hand. Lucas of Ley den 
 painted more correctly, that is, imitated more exact- 
 ly, than Salvator Rosa ; but the former did not chuse 
 subjects of so much grace and dignity, nor composed 
 with so much force and spirit, because he was not a 
 poet like the latter. Salvator Rosa has given us ele- 
 gant verses full of picturesque description ; and, in 
 every one of his pictures, he strikes us by those cir- 
 cumstances which his poetical imagination had sug- 
 gested. Mow it is plain, that a poetical imagination 
 must be derived from nature, and can arise neither 
 from the practice of painting, nor even from the study 
 of pictures. The painter, therefore, and even the 
 connoisseur, in judging of the merit of poetical com- 
 position, can have little advantage above other spec- 
 tators ; but even here it must be allowed, that if the 
 painter has an equal degree of taste, he must, from 
 the more frequent exercise of it, have great ad- 
 vantages in judging above any other person less ex- 
 perienced. 
 
 I have thus endeavoured to shew, that, in judging 
 of painting, the painter himself, and even the con- 
 noisseur, much engaged and exercised in the study of 
 pictures, that is, "illi qui rationem operis intelligunt," 
 have advantages above the common spectators, u qui 
 " voluptatem tantum precipiunt." But, as a cau- 
 tion to the former, it may not be improper to con- 
 clude with observing, that the painter and connois- 
 seur are often in danger of having their sensibility 
 deadened, or their natural taste corrupted, by a know- 
 ledge of the technical minutiae of the art, so far as 
 to throw the balance towards the side of the common 
 spectator. 
 
 n 
 
246 THK MIRROR 
 
 No. XLIX. TUESDAY, JULY 13. 
 
 AS I walked one evening, about a fortnight ago, 
 through St. Andrew's Square, I observed a girl, 
 meanly dressed, coming along the pavement at a 
 slow pace. When I passed her, she turned a little 
 towards me, and made a 6ort of halt ; but said no- 
 thing. T am ill at looking any body full in the face, 
 s6 I went on a few steps before I turned my eye to 
 observe her. She had, by this time, resumed her 
 former pace. I remarked a certain elegance in her 
 form, which the poorness of her garb could not alto- 
 gether overcome ; her person was thin and genteel, 
 and there was something not ungraceful in the stoop 
 of her head, and the seeming feebleness with which 
 she walked. I could not resist the desire, which her 
 appearance gave me, of knowing somewhat of her situa- 
 tion and circumstance : I therefore walked back and re- 
 passed her with such a look (for I could bring myself to 
 nothing n ore) as might induce her to speak what she 
 seemed desirous to say at first. This had the effect I 
 wished. — « Pity a poor orphan !" said she, in a voice 
 tremulous and weak. I stopped, and put my hand in 
 my pecket : I had now a better opportunity of ob- 
 serving her. Her face was thin and pale ; part of it 
 was shaded by her hair, of a light brown colour, 
 which was parted, in a disordered manner, at her 
 forehead, and hung loose upon her shoulders ; round 
 them was cast a piece of tattered cloak, which with 
 one hand she held across her bosom, while the other 
 was half outstretched to receive the bounty I intended 
 for her. Her large blue eyes were cast on the ground : 
 she was drawing back her hand as I put a trifle into 
 it ; on receiving which she turned them up to me, 
 muttered something which I could not hear, and then 
 letting go her cloak, and pressing her hands together, 
 burst into tears. 
 
THE MIRROR. 247 
 
 It was not thj action of an ordinary beggar, and 
 my curiosity was strongly excited by it. I desired 
 her to follow me to the house of a friend hard by, 
 whose beneficence I have often had occasion to know. 
 When she arrived there, she was so fatigued and 
 worn out, that it was not till after some means used 
 to restore her, that she was able to give us an ac- 
 count of her misfortunes. 
 
 Her name, she told us, was Collins ; the place of 
 her birth one of the northern counties of England. 
 Her father, who had died several years ago, left her 
 remaining parent with the charge of her, then a child, 
 and one brother, a lad of seventeen. By his indus- 
 try, however, joined to that of her mother, they were 
 tolerably supported, their father having died posses- 
 sed of a small farm, with the right of pasturage on 
 an adjoining common, from which they obtained a 
 decent livelihood : that, last summer, her brother 
 having become acquainted with a recruiting serjeant, 
 who was quartered in a neighbouring village, was by 
 him enticed to list as a soldier, and soon after was 
 marched off, along with some other recruits, to join 
 his regiment : that this, she believed, broke her mo- 
 ther's heart, for that she had never afterwards had a 
 day's health, and, at length, had died about three 
 weeks ago : that, immediately after her death, the 
 steward employed by the squire of whom their farm 
 was held, took possession of every thing for the ar- 
 rears of their rent : that, as she heard her brother's 
 regiment was in Scotland when he enlisted, she had 
 wandered hither in quest of him, as she had no other 
 relation in the world to own her ! But she found, on 
 arriving here, that the regiment had been embarked 
 several months before, and was gone a great way off, 
 she could not tell whither. 
 
 " This news," said she, " laid hold of my heart ; 
 " and I have had something wrong here," putting 
 her hand to her bosom, " ever since. I got a bed 
 y 2 
 
248 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " and some victuals in the house of a woman here 
 " in town, to whom I told my story, and who seemed 
 " to pity me. 1 had then a little bundle of things, 
 « which I had been allowed to take with me after 
 u my mother's death ; but the night before last, 
 " somebody stole it from me while X slept ; and so 
 " the woman said she would keep me no longer, and 
 " turned me out into the street, where I have since 
 <? remained, and am almost famished for want." 
 
 She was now in better hands ; but our assistance 
 had come too late. A frame naturally delicate, had' 
 yielded to the fatigues of her journey, and the hard- 
 ships of her situation. She declined by slow but in- 
 terrupted degrees, and yesterday breathed her last. 
 A short while before she expired, she asked to see 
 me ; and taking from her bosom a little silver locket, 
 which she told me had been her mother's, and which 
 all her distresses could not make her part with, beg- 
 ged I would keep it for her dear brother, and give 
 it him, if ever he should return home, as "a token of 
 her remembrance. 
 
 I felt this poor girl's fate strongly ; but I tell not 
 her story merely to indulge my feelings ; I would 
 make the reflections it may excite in my readers, 
 useful to others who may suffer in similar causes. 
 "There are many, I fear, from whom their country 
 has called brothers, sons or fathers, to bleed in her 
 service, forlorn, like poor Nancy Collins, with " no 
 « relation in the world to own them." Their suffer* 
 ings are often unknown, when they are such as most 
 demand compassion. The mind that cannot obtrude 
 its distresses on the ear of pity, is formed to feel their 
 poignancy the deepest. 
 
 In our idea of military operations, we are too apt to 
 forget the misfortunes of the people. In defeat, we 
 think of the fall, and in victory, of the glory of com- 
 manders ; we seldom allow ourselves to consider, how 
 many, in a lower rank, both events make wretched : 
 
THE MIRROR. 249 
 
 how many, amidst the acclamations of national tri- 
 umph, are left to the helpless misery of the widowed 
 and the orphan, and, while Victory celebrates her 
 festival, feel, in their distant hovels, the extremities 
 of want and wretchedness \ 
 
 It was with pleasure I saw, among the resolutions 
 of a late patriotic assembly in this city, an agreement 
 to assist the poor families of our absent soldiers and 
 seamen. With no less satisfaction I read in some 
 late newspapers, a benevolent advertisement for a 
 meeting of gentlemen, to consider of a subscription for 
 the same purpose. At this season of general and 
 laudable exertion, I am persuaded such a scheme 
 cannot fail of patronage and success. The benevo- 
 lence of this country requires not argument to awaken 
 it ; yet the pleasures of its exertion must be increased 
 by the thought, that pity to such objects is patriot- 
 ism ; that, here, private compassion becomes public 
 virtue. Bounties for the encouragement of recruits 
 to our fleets and armies, are highly meritorious do- 
 nations. These, however, may sometimes bribe the 
 covetous, and allure the needy ; but that charity which 
 gives support and protection to the families they leave 
 behind, addresses more generous feelings ; feelings 
 which have always been held congenial to bravery 
 and to heroism. It endears to them that home which 
 their swords are to defend, and strengthens those ties 
 which should ever bind the soldier of a free state to 
 his country. 
 
 Nor will such a provision be of less advantage to 
 posterity than to the present' times. It will save to 
 the state many useful subjects which those families 
 thus supported may produce, wiiose lives have for- 
 merly been often nurtured by penury to vice, and 
 rendered not only useless, but baneful to the com- 
 munity ; that community which, under a more kindly 
 influence, they might, like their fathers, have en- 
 riched by their industry, and protected by their va-- 
 lour. 
 
850 -wif. MIRROR, 
 
 No. L. SATURDAY, JULY 17. 
 
 THOUGH the following letter has been pretty 
 much anticipated by a former paper, yet it possesses 
 too much merit to ba refused insertion. 
 
 Tq the Author of the Mirror. 
 Sir, 
 ACTIVITY is one of those virtues indispensably 
 requisite for the happiness and welfare of mankind, 
 which nature appears to have distributed to them with 
 a parsimonious hand. All men seem naturally averse, 
 not only to those exertions that sharpen and improve 
 the mental powers, but even to such as are necessary 
 for maintaining the health, or strengthening the or- 
 gans of the body. Whatever industry and enterprize 
 the species have at any time displayed, originated in 
 the bosom of pain, of want, or of necessity ; or, in 
 the absence of these causes, from the experience of 
 that listlessness and langour which attend a state of 
 total inaction. But with how great a number does 
 this experience lead to no higher object than the care 
 of external appearances, or to the prostitution of their 
 time in trivial pursuits, or in licentious pleasures ? 
 The surest, the most permanent remedy, and, in the 
 end too, the most delightful, which is to be found in 
 unremitted study, or in the labours of a profession, 
 is, unhappily, the last we recur to. Of all who have 
 risen to eminence in the paths of literature or am- 
 bition, how few are there, who at first enjoyed the 
 means of pleasure, or the liberty of being idle ? and 
 how many could every one enumerate, within the 
 circle of his acquaintance, possessed of excellent abi- 
 lities, and even anxious for reputation, whom the 
 fatal inheritance of a bare competency has doomed 
 to obscurity through life, and quiet oblivion when 
 dead? 
 
THE MIRROR. 25 1 
 
 Let no man confide entirely in his resolutions of 
 activity, in his love of fame, or in his taste for litera- 
 ture. All these principles, even where, they are 
 strongest, unless supported by habits of industry, and 
 roused by the immediate presence of some great ob- 
 ject to which their exertion leads, gradually lose, and 
 at last resign their influence. The smallest particle 
 of natural indolence, like the principle of gravitation 
 in matter, unless counterbalanced by continual im- 
 pulse from some active cause, will insensibly lower, 
 and at last overcome the flight of the sublim- 
 est genius. In computing it, we ought to recol- 
 lect, that it is a cause for ever present with us, in all 
 moods, in every disposition ; and that, from the weak- 
 ness of our nature, we are willing, at any rate, to re- 
 linquish distant prospects of happiness and advan- 
 tage, for a much smaller portion of present indul- 
 gence. 
 
 I have been led into these reflections by a visit 
 which I lately paid to my friend Mordaunt, in whom 
 they are, unhappily, too well exemplified. I have 
 known him from his infancy, and always admired 
 the extent of his genius, as much as I respected the 
 integrity of his principles, or loved him for the warmth 
 and benevolence of his heart. But, since the time 
 when he began to contemplate his own character, he 
 has often confessed to me, and feelingly complained, 
 that nature had infused into it a large portion of indo- 
 lence, an inclination to despondency, and a delicacy 
 of feeling, which disqualified him for the drudgery 
 of business, or the bustle of public life. Frequently, 
 in those tedious hours, when his melancholy claimed 
 the attendance and support of a friend, have I seen 
 a conscious blush of shame and self-reproach mingle 
 with the secret sigh, extorted from him by the sense 
 of this defect. His situation, however, as second 
 son of a family, which, though old and honourable, 
 possessed but a small fortune and no interest, abso- 
 
-52 THE MIRROR, 
 
 lutely required that lie should adopt a profession. 
 The law was his choice ; and, such is the power of 
 habit and necessity, that, after four years spent in the 
 study of that science, though at first it had impaired 
 his health, and even soured his temper, he was more 
 sanguine in his expectation of success, and enjoyed a 
 more constant flow of spirits, than I had ever known 
 him to do at any former period. The law, unfortu- 
 nately, seldom bestows its honours or emoluments 
 upon the young- ; and my friend, too reserved, or too 
 indifferent, to court a set of men, on whose good-will 
 the attainment of practice, in some degree, depends, 
 found himself, at the end of two years close attend- 
 ance at the bar, though high in the esteem of all 
 who knew him well, as poor, and as distant from pre- 
 ferment, as when he first engaged in it. All my as- 
 surances, that better days would soon shine upon him, 
 tnd that his present situation had, at first, been the 
 lot of many now raised to fame and distinction, were 
 insufficient to support him. A deep gloom settled on 
 his spirits, and he had already resolved to relinquish 
 this line of life, though he knew not what other to 
 enter upon, when the death of a distant relation un- 
 expectedly put him in possession of an estate, which, 
 though of small extent, was opulence to one that 
 wished for nothing more than independence, and the 
 disposal of his own time. 
 
 After many useless remonstrances upon my part, 
 he set out for his mansion in the country, with his 
 mother, and a nephew of eight years old, resolved, 
 as he said, to engage immediately hxsome work to be 
 laid before the public ; and having, previously given 
 me his word that he would annually dedicate a por- 
 tion of his time to the society of his friends in town. 
 In the course of eighteen months, however, 1 did not 
 see him ; and finding that his letters, which had at 
 first been full of his happiness, his occupations, and 
 the progress of his. work, were daily becoming shorter, 
 
THE MIRROR. 253 
 
 and somewhat mysterious on the two last of these 
 pointsj resolved to satisfy myself by my own remarks 
 with regard to his situation. 
 
 1 arrived in the evening, and was shewn into the 
 parlour : where the first objects that caught my at- 
 tention were a fishing-rod, and two fowling-pieces, in 
 a corner of the room, and a brace of pointers stretch- 
 ed upon the hearth. On a table lay a German flute, 
 some music, a pair of shuttle cocks, and a volume of 
 the Annual Register. Looking from the window, I 
 discovered my friend in his waistcoat, with a spade 
 in his hand, most diligently cultivating a spot of 
 ground in the kitchen-garden. Our mutual joy, and 
 congratulations at meeting, it is needless to trouble 
 you with. In point of figure. I could not help re- 
 marking, that Mordaunt, though most negligently 
 apparalled, was altered much for the better, being 
 now plump, rosy, and robust, instead of pale and slen- 
 der as formerly. Before returning to the house he 
 insisted that I should survey his grounds, which in 
 his own opinion he said, he had rendered a paradise, 
 by modestly seconding and bringing forth the inten- 
 tions of nature. I was conducted to a young grove, 
 which he had planted himself; rested in a hut which 
 he had built, and drank from a rivulet for which he 
 had tracked a channel with his own hands. During the 
 course of this walk, we were attended by a flock of 
 tame pigeons, which he fed with grain from his pock- 
 et, and had much conversation with a ragged family 
 of little bovs and girls, all of whom seemed to be his 
 intimate acquaintance. Near a village in our way 
 homewards, we met a set of countrymen, engaged at 
 cricket, and soon after a marriage company, dancing 
 the bride's dance upon the green. My friend, with 
 a degree of gaiety and alacrity which 1 had never be- 
 fore seen him display, not only engaged himself, but 
 compelled me likewise to engage, in the exercise of 
 the one, and the merriment of the other. In a field 
 
254 THE MIRROR. 
 
 before his door, an old horse, blind of one eye, came 
 up to us at his call, and eat the remainder of the 
 grain from his hand. 
 
 Our conversation for that evening, relating chiefly 
 to the situation of our common friends, the memory 
 of former scenes in which we had both been engaged, 
 and other such subjects as friends naturally converse 
 abort after along absence, afforded me little opportu- 
 nity of satisfying my curiosity. Next morning I 
 arose at my wonted early hour, and stepping into his 
 study, found it unoccupied. Upon examining a heap 
 of books and papers that lay confusedly mingled on 
 the table and the floor, 1 was surprised to find, that by 
 much the greater part of them, instead of poiilics, 
 metaphysics, and morals (the sciences connected 
 with his scheme of writing,) treated of Belles Let- 
 tres, or were calculated merely for amusement. The 
 Tale of a Tub lay open on the table, and seemed to 
 have concluded the studies of the day before. The 
 letters of Junius, Brydon's Travels, the World, 
 Tristram Shandy, and two or three volumes of the 
 British Poets, much used, and very dirty, lay scat- 
 tered above a heap of quartos, which, after blowing 
 the dust from them, I found to be an Essay on the 
 Wealth of Nations, Helvetius de 1'Esprit, Hume's 
 Essays, the Spirit of Laws, Bayle, and a common- 
 place-book. The last contained a great deal of pa- 
 per, and an excellent arrangement, under the heads 
 of which, excepting these of anecdote and criticism, 
 hardly any thing was collected. The papers in his 
 own hand-writing were- a parallel between Mr. Gray's 
 Elegy, and Parnell's Night-piece on Death ; some 
 detached thoughts on propriety of conduct and beha- 
 viour ; a Fairy Tale in vc: se ; and several letters to 
 the Author of the Mirror, all of them blotted and 
 unfinished. There was besides a journal of his oc- 
 cupations for several weeks, from which, as it af- 
 fords a picture of his situation, I transcribe a part. 
 
THE MIRRuR. 2 55 
 
 u Thursday, eleven at night, went to bed : order- 
 " ed my servant to wake me at six, resolving to be 
 " busy all next day. 
 
 " Friday morning, waked a quarter before six ; 
 " fell asleep again, and did not wake till eight. 
 
 " Till nine, read the first act of Voltaire's Maho- 
 " met, as it was too late to begin serious business. 
 
 " Ten : having swallowed a short breakfast, went 
 " out for a moment in my slippers — The wind having 
 " left the east, am engaged, by the beauty of the 
 " day, to continue my walk — Find a situation by the 
 " river, where the sound of my flute produced a very 
 " singular and beautiful echo — make a stanza and a 
 " half by way of address to it — visit the shepherd 
 " lying ill of a low fever — find him somewhat better 
 " (Mem. to send him some wine) — meet the parson, 
 " and cannot avoid asking him to dinner — returning 
 " home, find my reapers at work — superintend them 
 •* in the absence of John, whom I send to inform the 
 " house of the parson's visit — read, in the mean 
 " time, part of Thompson's Seasons, which I 
 u had with me-— From one to six, plagued with the 
 " parson's news and stories — take up Mahomet to 
 " put me in good humour — finish it, the time allot- 
 " ted for serious study being elapsed — at eight, ap- 
 " plied to for advice by a poor countryman, who had 
 " been oppressed — cannot say as to the law : give 
 " him some money — walk out at sun-set, to consider 
 " the causes of the pleasure arising from it — at nine, 
 " sup and sit till eleven, hearing my nephew read, 
 " and conversing with my mother, who wasremark- 
 " ably well and cheerful— go to bed. 
 
 " Saturday : some company arrived — to be filled 
 " up to-morrow — (for that and the two succeeding 
 " days, there was no further entry in the journal.) 
 " Tuesday, waked at seven ; but the weather being 
 " rainy, and threatening to confine me all day, lay 
 " till after nine — Ten, breakfasted and read the news- 
 
 vol. i. z 
 
256 THE MIRROR. 
 
 K papers — very dull and drowsy — Eleven, day clears 
 " up, and I resolve on a short ride to clear my 
 « head." 
 
 A few days residence with him shewed me that 
 his life was in reality, as it is here represented, a 
 medley of feeble exertions, indolent pleasures, secret 
 benevolence, and broken resolutions. Nor did he 
 pretend to conceal from me, that his activity was not 
 now so constant as it had been ; but he insisted that 
 he still could, when he thought proper, apply with 
 his former vigour, and flattered himself, that these 
 frequent deviations from his plan of employment, 
 which in, reality, were the fruit of indolence and 
 weakness, arose from reason and conviction. " After 
 M all," said he to me one day, when I was endea- 
 vouring to undeceive him, " after all, granting what 
 " you allege, if I be happy, and I really am so, 
 " what more could activity, fame, or preferment, be- 
 
 M stow upon me ?" After a stay of some weeks, 
 
 I departed, convinced that his malady was past a 
 cure, and lamenting that so much real excellence 
 and ability should be thus, in a great measure, lost to 
 the world, as well as to their possessor, by the at- 
 tendance of a single fault. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c. 
 
THE MIRROR. 257 
 
 No. LI. TUESDAY, JULY 20. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 
 Mr, Mirror, 
 
 I AM the daughter of a gentleman of easy, though 
 moderate fortune. My mother died a few weeks after 
 I was born ; and before I could be sensible of the 
 loss, a sister of her's, the widow of an English gen- 
 tleman, carried me to London, where she resided. 
 As my aunt had no children, I became the chief ob- 
 ject of her affections ; and her favourite amusement 
 consisted in superintending my education. As I grew 
 up, I was attended by the best masters ; and every 
 new accomplishment I acquired, gave fresh pleasure 
 to my kind benefactress. But her own conversation 
 tended more than any thing else to form and improve 
 my mind. Well acquainted herself with the best au- 
 thors in the English, French, and Italian languages, 
 she was careful to put into my hands such books as 
 were best calculated to cultivate my understanding, 
 and to regulate my taste. 
 
 But, though fond of reading and retirement, my 
 aunt thought it her duty to mingle in society, as 
 much as her rank and condition required. Her house 
 was frequented by many persons of both sexes, dis- 
 tinguished for elegance of manners, and politeness of 
 conversation. Her tenderness made her desirous to 
 find out companions for me of my own age ; and, far 
 from being dissatisfied with our youthful sallies, she 
 seemed never better pleased than when she could add 
 to our amusement and happiness. 
 
 In this manner I had passed my time, and had en- 
 tered my seventeenth year when my aunt was seized 
 with an indisposition, which alarmed me much, 
 although her physicians assured me it was by no 
 means dangerous. My fears increased, on observing, 
 
258 THE MIRROR. 
 
 that she herself thought it serious. Her tenderness 
 seemed, if possible, to increase ; and, though she 
 was desirous to conceal her apprehensions, I have 
 sometimes, when she imagined 1 did not observe it, 
 found her eyes fixed on me with a mixture of soli- 
 citude and compassion, that never failed to overpow- 
 er me. 
 
 One day she called me into her closet, and, after 
 embracing me tenderly, "My dear Harriet," said she, 
 it is vain to dissemble longer : I feel my strength 
 decay so fast, that I know we soon must part. 
 As to myself, the approach of death gives me lit- 
 tle uneasiness ; and I thank Almighty God that I 
 can look forward to that awful change, without 
 dread, and without anxiety. But when I think, 
 my child, of the condition in which I shall leave 
 
 you, my heart swells with anguish 1 You know 
 
 my situation ; possessed of no fortune, the little I 
 have saved from my jointure, will be altogether in- 
 adequate to support you in that society in which 
 you have hitherto lived. When I look back on my 
 duct tc wards you, I am not sure that it has 
 been ; Itegether prudent. I thought it impossible 
 to bestow too much on your education, or to render 
 you too accomplished. I fondly hoped to live to 
 see you happily established in life, united to a man 
 who could discern your merit, who could put a just 
 value on all your acquirements. These hopes are 
 at an end ; all, however, that can now be done, I 
 
 have done. Here are two papers ; by the one 
 
 you will succeed to the little I shall leave : the 
 other is a letter to your father, in which I have 
 recommended you in the most earnest manner to 
 his protection, and intreated him to come to town 
 as soon as he hears of my death, and conduct you 
 to Scotland. He is a man of virtue ; and I hope 
 you will live happily in his family. One only fear 
 I have, and that proceeds from the extreme sensi- 
 
JHi: mirror. 259 
 
 " bility of your mind, and gentleness of yourdispov 
 u sition ; little formed by nature to struggle with the 
 " hardships and the difficulties of life, perhaps the en- 
 " gaging; softness of your temper lias rather been in- 
 « creased by the education you have received. I 
 M trust, however, that your good sense will prevent 
 a you from being hurt by any little cross untoward 
 <; accidents you may meet with, and that it will 
 <k enable you to make the most of that situation in 
 " which it may be the will of Heaven to place you" 
 
 To all this I could only answer with my tears ; and, 
 during the short time that my aunt survived, she en- 
 grossed my attention so entirely, that I never once 
 bestowed a thought on myself. As soon after her 
 death as I could command myself sufficiently, I wrote 
 to my father ; and, agreeably to my aunt's instruc- 
 tions, inclosed her letter for him ; in consequence of 
 which he came to town in a few weeks. Meeting 
 with a father, to whose person I was a perfect stran- 
 ger, and on whom I was ever after entirely to depend, 
 was to me a most interesting event. My aunt had 
 taught me to entertain for him the highest reverence 
 and respect ; but, though I had been in use to write, 
 from time to time, both to him, and to a lady he had 
 married not long after my mother's death, I had ne- 
 ver been able to draw either the one or the other into 
 any thing like a regular correspondence ; so that I 
 was equally a stranger to their sentiments and dispo- 
 sitions as to their persons. 
 
 On my father's arrival, I could not help feeling,that 
 he did not return my fond caresses with that warmth 
 with which I had made my account ; and, afterwards, 
 it was impossible not to remark, that he was altoge- 
 ther deficient in those common attentions which, in 
 polite society, every woman is accustomed to receive, 
 even from those with whom she is most nearly con- 
 nected. My aunt had made it a rule to consider her 
 domestics as humble friends, and to treat them as 
 z 2 
 
260 THE MIRROR. 
 
 such ; but my father addressed them with a rough- 
 ness of voice and of manner that disgusted them, 
 and was extremely unpleasant to me. I was still 
 more hurt with his minute and anxious enquiries 
 about the fortune my aunt had died possessed of ; 
 and, when he found how inconsiderable it was, he 
 swore a great oath, that if he had thought she was 
 to breed me a fine lady, and leave me a beggar, I 
 never should have entered her house. " But don't 
 " cry, Harriet," added he, " it was not your fault ; 
 " be a good girl, and you shall never want while I 
 " have." 
 
 On our journey to Scotland, I sometimes attempt- 
 ed to amuse my father by engaging him in conver- 
 sation ; but I never was lucky enough to hit on any 
 subject on which he wished to talk. After a journey, 
 which many circumstances concurred to render rather 
 unpleasant, we arrived at my father's house- I had 
 been told that it was situated in a remote part of Scot- 
 land, and thence I concluded the scene around it to 
 be of that wild romantic kind, of all others the best 
 suited to my inclination. But instead of the rocks, 
 the woods, the waterfalls I had fancied to myself, I 
 found an open, bleak, barren moor, covered with 
 heath, except a few patches round the house, which 
 my father, by his skill in agriculture, had brought to 
 bear grass and corn. 
 
 My mother-in-law, a good-looking woman, about 
 forty, with a countenance that bespoke frankness and 
 good-humour, rather than sensibility or delicacy, re- 
 ceived me with much kindness ; and, after giving me 
 
 a hearty welcome to , presented me to her two 
 
 daughters, girls about fourteen or fifteen, with ruddy 
 complexions, and every appearance of health and 
 contentment. We found with them a Mr. Plow- 
 share, a young gentleman of the neighbourhood, 
 who, I afterwards learned, farmed his own estate, and 
 was considered by my father as the most respectable 
 
THE MIRROR. 261 
 
 man in the county. They immediately got into a 
 dissertation on farming, and the different modes of 
 agriculture practised in the different parts of the 
 country, which continued almost without interruption 
 till some time after dinner, when my father fell fast 
 asleep. But this made no material alteration in the 
 discourse ; for Mr. Plowshare and the ladies then 
 entered into a discussion of the most approved me- 
 thods of feeding poultry and fattenting pigs, which 
 lasted till the evening was pretty far advanced. It 
 is now some months since I arrived at my father's, 
 during all which time I have scarcely ever heard any 
 other conversation. You may easily conceive, Sir, 
 the figure I make on such occasions. Though the 
 good-nature of my mother-in-law prevents her from 
 saying so, I can plainly perceive that she, as well as 
 my sisters, consider me as one who has been ex- 
 tremely ill educated, and as ignorant of every thing 
 that a young woman ought to know. 
 
 When I came to the country, I proposed to pals 
 great part of my time in my favourite amusement of 
 reading ; but, on enquiry, I found that my father's 
 library consisted of a large family Bible, Dickson's 
 Agriculture, and a Treatise on Farriery ; and that 
 the only books my mother was possessed of were 5 
 the Domestic Medicine, and the Complete House- 
 wife. 
 
 In short, Sir, in the midst of a family happy in 
 themselves, and desirous to make me so, I find my- 
 self wretched. My mind preys upon itself. When I 
 look forward, I can discover no prospect of any peri- 
 od to my sorrows. At times I am disposed to envy 
 the happiness of my sisters, and to wish that I had 
 never acquired those accomplishments from which I 
 formerly received so much pleasure. Is it vanity that 
 checks this wish, and leads me, at other times, to 
 think, that even happiness may be purchased at too 
 dear a rate ? 
 
262 THE MIRROR. 
 
 Some time ago I accidentally met with your paper, 
 and at length resolved to describe my situation to you, 
 partly to fill up one of rny tedious hours, and partly in 
 hopes of being favoured with your sentiments on a spe- 
 cies of distress, which is perhaps more poignant than 
 many other kinds of affliction that figure more in the 
 eyes of mankind. I am, &c. 
 
 E H. B. 
 
 No. LII. SATURDAY, JULY 24. 
 
 To the Author of the Mirror. 
 Duke et decorum est propatria mori. Hon. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 IT has always been a favourite opinion with me, 
 " that whoever could make two ears of corn, or 
 " two blades of grass, grow upon a fpot of ground 
 " where only one grew before, would deserve better 
 " of mankind, and do more essential service to his 
 " country, than the whole race of politicians put toge- 
 " ther." Possessed with this idea, I have long bent 
 my thoughts and study towards those enquiries which 
 conduce to the melioration of the earth's productions, 
 and to increase the fertility of my native country. I 
 shall not at present tire you with an account of the va- 
 rious projects I have devised, the sundry experiments 
 I have made, and the many miscarriages I have 
 met with. Suffice it to 6ay, that I have now in my 
 brain a scheme, the success of which, I am confident, 
 can scarcely fail. The frequent disappointments, 
 however, I have formerly experienced, induce me 
 to consult you about my plan, before I take any fur- 
 
THE MIRROR. 263 
 
 ther steps towards carrying it into execution. You 
 are an author, Sir, and must consequently be a man 
 of learning- : you informed us you had travelled, and 
 you must of course be a much wiser man than I, 
 who never was an hundred miles from the place 
 where I now write : for these reasons, I am induced 
 to lay my present scheme before you, and to intreat 
 your opinion of it. 
 
 In the introduction to the Tales of Guillaume 
 Vade, published by the celebrated Voltaire, is the 
 following passage, given as part of the speech ©f 
 Vade to his cousin Catharine Vade, when she asked 
 him where he would be buried ? After censuring the 
 practice of burying in towns and churches, and 
 commending the better custom of the Greeks and 
 Romans, who were interred in the country, " What 
 " pleasure," says he, " would it afford to a good ci- 
 " tizen to be sent to fatten, for example, the barren 
 " plain of Sablons, and to contribute to raise plenti- 
 " ful harvests there ? — By this prudent establishment, 
 " one generation would be useful to another, towns 
 <l would be more wholesome, and the country more 
 " fruitful. In truth, I cannot help saying that we 
 " want police in that matter, on account both of the 
 " living and the dead." 
 
 To me, Sir, who now and then join the amusement 
 of reading to the employment of agriculture, the 
 above passage has always appeared particularly de- 
 serving of attention ; and I have, at last, formed a 
 sort of computation of the advantages which would 
 accrue to the country from the general adoption of 
 such a plan as that suggested by Monsieur Vade. 
 Jf the managers of the public burying-grounds were, 
 at certain intervals, and for certain valuable consider- 
 ations, to lend their assistance to the proprietors of 
 the fields and meadows, how many beneficial conse- 
 quences would result to the public ? How many of 
 the honest folks, who now lie uselessly mouldering in 
 
264 THE MIRROR. 
 
 our church-yards, and never did the smallest good 
 while alive, would thus be rendered, after death, of 
 the most essential service to the community ? How 
 many who seemed brought into the world merely 
 M Friiges consumere nati," might thus, by a proper 
 and just retribution, be employed to produce "fruges" 
 similar to those which they consumed while in life ? 
 What apleasant and equitable kind of retaliation would 
 it be for a borough or corporation to obtain, from the 
 bodies of a parcel of fat magistrates, swelled up with 
 city-feasts and rich wines, a sum of money that might, 
 in some degree, compensate for the expence which 
 the capacious bellies of their owners one day cost the 
 town-revenue ? 
 
 The general effects of this plan, and the particu- 
 lar attention it would necessarily produce in the oeco- 
 nomy of sepulture, would remove the complaints I 
 have often heard made in various cities, of the want 
 of space and size in their burying-grounds. Those 
 young men who die of old age at thirty, and the 
 whole body of the magistrates and council of some 
 towns, who are in such a state of corruption during 
 their lives, might very soon be wiade useful after 
 their death. It has been often said, that a living 
 man is more useful than a dead one ; but I deny it ; 
 for it will be found, that if ever my proposal takes 
 place, that one dead man, at least of the species 
 above mentioned, will be of more use than fifty liv- 
 ing ones. 
 
 I am well aware, that most of the fair-sex, and 
 some such odd mortals as your Mr. Wentworth or 
 Mr. Fleetwood, may possibly be shocked at this plan, 
 and may cry out, that it would be a great indelicacy 
 done to the remains of our friends. I do not, how- 
 ever, imagine this ought to have much weight, when 
 the good of one's country is concerned. These very 
 people, Mr. Mirror, would not, I dare say, for the 
 world, cut the throat of a sheep, or pull the neck of 
 
THE MIRROR. 265 
 
 a hen off joint ; yet when they are at table, they 
 make no scruple to eat a bit of mutton, or the wing 
 of a pullet, without allowing a thought of the but- 
 cher or the cook to have a place at the entertainment. 
 In like manner, when these delicate kind of people 
 happen to see a very beautiful field of wheat, which 
 is a sight every way as pleasant as a leg of good 
 mutton, or a fine fowl, let them never distress them- 
 selves by investigating, whether the -field owes its 
 peculiar excellence to the church-yard or the stable. 
 As the ladies, however, are of very great importance 
 in this country, I think it is proper that their good- 
 will be gained over, if possible. I would, therefore, 
 humbly propose, in compliment to the delicacy of 
 their sensations, that their purer ashes never be em- 
 ployed in the culture of oats, to fill the bellies of 
 vulgar ploughmen and coach-horses. No 1 very far 
 be it from me to entertain any such coarse idea. Let 
 them be set apart, and solely appropriated to the use 
 of parterres and flower-gardens. A philosopher in 
 ancient times, 1 forget who, has defined a lady to be 
 " an animal that delights in finery ;" and other phi- 
 losophers have imagined, that the soul, after death, 
 takes pleasure in the same pursuits it was fond of 
 while united to the body. What a heavenly gratifica- 
 tion, then, will it prove to the soul of a toast, while 
 " she rides in her cloud, on the wings of the roaring 
 " wind," to look down and view her remains upon 
 earth, of as beautiful a complexion, and as gaily 
 and gaudily decorated, as ever herself was while a- 
 live? 
 
 One of your predecessors, Isaac Bickerstaff, I 
 think, tells us, that in a bed of fine tulips he found 
 the most remarkable flowers named after celebrated 
 heroes and kings. He speaks of the beauty and vi- 
 vid colouring of the Black Prince, and the Duke of 
 Vendome, of Alexander the Great, the Emperor of 
 Germany, the Duke of Marlborough, and many 
 
256 THE MIRROR. 
 
 others. How much more natural, as well as more 
 proper, would it be, to have our flowers christened 
 after those beautiful females, to whom, in all proba- 
 bility, they really owed their peculiar beauty ? We 
 might have Lady Flora, Lady Violet, Miss Lily, and 
 Miss Rose, and all the beauties of our remembrance 
 renovated to our admiring eyes. 
 
 I am much inclined to believe, that the improve- 
 ment I am here suggesting was known to, and prac- 
 tised by the ancients, particularly by the Greeks and 
 Remans ; for we read in their poets of Narcissus, 
 Cyax, Smilax, and Crocus, HyacintLus, Adonis, arc! 
 Minthe, being after their deaths metamorphosed in- 
 to flowers ; and of the sisters of Phaeton, Pyramus 
 and Thisbe, Baucis and Philemon, Daphne, Cyparis- 
 sus, and Myrrha, and many more, being converted 
 into trees. jNow these stories, Mr. Mirror, when 
 stripped of their poetical ornaments, can, in my opi- 
 nion, bear no other interpretation than that the ashes 
 of those people were applied to such useful purposes 
 as 1 am now proposing. 
 
 You will here observe, Mr. Mirror, that besides 
 the great utility of the scheme, there will be much 
 room for the imagination to delight itself, in tracing 
 out analogies, and refining upon the general hint I 
 have thrown cut. Your Bath Toyman would have 
 many very ingenious conceits upon the occasion, and 
 would exercise his genius in devising fanciful appli- 
 cations of the differcrt manures he would make it 
 his business to procure. He would have a plot of 
 rue and wormwood raised by old maidens ; he would 
 apply the ashes of martyrs in love to his pine-trees ; 
 the dust of aldermen and rich citizens might be used 
 in the culture of plums and gooseberries ; a set of 
 fine gentlemen would be laid aside for the culture of 
 cocks-combs, none-so-prettys, and narcissuses ; the 
 clergy and church-orlkers would be manure for the 
 holly and elder ; and the posthumous productions of 
 
THE MIRROR. 267 
 
 poets would furnish bays and laurels for their succes- 
 sors : but I tire you, Mr. Mirror, with these trifling 
 fancies ; the utility of my plan is what I value myself 
 upon, and desire your opinion of. 
 1 am, Sir, 
 Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 Posthumous Agricola. 
 
 Q 
 
 No. LIH. TUESDAY, JULY 26. 
 
 To the Aw.hor of the Mirror. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I AM one of the young women mentioned in two 
 letters which you published in your 12th and 25th 
 numbers, though I did not know till very lately that 
 our family had been put into print in the Mirror. 
 Since it is so, 1 think I too may venture to write you 
 a letter, which, if it be not quite so well written as 
 my father's (though I am no great admirer of his 
 style neither,) will at least be as true. 
 
 Soon after my Lady 's visit at our house, of 
 
 which the last of my father's letters informed you, 
 a sister of his, who is married to a man of business 
 here in Edinburgh, came with her husband to see 
 us in the country ; and, though my sister Mary and 
 ] soon discovered many vulgar things about them, 
 yet, as they were both very good humoured sort of 
 people, and took great pains to make themselves a- 
 greeable, we could not help looking with regret to 
 the time of their departure. When that drew near, 
 they surprised us by an invitation to me, to come and 
 spend some months with my cousins in town, saying, 
 
 VOL. i. a a 
 
268 THE MIRROR. 
 
 that my mother could not miss my company at home, 
 while she had so good a companion and assistant in 
 the family as her daughter Mary. 
 
 To me there were not 30 many allurements in this 
 journey as might have been imagined. I had lately 
 been taught to look on London as the only capital 
 worth visiting ; besides that, I did not expect the high- 
 est satisfaction from the society I should meet with 
 at my aunt's, which, I confess, I was apt to suppose 
 none of the most genteel. I contrived to keep the 
 matter in suspense (for it was left entirely to my own 
 determination) till I should write for the opinion of 
 
 my friend Lady on the subject ; for, ever 
 
 since our first acquaintance, we have kept up a con- 
 stant and regular correspondence. In our letters, 
 which were always written in a style of the warmest 
 affection, we were in the way of talking with the 
 greatest freedom of every body of our acquaintance. 
 It was delightful, as her ladyship expressed it, " to 
 " unfold one's feelings in the bosom of friendship ;" 
 and she accordingly was wont to send me the most 
 natural and lively pictures of the company who resort- 
 ed to — — ; and I, in return, transmitted her many 
 anecdotes of those persons which chance, or a grea- 
 ter intimacy, gave me an opportunity of learning. 
 To prevent discovery, we corresponded under the sig- 
 natures of Hortensia and Leonora ; and some very 
 particular intelligence her ladyship taught me not to 
 commit to ink, but to set down in lemon juice. — I 
 wander from my story, Mr. Mirror ; "but I cannot 
 " help fondly recalling (as Emilia in the novel says) 
 " those halcyon days of friendship and felicity." 
 
 When her ladyship's answer arrived, I foul d her 
 clearly of opinion that I ought to accept of my aunt's 
 invitation. She was very jocular on the manners 
 which she supposed I should find in that lady's fami- 
 ly ; but she said I might take the opportunity of mak- 
 ingsome acquirements, which London alone could 
 
THE MIRROR. 269 
 
 perfect, Edinburgk might, in some degree, commu- 
 nicate. She concluded her letter with requesting 
 the continuation of my correspondence, and a narra- 
 tive of every thing that was passing in town, espe- 
 cially with regard to some ladies and gentlemen of 
 her acquaintance, whom she pointed out to my par- 
 ticular observation. 
 
 To Edinburgh, therefore, I accompanied my aunt, 
 and found a family very much disposed to make me 
 happy. In this they might, perhaps, have succeeded 
 more completely, had I not acquired, from the in- 
 structions of Lady , and the company I saw 
 
 at her house, certain notions of polite life with which 
 I did not find any thing at Mr. — — *■ ~'s corres- 
 pond. It was often, indeed, their good humour 
 which offended me as coarse, and their happiness that 
 struck me as vulgar. There was not such a thing 
 as hip or low spirits among them, a sort of finery 
 
 which, at , I found a person of fashion could 
 
 not possibly be without. 
 
 They were at great pains to shew me any sights 
 that were to be seen, with some of which I was real- 
 ly little pleased, and with others I thought it would 
 look like ignorance to seem pleased. They took me 
 to the play-house, where there was little company, 
 and very little attention; I was carried to the con- 
 cert, where the case was exactly the same. I found 
 great fault with both ; for though I had not much 
 skill, I had got words enough for finding fault from 
 
 my friend Lady : upon which they made 
 
 an apology for our entertainment, by telling me, that 
 the play-house was, at that time, managed by a fid- 
 dler, and the concert was allowed to manage itself. 
 
 Our parties at home were agreeable enough. I 
 florid Mr. • 's and my aunt's visitors very dif- 
 ferent from what I had been made to expect, and 
 
 not at all the cocknies my Lady , and some 
 
 •f her humourous guests, used to describe. They 
 
270 THE MIRROR. 
 
 were not, indeed, so polite as the fashionable com- 
 pany I had met at her Ladyship's ; but they 
 were much more civil. Among the rest was my 
 uncle-in-law's partner, a good looking young man, 
 who, from the first, was so particularly attentive to 
 me that my cousins jokingly called him my lover ; 
 and even my aunt sometimes told me she believed 
 he had a serious attachment to me ; but I took care, 
 not to give him any encouragement, as I had always 
 
 heard my friend Lady talk of the wife of 
 
 a bargeoia as the most contemptible creature in the 
 world. 
 
 The season at last arrived, in which, I was told, 
 the town would appear in its gaiety, a great deal of 
 good company being expected at the Races. For the 
 Races I looked with anxiety, for another reason ; 
 my dear Lady ■ was to be here at that pe- 
 
 riod. Of this 1 was informed by a letter from my 
 sister. From her ladyship I had not heard for a 
 considerable time, as she had been engaged in a 
 round of visits to her acquaintance in the country. 
 
 The very morning after her arrival (for I was on 
 the watch to get intelligence of her), I called at her 
 lodgings. When the servant appeared, he seemed 
 doubtful about letting me in ; at last he ushered me 
 into a little darkish parlour, where, after waiting about 
 half an hour, he brought me word, that his lady could 
 not try on the gown 1 had brought then, but desired me 
 to fetch it next day at eleven. 1 now perceived there 
 had been a mistake as to my person ; and telling the 
 fellow, somewhat angrily, thatl wasno mantua-maker, 
 desired him to carry to his lady a slip of paper, on 
 which 1 wrote with a pencil the well-known name 
 of Leonora. On his going up stairs, I heard aloud 
 peal of laughter above, and soon after lie returned 
 
 with a message, that Lady ■ was sorry she 
 
 was particularly engaged at present, and could net 
 possibly see ice. Think, Sir, with what astorysh- 
 
THE MIRROR. 271 
 
 ment I heard this message from Hortensia. I left 
 the house, I know not whether most ashamed or 
 angry ; but afterwards 1 began to persuade myself, 
 that there might be some particular reasons for Lady 
 
 . 's not seeing me at that time, which she 
 
 might explain at meeting ; and I imputed the terms 
 of the message to the rudeness or" simplicity of the 
 footman. All that day, and the next, I waited impa- 
 tiently for some note of explanation or enquiry from 
 her ladyship, and was a good deal disappointed when 
 1 found the second evening arrive, without having re- 
 ceived any such token of her remembrance. 1 weni, 
 rather in low spirits, to the play. I had not beea 
 
 long in the house, when I saw Lady enter 
 
 the next box. My heart Muttered at the sight; and 
 I watched her eyes, that I might take the first op- 
 portunity of presenting myself to her notice. I saw 
 them, soon after, turned towards me, and immedi- 
 ately curtesied, with a significant smile, to my noble 
 friend, who being short-sighted, it would seem, 
 which, however, I had never remarked before, stared 
 at me for some moments, without taking notice of 
 my salute, and at last was just putting up a glass to 
 her eye, to point it at me, when a lady pulled her by 
 the sleeve, and made her take notice of somebody 
 on the opposite side of the house. She never after- 
 wards happened to look to that quarter where I was 
 seated. 
 
 Still, however, I was not quite discouraged, and, 
 on an accidental change of places in our box, con- 
 trived to place myself at the end of the bench next 
 to her ladyship's, so that there was only a piece of 
 thin board between us. At the end of the act, I 
 ventured to ask her how she did, and to express my 
 happiness at seeing her in town, adding, that I had 
 called the day before, but had found her particularly 
 engaged. " Why, yes," said she, " Miss Homespun, 
 " I am always extremely hurried in town, and have 
 a a 3 
 
272 THE MIRROR. 
 
 44 time to receive only a very few visit* ; but I will be 
 44 glad if you will come some morning and breakfast 
 4 with me — but not to-morrow, for there is a morn- 
 44 ing concert ; nor next day, for I have a musical 
 44 party at home. In short, you may come some 
 44 morning next week, when the hurry will be over, 
 4i and, if I am not gone out of town, I will be hap- 
 44 py to see you." I don't know what answer I 
 should have made ; but she did not give me an oppor- 
 tunity ; for a gentleman in a green uniform coming 
 into the box, she immediately made room for him to 
 sit between us. He, after a broad stare full in my 
 face, turned his back my way, and sat in that pos- 
 ture all the rest of the evening. 
 
 I am not so silly, Mr. Mirror, but I can under- 
 stand the meaning of all this. My lady, it seems, is 
 contented to have some humble friends in the country, 
 whom she does not think worthy of her notice in 
 town, but I am determined to shew her, that I have 
 a prouder spirit than she imagines, and shall go not 
 near her, either in town or country. What is more, 
 my father shan't vote for her friend at next election, 
 if I can help it. 
 
 What vexes me beyond every thing else is, that 
 I had been often telling my aunt and her daughters 
 
 of the intimate footing I was on with Lady , 
 
 and what a violent friendship we had for each other ; 
 and so, from envy, perhaps, they used to nick-name 
 me the Countess, and Lady Leonora. Now that 
 they had got this story of the mantua-maker and the 
 playhouse (for I was so angry I could not conceal it) 
 I am ashamed to hear the name of a lady of quality 
 mentioned, even if it be only in a book from the 
 circulating library. Do write a paper, Sir, against 
 pride and haughtiness, and people forgetting their 
 country friends and acquaintance, and yon will very 
 much oblige 
 
 Your's, Sec. 
 Elizabeth Homespun 
 
THE MIRROR. 273 
 
 P. S. My uncle's partner, the young gentleman 
 I mentioned above, takes my part when my cousins 
 joke upoo intimates with great folks ; I think he is 
 a much genteeler and better bred man than I tools, 
 him for at first. 
 
 Z 
 
 No. LIV. SATURDAY, JULY 31. 
 
 AMONG the letters of my correspondents, I have 
 been favoured with several containing observations on 
 the conduct and success of my paper. Of these, 
 some recommend subjects of criticism as of a kind 
 that has been extremely popular in similar periodical 
 publications, and on which, according to them, I 
 have dwelt too little. Others complain, that the cri- 
 tical papers I have published were written in a style 
 and manner too abstruse and technical for the bulk 
 of my readers, and desire me to remember, that in 
 a performance addressed to the world, only the lan- 
 guage of the world should be used. 
 
 I was last night in a company where a piece of 
 conversation on criticism took place, which, as the 
 speakers were well-bred persons of both sexes, was 
 necessarily of tke familiar kind. As an endeavour, 
 therefore, to please botk the above-mentioned corres- 
 pondents, I shall set down, as nearly as I can recol- 
 lect, the discourse of the company. It turned on 
 the tragedy of Zara, at the representation of which 
 all of them had been present a few evenings ago. 
 
 " It is remarkable," said Mr. , " what an 
 
 " aera of improvement in the French drama may be 
 " marked from the writings of M. de Voltaire. The 
 " cold and fedious declamation of the former French 
 
274 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " tragedians he had taste enough to see was not the 
 u language of passion, and genius enough to ex- 
 '• ecute his pieces in a different manner. He re- 
 «* tained the eloquence of Corneille, and the tender- 
 ** ness of Racine ; but he never suffered the first to 
 P swell into bombast, nor the other to sink into lan- 
 " gour. He accompanied them with the force and 
 " energy of our Shakespeare, whom he had the 
 " boldness to follow ;" — " and the meanness to decry," 
 said the lady of the house. — " He has been unjust 
 
 " to Shakespeare, I confess," replied Sir H 
 
 (who had been a considerable time abroad, and has 
 brought home somewhat more than the language and 
 dress of our neighbours) ; " yet I think I have ob- 
 " served our partiality for that exalted poet carry us 
 " as unreasonable lengths on the other side. When 
 u we ascribe to Shakespeare innumerable beauties, 
 " we do him but justice ; but, when we will not allow 
 M that he has faults, we give him a degree of praise 
 u to which no writer is entitled, and which he, of 
 u all men, expected the least. It was impossible* 
 u that, writing in the situation he did, he should 
 %t have escaped inaccuracies ; suffice it to say, they 
 " always arose from the exuberance of fancy, not 
 " the sterility of dulness." 
 
 M There is much truth in what you say," answered 
 
 Mr. ; " but Voltaire was unjust when, not 
 
 " satisfied with pointing out blemishes in Shakes- 
 " pea re, he censured a whole nation as barbarous for 
 w admiring his works. He must, himself, have felt 
 "• the excellence of a poet, whom, in this very tragedy 
 " of Zara, he has not disdained to imitate, and to 
 " imitate very closely too. The speech of Orasmane 
 " (or Osman, as the English translation calls him,) 
 " beginning, 
 
 M J'aurois d'un oeil serene, d'^ine front inalterable," 
 
1HE MIRROR. 275 
 
 " is almost a literal copy of the complaint of Othello: 
 
 •Had it rain'd 
 
 All sons of curses on me, &.c. 
 
 44 which is perhaps, the reason why our translator 
 44 has omitted it." — " I do not pretend to justify Vol- 
 
 44 taire," returned Sir H ; " yet it must be 
 
 44 remembered, in alleviation, that the French have 
 4 i formed a sort of national taste in their theatre, 
 44 correct, perhaps, almost to coldness. In Britain, 
 44 I am afraid, we are apt to err on the other side ; 
 *' to mistake rhapsody for fire, and to applaud a forced 
 44 metaphor for a bold one. I do not cite Dryden, 
 44 Lee, or the other poets of their age ; for that 
 41 might be thought unfair ; but, even in the present 
 " state of the English stage, is not my idea war- 
 41 ranted by the practice of poets, and the applause 
 4i of the audience ? A poet of this country, who in 
 *• other passages, has often touched the tender feel- 
 44 ings with a masterly hand, gives to the hero of 
 a one of his latest tragedies, the following speech : 
 
 Had I a voice like .dEtna when it roars, 
 For iii my breast is pent as tierce a fire, 
 I'd speak in flames. 
 
 * That a man, in the fervour and hurry of compo- 
 
 4k sition. should set down such an idea, is nothing ; 
 
 4 . 4 that it should be pardoned by the audience, is little ; 
 
 44 but that it should always produce a clap, is strange 
 
 44 indeed !" 
 
 44 And is there nothing like this in French tra- 
 
 44 gedits ?" said the lady of the house ; 44 for there 
 
 44 is, I think, abundance of it in some of ou$ late 
 
 44 imitations of them." — 44 Nay, in the translation of 
 
 44 Zayre, Madam," returned the baronet, 44 Flill has 
 
 44 sometimes departed from the original, to substitute 
 
 4 * a swelling and elaborate diction. He forgets the 
 
276 THE MIRK0R. 
 
 Jj plain soldierly character of the Sultan's favourite 
 (i Orasmin, when he makes him say, 
 
 -Silent and dark 
 
 Tli* unbreathing world is hush'd, as if it heard 
 And listen'd to your sorrows. 
 
 w The original is simple description ; 
 
 " Tout dort, tout est tranquille, et I'ombre de ia nuit."— 
 
 " And when the slave, in the fourth act, brings the 
 
 u fatal letter to the Sultan, and mentions the circum- 
 
 " stances of its interception, the translator makes 
 
 " Osman stay to utter a sentiment, which is always 
 
 " applauded on the English stage, but is certainly, 
 
 " however noble in itself, very ill-placed here : 
 
 -Approach me like a subject 
 
 That serves the prince, yet not forgets the man. 
 
 " Osman had no breath for words : Voltaire gives him 
 " but five hurried ones : 
 
 " Donne — qui la portajt ?— donne." 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion, Sir H ," said 
 
 Mr. ; " and I may add, that even Voltaire 
 
 44 seems to me too profuse of sentiments in Zara, 
 44 which, beautiful, as they are, and though expres- 
 44 sed with infinite delicacy, are yet somewhat foreign 
 44 to that native language which feeling dictates, and 
 " by which it is removed. I weep at a few simple 
 44 words expressive of distress ; I pause to admire a 
 " sentiment, and my pity is forgotten. The single line 
 44 uttered by Lusignan, at the close of his description 
 44 of the massacre of his wife and children, 
 
 ■' Helas! et j'etais pere, et je ne pus mourir," 
 
THE MIRROR 277 
 
 u moves me more than a thousand sentiments, how 
 H just or eloquent soever." 
 
 " If we think of the noblest use of tragedy," said 
 Mrs. , " we shall, perhaps, Sir, not be quite 
 
 " of your opinion. I, who am a mother, wish my 
 " children to learn some other virtues, beside com- 
 * passion, at a play ; it is certainly of greater con- 
 u sequence to improve the mind than to melt it." 
 
 " I am sure, mamma," said a young lady, her 
 
 daughter, w the sentiments of tragedy affect me as 
 " much as the most piteous description. When I 
 " hear an exalted sentiment, I feel my heart, as it 
 " were, swell in my bosom, and it is always follow- 
 " ed by a gush of tears from my eyes." — " You tell 
 " us the effects of your feelings, child ; but you djn't 
 « distinguish the feelings themselves* — I would have, 
 " gentlemen," continued she, " a play to be vtrtu- 
 4 « ous in its sentiments, and also natural in its events. 
 " The want of the latter quality, as well as of the 
 " former, has a bad effect on young persons ; it leads 
 u them to suppose, that such a conduct is natural 
 " and allowable in common life, and encourages that 
 " romantic deception which is too apt to grow up in 
 " minds of sensibility. Don't you think, that the sud- 
 " den conversion of Zara to Christianity, unsupport- 
 " ed by argument, or coaviction of its truth, is high- 
 " ly unnatural, and may have such a tendency as I 
 
 " have mentioned r" " I confess," said Mr. , 
 
 « that has always appeared to me an exceptionable 
 
 " passage." « I do not believe, mamma," said 
 
 the young lady, " that she was really converted in 
 " opinion ; but I don't wonder at her crying out she 
 " was a Christian, after such a speech as that of her 
 " father Lusignan. I know my heart was so wrung 
 " with the scene, that I could, at that moment, have 
 " almost become Mahometan, to have comforted the 
 
 u good old man." Her mother smiled ; for this 
 
 was exactly a confirmation of her remark. 
 
278 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " Voltaire,'* said Sir H , " has, like many 
 
 " other authors, introduced a dark scene into the last 
 " act of this tragedy ; yet it appears to me, that 
 " such a scene gees beyond the power of stage-de- 
 
 * ception, and always hurts the piece. We cannot 
 ■* possibly suppose, that two persons walking upon 
 " the same board do not see each other, while we, 
 " sitting in a distant part of the house, see both per- 
 
 " fectly well." " I do recollect," said the young 
 
 lady, " at first wondering how Zara could fail to see 
 
 " Osman ; but I soon forgot it." rt Thus it al- 
 
 " ways is," replied Mr. M , " in such a case ; 
 
 " if a poet has eloquence or genius enough to com- 
 " mand the passions, he easily gets the better of 
 " those stage improbabilities. In truth, the scenic 
 il deception is of a very singular nature. It is im- 
 K possible we should imagine ourselves spectators of 
 M the real scene, of which the stage one is an imi- 
 " tation ; the utmost length we are, in reality car- 
 " ried, is to deliver over our minds to that sym- 
 " pathy, which a proper and striking representation 
 
 * of grief, rage, or any other passion, produces. 
 " You destroy the deception, it is said, when any 
 u thing impertinent or ludicrous happens on the 
 " stage, or among the audience ; but you will find 
 " the very same effect, if a child blows his three- 
 " halfpenny trumpet, in the midst of a solo of I is- 
 " cher, or a song of Rauzzini ; it stops the delight- 
 " ful current of feeling which was carrying along the 
 " soul at the time, and dissatisfaction and pain are 
 " the immediate consequence ; yet in the solo or the 
 ** song, no such deception as the theatrical is pre- 
 
 " tended." Mr. delivered this wiih the 
 
 manner of one who had studied the subject, and no- 
 body ventured to answer him. 
 
 " You were mentioning," said Mrs. ■, " ol- 
 
 " taire's imitation of Othello, in this tragedy ; 
 " collect, in the lastaict, a very strong instance 
 
THE MIRROR. 279 
 
 « the concluding speech of Osman, before he stabs 
 " himself, which seems to be exactly taken from that 
 
 " of the Moor, in a similar situation." " I remem- 
 
 " ber both speeches well," said Sir H , 4 and I 
 
 «« think it may be disputed, whether either of them 
 
 " be congenial to the situation ?" -You will excuse 
 
 « me, Sir H ," said I, " if I hold them both per- 
 
 *' fectly in nature. The calmness of desperate and 
 " irremediable grief will give vent to a speech longer 
 " and more methodical than the immediate anguish 
 u of some less deep and irretrievable calamity. 
 " Shakespeare makes Othello refer, in the instant 
 " of stabbing himself, to a story of his killing a 
 " Turk in Aleppo ; the moment of perturbation, 
 " when such a passage would have been unnatural, 
 ** is past ; the act of killing himself is then a matter 
 u of little importance ; and his reference to a story 
 M seemingly indifferent, marks, in my opinion," most 
 " forcibly and naturally, the deep and settled horror on 
 " Othello's soul. I prefer it to the concluding lines of 
 u the Sultan's speech in Zara, which rest on the story 
 «* of his own misfortune : 
 
 u Tell 'em, I plung'd my dagger in her breast ; 
 " Tell 'em, I so ador'd, and thus reveng'd her." 
 
 " You have talked a great deal of the author," said 
 the young lady, " but nothing of the actors. Was 
 
 " not the part of Zara excellently performed :" 
 
 u Admirably, indeed," replied Mr. ; " I know 
 
 " no actress who possesses the power of speaking 
 
 " poetry, beyond Miss Younge." " Nor of feeling 
 
 " it neither, Sir, I think."— iC I did not mean to 
 
 " deny her that quality ; but in the other, I think she 
 " is unrivalled. She does not reach, perhaps, the 
 " impassioned burst, the electric flash of Mrs. Bar- 
 " ry ; nor has she that deep and thrilling note of hor- 
 " ror with which Mrs. Yates benumbs an audience ; 
 
 vol. r. b b 
 
280 THE MIRROR. 
 
 " but there is a melting tremble in her voice, which, 
 " in tender passages, is inimitably beautiful and af- 
 " feeling. Were I a poet, I should prefer her 
 " speaking my lines to that of any actress I ever 
 " heard." 
 
 " She owes, I believe," said our Frenchman, " much 
 " of her present excellence to her study of the 
 " French stage. I mean not to detract from her 
 " merit : I certainly allow her more, when I say, 
 " that her excellence is, in great part, of her own 
 " acquirement, than some of her ill-judged admirers, 
 " who ascribe it all to nature. Our actors, indeed, 
 " are rarely sensible how much study and application 
 " is due to their profession ; people may be spouters 
 *' without culture ; but laborious education alone can 
 " make perfect actors. Feeling, and the imitative 
 " sympathy of passion, are undoubtedly, derived 
 " from nature ; but art alone can bestow that grace, 
 u tnat refined expression, without which feeling will 
 " often be awkward, and passion ridiculous." 
 
 Z 
 
 No. LV. TUESDAY, AUGUST 3. 
 
 Dec'pimur specie recti. Hor. 
 
 SINCERITY, by which I mean honesty in men's 
 dealings with each other, is a virtue praised by every 
 one, and the practice of it is, I believe, more com- 
 mon than gloomy moralists are willing to allow. The 
 love of truth, and of justice, are so strongly implant- 
 ed in oar minds, that few men are so hardened, or 
 so insensible, as knowingly and deliberately to com- 
 mit dishonest actions, and a little observation soon 
 
THE MIRROR. 281 
 
 convinces those who are engaged in a variety of 
 transactions, that honesty is wisdom, and knavery- 
 folly. 
 
 But though, according to this acceptation of the 
 phrase, men are seldom insincere, or literally dis- 
 honest, in the ordinary transactions of life ; yet, I 
 believe, there is another and a higher species of sin- 
 cerity, which is very seldom to be met with in any 
 degree of perfection ; I mean that sincerity which 
 leads a man to be honest to himself, and to his own 
 mind, and which will prevent him from being imposed 
 upon, or deceived by his own passions and inclina- 
 tions. From that secret approbation which our mind 
 leads us to give to what is virtuous and honourable, 
 we cannot easily bear the consciousness of being dis- 
 honest. Hence, therefore, when men are desirous 
 to give way to their evil inclinations and passions, 
 they are willing, nay, at times, they are even at pains 
 to deceive themselves. They look out for some spe- 
 cious apology, they seek for some colour and disguise, 
 by which they may reconcile their conduct to the ap- 
 pearance of right, and may commit wrong, under the 
 belief that they are innocent, nay, sometimes that they- 
 are acting a praise-worthy part. Thus there are men 
 who would abhor the thought of deceiving themselves ; 
 and, while they believe that they are sincere, and are 
 really so, in the restricted sense in which I have used 
 this word, are, in all the important actions of their 
 life, under the influence of deceit. 
 
 Eubulus is a judge in one of the courts of law. Eu- 
 bulus believes himself a very honest judge ; and it is 
 but doing him justice to allow, that he would not, for 
 any consideration, knowingly, give an unjust decision ; 
 yet Eubulus hardly ever gave a fair judgment in any 
 cause where he was connected with, or knew any thing 
 about the parties. If either of them happen to be his 
 friend or relation, or connected with his friends or rela- 
 tions, Eubulus is sure always t» see the cause in a fa- 
 
282 THE MIRROR. 
 
 vourable light for that friend. If, on the other hand, 
 one of the parties happens to be a person whom Eu- 
 bulus has a dislike to, that party is sure to lose his suit. 
 In the one case, he sits down to examine the cause, 
 under all the influence and partiality of friendship ; 
 his cool senses are run-away with ; his judgment is 
 blinded, and he sees nothing but the arguments on the 
 side of his friend, and overlooks every thing stated 
 against him. In the other case he acts under the im- 
 pressions of dislike, and his judgment is accordingly 
 so determined. A cause was lately brought before 
 Eubulus, where every feeling of humanity and com- 
 passion prompted the wish, that one of the parties 
 might be successful ; but the right was clearly on 
 the other side. Eubulus sat down to examine it with 
 all the tender feelings full in his mind ; they guided 
 his judgment, and he determined contrary to justice. 
 During all this, Eubulus believes himself honest. In 
 one sense of the word he is so ; he does not, knowing- 
 ly or deliberately, give a dishonest judgment ; but, 
 in the higher and more extensive meaning of the 
 word, he is dishonest. He suffers himself to be im- 
 posed on by the feelings of friendship and humanity. 
 Nay, far from guarding against it, he aids the impo- 
 sition, and becomes the willing dupe to his own in- 
 clinations. 
 
 Licinius was a man of learning and of fancy : he 
 
 lived at a time when the factions of this country were 
 
 at their greatest height : he entered into aH of them 
 
 with the greatest warmth, and, in some of the principal 
 
 transactions of the time, acted a considerable part. 
 
 With warm attachments, and ungovernad zeal, his 
 
 opinions were violent, and his prejudices deep-rooted. 
 
 Licinius wrote a history of his own times : his zeal 
 
 for the interests he had espoused is conspicuous ; the 
 
 influence of his prejudices is apparent ; his opinion 
 
 of. the characters of the men of whom he writes, is 
 
 almost every where dictated by his knowledge of the 
 
THE MIRROR. 283 
 
 party to which they belonged ; and his belief or dis- 
 belief of the disputed facts of the time, is directed 
 by the connection they had with his own favourite 
 opinions. Phidippus cannot talk with patience of 
 this history or its author ; he never speaks of him 
 but as of a mean lying fellow, who knowingly wrote 
 the tales of a parly, and who, to serve a faction, 
 wished to deceive the public. Phidippus is mistaken ; 
 Licinius, in cne sense of the word, was perfectly ho- 
 nest ; he did net wish to deceive ; but he was himself 
 under the influence of deception. The heat of his 
 fancy, the violence of his zeal, led him away ; con- 
 vinced that he was much in the right, he was desi- 
 rous to be still more so ; he viewed, and was at pains 
 to view every thing in one light ; all thip characters, 
 and all the transactions of the time, were seen under 
 one colour ; and, under this deception he saw, and 
 thought, and wrote. When Phidippus accuses Lici- 
 nius of being wilfully dishonest, he is mistaken, and 
 is under the influence of a like deception with that 
 of Licinius. Licinius wrote unfairly, because he saw 
 every thing in one light, and was not at pains to guard 
 against self deception, or to correct erroneov,; 
 ment. Phidippus judges of. 1 icinms unfairly, be- 
 cause he also is under the ir-fiiie^e^ of party, he- ause 
 his system and opinions are different from those of 
 Licinius, and because this leads him to judge harsh- 
 ly of every one who thinks like Licinius. 
 
 Lysander is a young man of elegance and senti- 
 ment ; but he has a degree of vanity which makes 
 him wish to be possessed of fortune, not to hoard, 
 hut to spend it. Re has a high opinion of female 
 merit ; and would net, for any consideration, think 
 of marrying a woman for whom he did not believe 
 he felt the most sincere and ardent attachment. In 
 this situation of mind he became acquainted with 
 Leonora : Leonora's father was dead, and had left 
 her possessed of a very considerable fortune ; Lysan- 
 
234 TiHE MIRROR. 
 
 der had heard of Leonora, and knew she was pos- 
 sessed of a fortune before ever he saw her. She is 
 not remarkable either for the beauties of person or 
 of mind ; but the very first time Lysander saw her, 
 he conceived a prepossession in her favour, and 
 which has now grown into a strong attachment. Ly- 
 sander believes it is her merit only which has pro- 
 duced this ; and he would hate himself, if he thought 
 Leonorft's being possessed of a fortune had had the 
 least influence upon him. But he is mistaken ; he 
 does not know himself, nor that secret power the de- 
 sire of wealth has over him. The knowledge of 
 Leonora's being an heiress, made him secretly wish 
 her to be possessed of personal merit before he saw 
 her ; when he did see her, he converted his wishes 
 into belief ; he desired to be deceived, and he was so. 
 He conceived that she was possessed of every ac- 
 complishment of person and of mind ; and his ima- 
 gination being once warmed, he believed and thought 
 that he felt a most violent attachment. Had Leono- 
 ra been without a fortune, she would never have 
 drawn Lysander's attention ; he would have never 
 thought more highly of her merit than he did of that 
 of most other women ; and he would not have be- 
 come the dupe of his wishes and desires. 
 
 Amanda is a young lady of the most amiable dis- 
 positions. With an elegant form, she possesses a 
 most uncommon degree of sensibility. Her parents 
 reside at Belfield, in a sequestered part of the coun- 
 try. Here she has few opportunities of being in 
 society, and her time has chiefly been spent in read- 
 ing. Books of sentiment, novels, and tender poetry, 
 are her greatest favourites. This kind of rending 
 has increased the natural warmth and sensibility of 
 her mind : it has given her romantic notions of life, 
 and particularly warm and passionate ideas about 
 love. The attachment of lovers, the sweet union of 
 hearts, and hallowed sympathy of souls, are continu- 
 
THE MIRROR. 285 
 
 ally pictured in her mind. Philemon, a distant re- 
 lation of Amanda's, happened to pay a visit to Bell- 
 field. Amanda's romantic notions had hitherto been 
 general, and had no object to fix upon. But it is dif- 
 ficult to have warm feelings long, without directing 
 them to some object. After a short acquaintance, 
 Philemon became very particular in his attentions to 
 her. Amanda was not displeased with them ; on 
 the contrary, she thought she saw in him all those 
 good qualities which she felt in her own mind. Eve- 
 ry look, that he gave, and every word that he spoke, 
 confirmed her in this. Every thing she wished to be 
 in a lover, everything her favourite authors told her 
 a lover ought to be possessed of, she believed to be 
 in Philemon. Her parents perceived the situation of 
 her mind. In vain did they represent to her the dan- 
 ger she run, and that she had not yet acquaintance 
 enough of Philemon to know any thing, with certain- 
 ty, about his character. She ascribed these admo- 
 nitions to the too great coldness and prudence of age, 
 and she disregarded them. Thus did Amanda be- 
 lieve herself deeply enamoured with Philemon ; but 
 it could not be with Philemon, for she knew little of 
 him. She was the dupe of her own wishes ; and 
 she deceived herself into a belief that she was 
 warmly attached to him, when it was only an ideal 
 being of her own creation that was the. object of her 
 passion. Philemon may be worthy of the love of 
 Amanda, or Amanda may be able to preserve the de- 
 ception she is under even after marriage ; but her 
 danger is apparent. 
 
 The influence of self-deception is wonderfully pow- 
 erful^ * Different as are the above persons, and dif- 
 ferent as are their situations, all have been under its 
 guidance. As observed above, dishonesty, in our 
 ordinary transactions in the world, is a vice which 
 only the most corrupted and abandoned are in dan- 
 ger of falling into ; but that dishonesty with ourselves, 
 
286 T»E MIRROR. 
 
 ■which leads us to be our own deceivers, to become 
 the dupes of our own prevailing passions and inclina- 
 tions, is to be met with more or less in every charac- 
 ter. Here we are, as it were, parties to the deceit, 
 and, instead of wishing to guard against it, we be- 
 come the willing slaves of its influence. By this 
 means, not only arc bad men deceived by evil pas- 
 sions into the commission of crimes, but even the 
 worthiest men, by giving too much way to the best 
 and most amiable feelings of the heart, may be led 
 into fatal errors, and into the most prejudicial mis- 
 conduct. 
 S. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
INDEX 
 
 of th: 
 
 FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 No. Page.' 
 
 1 INTRODUCTORY paper. The reception which a 
 
 work of this sort is likely to meet with. Some ac- 
 count of the author and his intentions, 3 
 
 2 Various opinions of the Mirror over-heard by the author 
 
 in the shop of its editor, 7 
 
 3 Of beauty. Philosophical opinions of it ; directions 
 
 for improving and preserving it, 11 
 
 4 The effects of a foreign education, in a letter from L. G. 15 
 
 5 Of pedantry. An extension of that phrase; various 
 
 instances of it, 21 
 
 6 Seclusion and retirement from the world not inconsist- 
 
 ent with talents or spirit ; character of Mr. Umpra- 
 ville, 25 
 
 7 The importance of names in writing, in a letter from 
 
 Nomenclator, 29 
 
 8 The Musselman's Mirror, its wonderful properties ; in 
 
 a letter from Vitreus, 34 
 
 9 Censure of a particular piece of decorum at the theatre, 
 
 in a letter from A. W. ; with the author's reflections 
 upon it. Note from Ignoramus, 39 
 
 10 Effects of excessive delicacy and refinement ; charac- 
 
 ter of Mr. Fleetwood, 44 
 
 11 On duelling. Regulations proposed ; story of captain 
 
 Douglas, 51 
 
 12 Consequence of little folks of intimacy with great ones, 
 
 in a letter from John Homespun, 57 
 
 13 Remarks on the poems of Ossian, §2 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 14 On indolence, 68 
 
 15 Of education. A classical contrasted with a fashionable 
 
 education, 74 
 
 16 Of spring. Effects of that s«ason on some minds, 79 
 1 7 Description of a shopkeeper virtuoso, in a letter from 
 
 his wife Rebecca Prune. Observations suggested by 
 
 it, 83 
 
 18 Of national character. Comparison of that of France 
 
 and of England, 88 
 
 19 Some further particulars in the character of Mr. Urn- 
 
 phraville, 93 
 
 20 On the acrimony of literary disputes ; narrative of a 
 
 meeting between Sylvester and Alcander, 98 
 
 21 Difficulties of a bashful author in corresponding with 
 
 the Mirror, in a letter from Y. Z. Description of 
 
 a nervous wife, in a letter from Joseph Meekly, 102 
 
 22 On the restraints and disguise of modern education ; 
 
 character of Cleone ; in a letter from Lxlius, 107 
 
 23 History of a good-hearted man, ho one's enemy but 
 
 hi6 own, 111 
 
 24 Advantage which the artist m the fine arts has over 
 
 nature in the assemblage and arrangement of objects ; 
 exemplified in Milton's Allegro and 'Penseroso, 115 
 
 25 Description of the visit of a great lady to the house of 
 
 a man of small fortune, in a second letter from Mr. 
 Homespun, 119 
 
 26 The rules of external behaviour, a criterion of manners. 
 
 Modern good-breeding compared with the ancient, 126 
 
 27 The silent expression of sorrow. Feelings and beha- 
 
 viour of Mr. Wentworth, 132 
 
 28 Of our Indian conquests. Opinions of Mr. Umphra- 
 
 ville on that subject, 138 
 
 29 The advantages of politeness, and disagreeable conse- 
 
 quences of affected rusticity. — Short letter from Mo- 
 destus, 142 
 
 30 Of female manners. Change of those of Scotland con- 
 
 sidered, 147 
 
 31 Of the art of drawing characters in writing, 152 
 
 32 The inconvenience of not bearing with the follies of 
 
 others ; some particulars of a visit received by the au- 
 thor from Mr. Umphraville, 156 
 
 33 Advantages of mutual complacency in persons nearly 
 
 connected \ letters from Mr. and Mrs. Gold, 160 
 
 34 Subject of No. 32, continued ; description of a dinner 
 
 given to Mr. Umphraville by his cousin, Mr. Bearskin, 105 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 35 Letter from Eugenius on the doctrines of Lord Ches- 
 
 terfield. — From Bridget Nettlewit on the rudeness of 
 an assenter, 171 
 
 36 Reflections on genius unnoticed and unknown ; anec- 
 
 dotes of Michael Bruce, 177 
 
 37 Happiness drawn rather from prospect than possession ; 
 
 exemplified in the history of Euphanor, 181 
 
 38 Scheme of lectures on politeness, by Simulator, 188 
 
 39 Danger, Incident to men of fine feelings, of quarrelling 
 
 with the world, 193 
 
 40 Second part of the lecture on Simulation, 196 
 
 41 Description of a tour through the Highlands, by a Lon- 
 
 don family, 201 
 
 42 Importance of religion to minds of sensibility ; story of 
 
 La Roche, 205 
 
 43 Story of La Roche continued, 210 
 
 44 Story of La Roche concluded, 215 
 
 45 Of the character of a man of fashion, 221 
 
 46 Humourous account of a cross-purpose conversation, in 
 
 a letter from Eutrapelus. — Answer to the masters of 
 taverns in relation to the Mirror club, 227 
 
 47 The effects of delicacy and taste on happiness, illustra- 
 
 ted by a description of certain characters, 233 
 
 48 Whether in the pleasure derived from the fine arts, the 
 
 artist or connoisseur has an advantage over the com- 
 mon spectator ? This question considered with regard 
 to painting, 239 
 
 49 Distresses of the families of soldiers ; story of Nancy 
 
 Collins, 246 
 
 50 Genius and Talents rendered useless to society by indo- 
 
 lence and inactivity : anecdotes of Mr. Mordaunt, 250 
 
 51 Danger of too refined an education to girls in certain 
 
 circumstances, in a letter from Harriet B ■ , 257 
 
 52 Whimsical proposal for an improvement in agriculture, 
 
 by Posthumous Agricola, 262 
 
 53 Behaviour of great ladies in town to their country ac- 
 
 quaintance ; in a letter from Elizabeth Homespun, 267 
 
 54 Recital of a conversation-criticism on the tragedy of 
 
 Zara, 273 
 
 55 Of self-deception, 290 
 
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