LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 
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SELECTIONS 
 
 THE SPECTATOR 
 
 OF 
 
 ADDISON AND STEELE 
 
 BY 
 A. MESEROLE, LL. B. 
 
 C* WAY 
 
 NEW YORK ///S^7^ 
 
 ! 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY ... ^uc^ 
 
 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD ST 
 1892 
 

 Copyright, 1892, 
 E. P. DuTTON & Co. 
 
TO MY BROTHER 
 
 ALFRED VANDERBILT MESEROLE 
 
 IN APPRECIATION OF HIS ASSISTANCE IN 
 
 THE SELECTION OF THESE 
 
 ESSAYS 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Some years ago, I picked up, from among some 
 books thrown aside, an old copy of '' The Spectator," 
 with leaves torn and cover half off, evidently too 
 dilapidated to remain in the library. 
 
 Upon looking at the preface, I was attracted by 
 what was said to be the object of the authors, namely : 
 " To correct the vices, ridicule the follies, and dissi- 
 pate the ignorance, which too generally prevailed 
 at the commencement of the Eighteenth Centiu*y." 
 This interest led me to read all the essays, and I 
 found that, ^'by enlivening morality with wit and 
 tempering wit with morality," this object was attained 
 in an eminent degree. 
 
 Addison's merit as an author needs no other tes- 
 timony than that of Dr. Johnson : '' As a describer 
 of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand, 
 perhaps the first, of the first rank. As a teacher of 
 wisdom, he may be confidently followed. Whoever 
 wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not 
 coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give 
 his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." 
 
 The high and universal reputation of '' The Specta- 
 tor " needs no comment from me, and it only remains 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 to say why I have made selections from it. As many 
 essays were either local, obsolete, or too broad in 
 language, and others dwelt too minutely upon certain 
 subjects, I found that the work was read only by the 
 few. It was with the hope of increasing its scope of 
 usefulness, that I eliminated certain essays, and col- 
 lected those which I deemed would be of greatest in- 
 terest and instruction to the mass of readers. 
 
 Joseph Addison, the eldest son of the Rev. Lan- 
 celot Addison, Dean of Lichfield, w^as born in 1672 
 at Milston, in Wiltshire, England, of which place his 
 father was then Rector. 
 
 After leaving the Charterhouse, and when about 
 fifteen years of age, he entered Queen's College, 
 Oxford, but two years later was elected a scholar of 
 Magdalen College, having, it is said, been recom- 
 mended by his skill in Latin versification. He took 
 his master's degree in 1693, and held a fellowship 
 from 1699 to 171 1. 
 
 From 1693 to 1704 Addison devoted himself to 
 literary work, and, though his hterary work at that 
 time was inferior to that of his later days, it gained 
 for him a high reputation. 
 
 At different periods from 1704 until the time of 
 his death, Addison held various high pohtical posi- 
 tions. 
 
 In 1708 he was elected to Parhament, and con- 
 tinued a member from that time. 
 
 From 1 7 10 till the end of 17 14, much of his time 
 
PREFACE, vii 
 
 was devoted to the composition and publication of 
 his celebrated essays ; for it was on the ist of March, 
 171 1, that the first publication of ''The Spectator" 
 was issued. 
 
 In 1 7 16 Addison married the Countess Dowager 
 of Warwick, and in 17 19, when but little over forty- 
 seven years of age, he died at Holland House, Ken- 
 sington, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Sir Richard Steele, born in Dublin in 1672, found 
 a protector in his uncle, Henry Gascoigne, the secre- 
 tary of the Duke of Ormand. His father having 
 died before he reached his sixth year, it was through 
 this uncle's influence that Steele was enabled to go 
 to the Charterhouse in 1684. Here he first met Ad- 
 dison, and formed that friendship which ultimately 
 resulted in the pubhcation of " The Spectator." 
 
 In 1689 he entered Merton College, Oxford, but, 
 before taking his degree, left in order to join the army. 
 
 In 1701 he published ''The Christian Hero," fol- 
 lowed later by " The Funeral " and " The Tender 
 Husband." 
 
 In 1709 he started " The Tatler," and in this paper 
 he first introduced essays on general questions of 
 manner and morahty. " The Tatler " was followed 
 by " The Spectator," and this in turn by " The Guard- 
 ian," the last to which Addison contributed. 
 
 He then devoted himself to political writings, and 
 held various pubhc offices, being finally knighted in 
 
 1715- 
 
\nii PREFACE, 
 
 In 1722 he produced ''The Conscious Lovers," 
 said by many to be the best of his comedies. 
 
 In 1726, being seized with a paralytic stroke, he 
 retired to his country seat of Llangunnor, in Wales, 
 where, broken down in health, he died on the ist of 
 September, 1729. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 NO. PAGE. 
 
 6. Preference of Wit and Sense to Honesty and 
 
 Virtue Steele. i 
 
 7. Popular Superstitions Addison, 5 U*^ 
 
 15. Story of Cleanthe — On Happiness, exempli- 
 fied in Aurelia — Fulvia Addison. 9 
 
 . 19. On Envy Steele. 13 V 
 
 23. Ill-natured Satire Addison. 17 
 
 25. Letter from a Valetudinarian — Excess of 
 
 Anxiety about Health Addison. 21 
 
 27. Resolutions to quit the World — Letter to a 
 
 Clergyman Steele. 26 
 
 33. Characters of Lgetitia and Daphne : Steele — 
 
 Art of Improving Beauty Hughes. 29 
 
 35. False Wit and Humor — Genealogy of Hu- 
 mor Addison. 34 
 
 38. On Affectation — Vanity Steele. 39 
 
 47. Theory of the Passion of Laughter Addison. 43 
 
 _ 57. Mischiefs of Party-Rage in the Female S^-x.. Addison. 48 
 
 62. Difference between True and False Wit — 
 
 Mixed Wit Addison. 52 
 
 68. On Friendship Addison. 59 
 
 77. Absence of Mind — Bruyere's Character of 
 
 an absent-minded Man Btidgell. 64 
 
 93. Proper Methods of employing Time AddisoJi. 69 
 
 94. Subject continued — Pursuit of Knowledge. .^^.a!'z>^;/. 74 
 
 103. Compliments — Extracts on Sincerity Steele. 79 
 
 105. Will Honeycomb's Knowledge of the World 
 
 — Various Kinds of Pedants Addison, ^t^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 III. Immateriality of the Soul Addison. 86 
 
 115. Labor and Exercise Addison. 90 
 
 123. Education of Country Squires — Story of 
 
 Eudoxus and Leontine Addison. 94 
 
 1 28. Difference of Temper in the Sexes — Female 
 
 Levity Addison. 100 
 
 133. On Death — Reflections on the Death of a 
 
 Friend Steele. 104 
 
 143. Complaints of Sickness — A cheerful Temper Steele. jo8 
 
 1 70. On Jealousy Addison. 113 
 
 171. Subject continued — Address to those who 
 
 have jealous Husbands Addison. 119 
 
 172. Talents honorable only as they are used. . . Steele. 125 
 
 177. Good-nature, as a moral Virtue Addison. 129 
 
 188. The Love of Applause Steele. 135 
 
 195. On Temperance Addison. 138 
 
 197. Contentious Conversation of a Gentleman 
 
 of the Long Robe — Advice on Disputes. . Btidgell. 144 
 
 206. Modesty, Diffidence, vSelf-denial Steele. 149 
 
 213. On habitual good Intentions Addison. 153 
 
 215. Education — Compared to Sculpture Addiso?i. 158 
 
 219. Quality — Vanity of Honors and Titles Addison. 162 
 
 224. Universality of Ambition — Its wrong Direc- 
 
 tions Hughes. 167 
 
 225. Discretion and Cunning Addison. 173 
 
 231. Letter on Bashfulness : Hiighes — Reflec- 
 tions on Modesty Addison. 177 
 
 237. On the Ways of Providence Addison. 182 
 
 239. Various Ways of managing a Debate Addison. 187 
 
 243. On the Beauty and Loveliness of Virtue. . . .Addison. 191 
 
 247. Different Classes>pf Female Orators Addison. 194 
 
 248. On Beneficence, with Examples Steele. 199 
 
 249. Laughter and Ridicule Addison. 203 
 
 254. Letter from a Coquette to a new married 
 
 Lady, and Answer — Case of Love Steele. 207 
 
CONTENTS. xi 
 
 NO. PAGE. 
 
 255. Uses of Ambition — Fame difficult to be ob- 
 
 tained Addison. 210 
 
 256. Subject — Disadvantages of Ambition Addison. 214 
 
 257. Ambition hurtful to the Hopes of YvXmt\\.j .Addison. 221 
 261. Love and Marriage Addison. 225 
 
 282. False Hopes Steele. 229 
 
 283. On the Art of growing Rich Biidgell. 232 
 
 302. Character of Emilia Dr. Broine. 237 
 
 317. On Waste of Time — Journal of a Citizen. .Addison. 244 
 
 337. Letter on Education Bndgell. 249 
 
 348. Letter on Detraction Steele. 254 
 
 349. Consolation and Intrepidity in Death Addison. 258 
 
 355. Use to be made of Enemies Addison. 262 
 
 374. On the proper Use of Time, Fragments 
 
 from Caesar Steele. 265 
 
 379. Duty of Communicating Knowledge — Ob- 
 jections answered — Rosicrucius's Sepul- 
 
 cher Btidgell. 269 
 
 381. Cheerfulness preferable to Mirth Addison. 273 
 
 385. Essay on Friendship Bndgell. 277 
 
 386. On an obsequious Behavior — Character of 
 
 Acasto — Art of being Agreeable in Com- 
 pany Steele. 281 
 
 387. Motives to Cheerfulness. Addison. 284 
 
 391. Heathen Fables on Prayers — Vanity of 
 
 human Wishes Addison. 289 
 
 399. Hypocrisy, various kinds of it. . Addison. 294 
 
 408. On the Study of Human Nature — The Pas- 
 
 sions Pope. 298 
 
 409. Characteristics of Taste Addison. 302 
 
 411. Essay on the Pleasures of the \m2 g\xi2L\Ao\i . Addison. 307 
 
 412. Essay on the Pleasures of the \vi\2igvs\2X\0Ti . Addisoii. 311 
 416. Essay on the Pleasures of the \vc\2.^t\2.\Xot\. Addison. 317 
 422. On Raillery — Characters of Calisthenes, 
 
 Acetus, and Minutius Steele. 321 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 NO. PAGE. 
 
 424. On Good-humor — The Country Infirmary. Steele, 325 
 
 427. The Love of Defamation Steele. 328 
 
 438. On a Passionate Temper — The angry Book- 
 seller and calm Customer Steele. 332 
 
 441. Happiness of Dependence on the Supreme 
 
 Being Addiso7i. 337 
 
 447. Influence of Custom — Moral deduced from 
 
 it Addison, 340 
 
 449. Filial Piety of Fidelia Steele. 345 
 
 458. On True and False Modesty Addison. 349 
 
 459. On Religious Faith and Practice Addison. 353 
 
 463. Weight of Wisdom and Riches, a Vision. . .Addison. 357 
 
 464. Mediocrity of Fortune to be preferred Addison. 362 
 
 476. On Method in Writing and Conversation — 
 
 Characters of Tom Puzzle and Will Dry .Addison. 365 
 
 479. Causes of Unhappiness in the Married Life Steele. 369 
 483. On attributing our Neighbors' Misfortunes 
 
 to Judgments Addison. 373 
 
 499. Will Honeycomb's Account of the Siege of 
 
 Hensberg, and his Dream Addison. 378 
 
 535. On vain Hopes of temporal Objects — Story 
 
 of Alnaschar Addison. 382 
 
 569. On Drunkenness Addison. 386 
 
 574. Advantages of Content Addison. 389 
 
 594. On Calumny Unknow7i. 394 
 
 598. On a Merry and Serious Cast of Temper. .Addison. 397 
 
 612. On the Pride of Genealogy Unknaw7i. 400 
 
 615. On Fear Unhiown. 403 
 
 624. Division of Mankind into Classes — Pur- 
 suits of Avarice, Ambition, etc Unknown. 407 
 
THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 No. 6.] Wednesday, March 7, 1710-11. 
 
 Credebant hoc grande nefas, et morte piandum, 
 
 Si juvenis vetulo noa assurrexerat Juv., Sat., xiii, 54, 
 
 *Twas impious then (so much was age rever'd) 
 
 For youth to keep their seats when an old man appear' d. 
 
 I KNOW no evil under the sun so great as the abuse 
 of the understanding, and yet there is no one vice 
 more common. It has diffused itself through both 
 sexes, and all qualities of mankind, and there is hardly 
 that person to be found, who is not more concerned 
 for the reputation of wit and sense, than of honesty 
 and virtue. But this unhappy affectation of being 
 wise rather than honest, witty than good-natured, is 
 the source of most of the ill habits of life. Such false 
 impressions are owing to the abandoned wTitings of 
 men of wit, and the awkward imitation of the rest of 
 mankind. 
 
 For this reason Sir Roger was saying last night, that 
 he was of opinion none but men of fine parts deserved 
 to be hanged. The reflections of such men are so 
 dehcate upon all occurrences which they are con- 
 cerned in, that they should be exposed to more than 
 ordinary infamy and punishment, for offending against 
 such quick admonitions as their own souls give them, 
 and blunting the fine edge of their minds in such a 
 manner, that they are no more shocked at vice and 
 
2 THE SFECTA TOR. [No. 6. 
 
 folly than men of slower capacities. There is no 
 greater monster in being, than a very ill man of great 
 parts. He lives like a man in a palsy, with one side 
 of him dead. While perhaps he enjoys the satisfac- 
 tion of luxury, of wxalth, of ambition, he has lost the 
 taste of good-will, of friendship, of innocence. Scare- 
 crow, the beggar in Lincoln's-inn-fields, who disabled 
 himself in his right leg, and asks alms all day to get 
 himself a warm supper and a trull at night, is not half 
 so despicable a wretch as such a man of sense. The 
 beggar has no relish above sensations ; he finds rest 
 more agreeable than motion; and while he has a 
 warm fire and his doxy, never reflects that he de- 
 serves to be whipped. Every man who terminates 
 his satisfactions and enjoyments within the supply of 
 his own necessities and passions is, says Sir Roger, in 
 my eye, as poor a rogue as Scarecrow. '' But," con- 
 tinued he, " for the loss of public and private virtue, 
 we are beholden to your men of fine parts forsooth ; 
 it is Avith them no matter what is done, so it be done 
 with an air. But to me, who am so whimsical in a 
 corrupt age as to act according to nature and reason, 
 a selfish man, in the most shining circumstance and 
 equipage, appears in the same condition with the fel- 
 low above mentioned, but more contemptible in pro- 
 portion to what more he robs the public of, and enjoys 
 above him. I lay it down therefore for a rule, that 
 the whole man is to move together ; that every action 
 of any importance is to have a prospect for the 
 public good : and that the general tendency of our 
 indifferent actions ought to be agreeable to the dic- 
 tates of reason, of rehgion, of good-breeding ; without 
 this, a man, as I have before hinted, is hopping in- 
 stead of walking ; he is not in his entire and proper 
 motion." 
 
 While the honest knight was thus bewildering him- 
 
No. 6.] THE SPECTATOR, 3 
 
 self in good starts, I looked attentively upon him, 
 which made him, I thought^ collect his mind a httle. 
 '' What I aim at," says he, '' is to represent, that I am 
 of opinion, to polish om* understandings, and neglect 
 our manners, is of all things the most inexcusable. 
 Reason should govern passion, but instead of that, 
 you see, it is often subservient to it ; and as unac- 
 countable as one would think it, a wase man is not 
 always a good man." This degeneracy is not only 
 the guilt of particular persons, but also at some times 
 of a whole people ; and perhaps it may appear upon 
 examination, that the most polite ages are the least vir- 
 tuous. This may be attributed to the folly of admit- 
 ting wit and learning as merit in themselves, without 
 considering the application of them. By this means 
 it becomes a rule, not so much to regard what w^e 
 do, as how we do it. But this false beauty will not 
 pass upon men of honest minds, and true taste. Sir 
 Richard Blackmore says, with as much good sense 
 as virtue, '' It is a mighty shame and dishonor to 
 employ excellent faculties and abundance of wit, 
 to humor and please men in their vices and folHes. 
 The great enemy of mankind, notwithstanding his 
 wit and angelic faculties, is the most odious being 
 in the whole creation." He goes on soon after to 
 say, very generously, that he undertook the writing 
 of his poem '' to rescue the muses out of the hands 
 of ravishers, to restore them to their sweet and chaste 
 mansions, and to engage them in an employment 
 suitable to their dignity." This certainly ought to be 
 the purpose of every man who appears in public, and 
 whoever does not proceed upon that foundation, in- 
 jures his country as far as he succeeds in his studies. 
 When modesty ceases to be the chief ornament of 
 one sex, and integrity of the other, society is upon a 
 wrong basis, and we shall be ever after without rules 
 
4 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 6. 
 
 to guide our judgment in what is really becoming 
 and ornamental. Nature and reason direct one 
 thing, passion and humor another. To follow the 
 dictates of these two latter, is gomg into a road that 
 is both endless and intricate ; when we pursue the 
 other, our passage is delightful, and what we aim at 
 easily attainable. 
 
 I do not doubt but England is at present as polite 
 a nation as any in the world; but any man who 
 thinks, can easily see, that the affectation of being 
 gay and in fashion, has very near eaten up our good 
 sense, and our rehgion. Is there anything so just as 
 that mode and gallantry should be built upon our 
 exerting ourselves in what is proper and agreeable 
 to the institutions of justice and piety among us ? 
 And yet is there anything more Common, than that 
 we run in perfect contradiction to them ? All which 
 is supported by no other pretension, than that it is done 
 with what we call a good grace. 
 
 Nothing ought to be held laudable or becoming, 
 but what nature itself should prompt us to think 
 so. Respect to all kind of superiors is founded, I 
 think, upon instinct ; and yet what is so ridiculous 
 as age? I make this abrupt transition to the men- 
 tion of this vice more than any other, in order to 
 introduce a little story, which I think a pretty in- 
 stance, that the most polite age is in danger of being 
 the most vicious. 
 
 '' It happened at Athens, during a public repre- 
 sentation of some play exhibited in honor of the 
 commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too late 
 for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many 
 of the young gentlemen, who observed the difficulty 
 and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they 
 would accommodate him if he came w^here they sat. 
 The good man bustled through the crowd accord- 
 
No. 7.] THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ingly ; but when he came to the seats to which he 
 was invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, 
 as he stood, out of countenance, to the whole audience. 
 The frolic went round the Athenian benches. But 
 on those occasions there were also particular places 
 assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked 
 toward the boxes appointed for the Lacedemonians, 
 that honest people, more virtuous than pohte, rose 
 up all to a man, and with the greatest respect re- 
 ceived him among them. The Athenians being sud- 
 denly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and 
 their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause ; 
 and the old man cried out, ' The Athenians under- 
 stand what is good, but the Lacedemonians practice 
 it.' "— R. 
 
 No. 7.] Thursday, March 8, 1710-11. 
 
 Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, 
 Nocturnes lemures, portentaque Thessala rides ? 
 
 HoR., 2 £p., ii, 208. 
 
 Visions and magic spells can you despise, 
 And laugh at witches, ghosts, and prodigies ? 
 
 Going yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, 
 I had the misfort'une to find his whole family very 
 much dejedted. Upon asking him the occasion of 
 it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a strange 
 dream the night before, which they were afraid por- 
 tended some misfortune to themselves or to their chil- 
 dren. At her coming into the room, I observed a 
 settled melancholy in her countenance, which I 
 should have been troubled for, had I not heard from 
 whence it proceeded. We were no sooner sat down, 
 but after having looked upon me a little while, '' My 
 dear," says she, turning to her husband, '' you may 
 
THE SPECTATOR, [No. 7. 
 
 now see the stranger that was in the candle last 
 night." Soon after this, as they began to talk of 
 family affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the 
 table told her, that he was to go into join-hand on 
 Thursday. *' Thursday ! " says she, '' No, child, if it 
 please God, you shall not begin upon Childermas- 
 day ; tell your writing-master that Friday will be 
 soon enough." I was reflecting with myself on the 
 oddness of her fancy, and wondering that anybody 
 would establish it as a rule, to lose a day in every 
 week. In the midst of these my musings, she desired 
 me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my 
 knife, which I did in such a trepidation and hurry of 
 obedience, that I let it drop by the way ; at which 
 she immediately startled, and said it fell toward her. 
 Upon this I looked very blank ; and observing the 
 concern of the whole table, began to consider myself, 
 with some confusion, as a person that had brought a 
 disaster upon the family. The lady, however, recov- 
 ering herself after a little space, said to her husband 
 with a sigh, '' My dear, misfortunes never come sin- 
 gle." My friend, I found, acted but an under part 
 at his table, and being a man of more good-nature 
 than understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in 
 with all the passions and humors of his yoke-fellow. 
 " Do not you remember, child," says she, '' that the 
 pigeon-house fell the very afternoon thaf our careless 
 wench spilt the salt upon the table? " "Yes," says 
 he, ''my dear, and the next post brought us an ac- 
 count of the battle of Almanza." The reader may 
 guess at the figure I made, after having done all this 
 mischief. I dispatched my dinner as rapidly as I 
 could, with my usual taciturnity ; when, to my utter 
 confusion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and 
 fork, and laying them across one another on my plate, 
 desired me that I would humor her so far as to take 
 
No. 7.] THE SPECTATOR. 7 
 
 them out of that figure, and place them side by side. 
 What the absurdity was which I had committed I 
 did not know, but I suppose there was some tradi- 
 tionary superstition in it ; and therefore, in obedi- 
 ence to the lady of the house, I disposed of my knife 
 and fork in two parallel lines, which is the figure I 
 shall always lay them in for the future, though I do 
 not know any reason for it. 
 
 It is not difficult for a man to see that a person 
 has conceived an aversion to him. For my own 
 part, I quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she 
 regarded me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an 
 unfortunate aspect. For which reason I took my 
 leave immediately after dinner, and withdrew to my 
 own lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a 
 profound contemplation on the evils that attend these 
 superstitious follies of mankind ; how they subject us 
 to imaginary afflictions, and additional sorrows, that 
 do not properly come within our lot. As if the nat- 
 ural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, we 
 turn the most indifferent circumstances into misfor- 
 tunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents as 
 from real evils. I have known the shooting of a star 
 spoil a night's rest ; and have seen a man in love grow 
 pale, and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of a 
 merry-thought. A screech-owl at midnight has 
 alarmed a family more than a band of robbers ; nay, 
 the voice of a cricket hath struck more terror than 
 the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so inconsid- 
 erable, which may not appear dreadful to an imagina- 
 tion that is filled with omens and prognostics. A 
 rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up into prodi- 
 gies. * * * 
 
 An old maid that is troubled with the vapors pro- 
 duces infinite disturbances of this kind among her 
 friends and neighbors. I know a maiden aunt of a 
 
8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 7. 
 
 great family, who is one of these antiquated sybils, that 
 forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year 
 to the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and 
 hearing death-watches ; and was the other day almost 
 frightened out of her wits by the great house-dog that 
 howled in the stable, at a time when she lay ill with 
 the tooth-ache. Such an extravagant cast of mind 
 engages multitudes of people, not only in impertinent 
 terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life ; and arises 
 from that fear and ignorance which are natural to 
 the soul of man. The horror with which we enter- 
 tain the thoughts of death (or indeed of any future 
 evil), and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a mel- 
 ancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions aid 
 suspicions, and consequently dispose it to the obser- 
 vation of such groundless prodigies and predictions. 
 For as it is the chief concern of wise men to retrench 
 the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy ; it 
 is the employment of fools to multiply them by the 
 sentiments of superstition. 
 
 For my own part, I should be very much troubled 
 were I endowed with this divining quality, though it 
 should inform me truly of every^thing that can befall 
 me. I would not anticipate the relish of any hap- 
 piness, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it 
 actually arrives. 
 
 I know but one way of fortifying my soul against 
 these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that 
 is, by securing to myself the friendship and protec- 
 tion of that Being, who disposes of events, and gov- 
 erns futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole 
 thread of my existence, not only that part of it which 
 I have already passed through, but that which runs 
 forward into all the depths of eternity. When I lay 
 me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care ; 
 when I awake, I give myself up to his direction. 
 
No. 15.] THE SPECTATOR. 9 
 
 Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up 
 to him for help, and question not but he will either 
 avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though 
 I know neither the time nor the manner of the death 
 I am to die, I am not at all soHcitous about it ; be- 
 cause I am sure that he knows them both, and that 
 he will not fail to comfort and support me under 
 them. 
 
 No. 15.] Saturday, March ii, 1710--11. 
 
 Parva leves capiunt animos Ovid, Ars. Am., i, 159. 
 
 Light minds are pleased with trifles. 
 
 When I was in France, I used to gaze with great 
 astonishment at the splendid equipages and party- 
 colored habits of that fantastic nation. I was one 
 day in particular contemplatmg a lady that sat in a 
 coach adorned with gilded Cupids, and finely painted 
 with the loves of Venus and Adonis. The coach 
 was drawn by six milk-white horses, and loaded be- 
 hind with the same number of powdered footmen. 
 Just before the lady were a couple of beautiful pages, 
 that were stuck among the harness, and by their gay 
 dresses and smiling features, looked like the elder 
 brothers of the little boys that were carved and 
 painted in every corner of the coach. 
 
 The lady was the unfortunate Cleanthe, who after- 
 ward gave an occasion to a pretty melancholy novel. 
 She had, for several years, received the addresses of 
 a gentleman, whom, after a long and intimate ac- 
 quaintance, she forsook, upon the account of this 
 shining equipage, which had been offered to her by 
 one of great riches, but a crazy constitution. The 
 circumstances in which I saw her, were, it seems, the 
 
lo THE SPECTATOR. [No. 15. 
 
 disguises only of a broken heart, and a kind of 
 pageantry to cover distress — for in two months after 
 she was carried to her grave with the same pomp and 
 magnificence, being sent thither partly by the loss of 
 one lover, and partly by the possession of another. 
 
 I have often reflected with myself on this unac- 
 countable humor in womankind, of being smitten 
 with everything that is showy and superficial ; and 
 on the numberless evils that befall the sex, from this 
 Ught fantastical disposition. I myself remember a 
 young lady that was very warmly solicited by a 
 couple of importunate rivals, who, for several months 
 together, did all they could to recommend themselves, 
 by complacency of behavior and agreeableness of 
 conversation. At length, when the competition was 
 doubtful, and the lady undetermined in her choice, 
 one of the young lovers very luckily bethought him- 
 self of adding a supernumerary lace to his liveries, 
 which had so good an effect, that he married her the 
 very week after. 
 
 The usual conversation of ordinary women very 
 much cherishes this natural weakness of being taken 
 with outside and appearance. Talk of a new-married 
 couple, and you immediately hear whether they keep 
 their coach and six, or eat in plate. Mention the 
 name of an absent lady, and it is ten to one but you 
 learn something of her gown and petticoat. A 
 ball is a great help to discourse, and a birth-day fur- 
 nishes conversation for a twelvemonth after. A fur- 
 below of precious stones, a hat buttoned with a 
 diamond, a brocade waistcoat or petticoat, are stand- 
 ing topics. In short, they consider only the drapery 
 of the species, and never cast away a thought on 
 those ornaments of the mind that make persons illus- 
 trious in themselves, and useful to others. When 
 women are thus perpetually dazzling one another's 
 
No. 15.] THE SPECTATOR. 11 
 
 imaginations, and filling their heads with nothing 
 but colors, it is no wonder that they are more atten- 
 tive to the superficial parts of life than the solid and 
 substantial blessings of it. A girl who has been 
 trained up in this kind of conversation is in danger 
 of every embroidered coat that comes in her way. 
 A pair of fringed gloves may be her ruin. In a 
 word, lace and ribbons, silver and gold galloons, with 
 the like glittering gewgaws, are so many lures to 
 women of weak minds and low education, and, when 
 artificially displayed, are able to fetch down the most 
 ^y coguette from the wildest of her flights^ and 
 rambles. 
 
 True happiness is of a retired nature, and an en- 
 emy to pomp and noise ; it arises, in the first place 
 from the enjoyment of one's self; and in the next, 
 from the friendship and conversation of a few select 
 companions : it loves shade and solitude, and 
 natiu-ally haunts groves and fountains, fields and 
 meadows : in short, it feels everything it wants 
 within itself, and receives no addition from multi- 
 tudes of witnesses and spectators. On the contrary 
 false happiness loves to be in a crowd, and to draw 
 the eyes of the world upon her. She does not receive 
 any satisfaction from the applauses which she gives 
 herself, but from the admiration which she raises in 
 others. She flourishes in courts and palaces, theatres 
 and assembHes, and has no existence but when she 
 is looked upon. 
 
 Aureha, though a woman of great quality, delights 
 in the privacy of a country life, and passes away a 
 great part of her time in her own walks and gardens. 
 Her husband, who is her bosom friend and companion 
 in her solitudes, has been in love with her ever since 
 he knew her. They both abound with good sense, 
 consummate virtue and a mutual esteem ; and are a 
 
12 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 15. 
 
 perpetual entertainment to one another. Their 
 family is under so regular an economy, in its hours 
 of devotion and repast, employment and diversion, 
 that it looks like a little commonwealth within itself. 
 They often go into company, that they may return 
 with the greater delight to one another ; and some- 
 times live in town, not to enjoy it so properly, as to 
 grow wxary of it, that they may renew in themselves 
 the relish of a country life. By this means they are 
 happy in each other, beloved by their children, adored 
 by their servants, and are become the envy, or rather 
 the delight of all that know them. 
 
 How different to this is the hfe of Fulvia ! She 
 considers her husband as her steward, and looks upon 
 discretion and good housewifery as little domestic 
 virtues, unbecoming a woman of quality. She thinks 
 life lost in her own family, and fancies herself out of 
 the world when she is not in the ring, the playhouse, 
 or the drawling-room. She lives in a perpetual motion 
 of body and restlessness of thought, and is never easy 
 in any one place, when she thinks there is more com- 
 pany in another. The missing of an opera the first 
 night, would be more afflicting to her than the death 
 of a child. She pities all the valuable part of her 
 own sex, and calls every woman of a prudent, 
 modest, and retired life, a poor-spirited, unpolished 
 creature. What a mortification would it be to Fulvia, 
 if she knew that her setting herself to view is but 
 exposing herself, and that she grows contemptible 
 by being conspicuous ! 
 
 I cannot conclude my paper without observing, 
 that Virgil has very finely touched upon this female 
 passion for dress and show, in the character of 
 Camilla ; who, though she seems to have shaken off 
 all the other weaknesses of her sex, is still described 
 as a woman in this particular. The poets tell us, that 
 
No. 19.] THE SPECTATOR, 13 
 
 after having made a great slaughter of the enemy, 
 she unfortunately cast her eye on a Trojan, who wore 
 an embroidered tunic, a beautiful coat of mail, with 
 a mantle of the finest purple. ''A golden bow," 
 says he, '' hung upon his shoulder ; his garment w^as 
 buckled with a golden clasp, and his head covered 
 with a helmet of the same shining metal." The 
 Amazon immediately singled out this well-dressed 
 warrior, being seized with a woman's longing for the 
 pretty trappings that he was adorned with : 
 
 -Totumque incauta per agmen 
 
 Foemineo pr8edse et spoliorum ardebat amore. 
 
 ^N., xi, 782. 
 
 This heedless pursuit after these glittering trifles, 
 the poet (by a nice concealed moral), represents to 
 have been the destruction of his female hero. — C. 
 
 No. 19.] Thursday, March 22, 1710-11. 
 
 Dj bene fecerunt, inopis me quodque pusilli 
 Finxerunt animi, raro et perpauca loquentis. 
 
 HoR., I Sat., iv, 17. 
 
 Thank Heaven, that made me of an humble mind ; 
 To action little, less to words inclined ! 
 
 Observing one person behold another, who was 
 an utter stranger to him, with a cast of his eye, which 
 methought expressed an emotion of heart very differ- 
 ent from what could be raised by an object so agree- 
 able as the gentleman he looked at, I began to 
 consider, not without some secret sorrow, the con- 
 dition of an envious man. Some have fancied that 
 envy has a certain magical force in it, and that the 
 eyes of the envious have, by their fascination, blasted 
 the enjoyments of the happy. Sir Francis Bacon 
 
14 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 19. 
 
 says, some have been so curious as to remark the 
 times and seasons when the stroke of an envious eye 
 is most effectually pernicious, and have observed that 
 it has been when the person envied has been in any 
 circumstance of glory and triumph. At such a time 
 the mind of the prosperous mian goes, as it were, 
 abroad, among things without him, and is more 
 exposed to the mahgnity. But I shall not dwell 
 upon speculations so abstracted as this, or repeat the 
 many excellent things which one might collect out of 
 authors upon this miserable affection ; but keeping 
 the common road of life, consider the envious man 
 with relation to these three heads, his pains, his re- 
 hefs, and his happiness. 
 
 The envious man is in pain upon all occasions 
 which ought to give him pleasure. The rehsh of his 
 life is inverted ; and the objects which administer the 
 higher satisfaction to those who are exempt from this 
 passion, give the quickest pangs to persons who 
 are subject to it. All the perfections of their fellow- 
 creatures are odious. Youth, beauty, valor, and wis- 
 dom, are provocations of their displeasure. What a 
 wretched and apostate state is this : to be offended 
 with excellence, and to hate a man because we ap- 
 prove him ! The condition of the envious man is 
 the most emphatically miserable ; he is not only in- 
 capable of rejoicing in another's merit or success, but 
 lives in a world wherein all mankind are in a plot 
 against his quiet, by studying their own happiness and 
 advantage. Will Prosper is an honest tale-bearer; 
 he makes it his business to join in conversation with 
 envious men. He points to such a handsome young 
 fellow, and whispers that he is secretly married to a 
 great fortune. When they doubt, he adds circum- 
 stances to prove it ; and never fails to aggravate their 
 distress by assuring them, that, to his knowledge, he 
 
No. 19] THE SPECTATOR, 15 
 
 has an uncle will leave him some thousands. Will 
 has many arts of this kind to torture this sort of tem- 
 per, and deHghts in it. When he finds them change 
 color, and say faintly they wish such a piece of news 
 is true, he has the malice to speak some good or 
 other of every man of their acquaintance. 
 
 The reliefs of the envious man, are those little blem- 
 ishes and imperfections that discover themselves in 
 an illustrious character. It is matter of great consola- 
 tion to an envious person, when a man of known honor 
 does a thing unworthy of himself, or when any action 
 which was well executed, upon better information 
 appears so altered in its circumstances, that the fame 
 of it is divided among many, instead of being attrib- 
 uted to one. This is a secret satisfaction to these 
 malignants : for the person whom they could not but 
 admire, they fancy is nearer their own condition as 
 soon as his merit is shared among others. I remem- 
 ber some years ago, there came out an excellent poem 
 without the name of the author. The little wits, 
 who were incapable of wTiting it, began to pull in 
 pieces the supposed writer. When that would not 
 do, they took great pains to suppress the opinion 
 that it was his. That again failed. The next refuge 
 was, to say it was overlooked by one man, and many 
 pages wholly written by another. An honest fellow, 
 who sat among a cluster of them in debate on this 
 subject, cried out, '' Gentlemen, if you are sure none 
 of you yourselves had a hand in it, you are but where 
 you were, whoever wrote it." But the most usual 
 succor to the envious, in cases of nameless merit in 
 this kind, is to keep the property, if possible, unfixed, 
 and by that means to hinder the reputation of it from 
 falling upon any particular person. You see an en- 
 vious man clear up his countenance, if, in the relation 
 of any man's great happiness in one point, you men- 
 
i6 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 19. 
 
 tion his uneasiness in another. When he hears such 
 a one is very rich, he turns pale, but recovers when 
 you add that he has many children. In a word, the 
 only sure way to an envious man's favor is not to 
 deserve it. 
 
 But if we consider the envious man in delight, it is 
 like reading of the seat of a giant in romance ; the 
 magnificence of his house consists in the many limbs 
 of men whom he has slain. If any who promised 
 themselves success in any uncommon undertaking 
 miscarry in the attempt, or he that aimed at what 
 would have been useful and laudable, meets with con- 
 tempt and derision, the envious man, under the color 
 of hating vain-glory, can smile with an inward wan- 
 tonness of heart at the ill effect it may have upon an 
 honest ambition for the future. 
 
 Having thoroughly considered the nature of this 
 passion, I have made it my study how to avoid the 
 envy that may accrue to me from these my specula- 
 tions ; and if I am not mistaken in myself, I think I 
 have a genius to escape it. Upon hearing in a coffee- 
 house one of my papers commended, I immediately 
 apprehended the envy that would spring from that 
 applause ; and therefore gave a description of my 
 face the next day ; being resolved, as I grow in rep- 
 utation for wit, to resign my pretensions to beauty. 
 This, I hope, may give some ease to those unhappy 
 gentlemen who do me the honor to torment them- 
 selves upon the account of this my paper. As their 
 case is very deplorable, and deserves compassion, I 
 shall sometimes be dull in pity to them, and will, from 
 time to time, administer consolations to them by 
 farther discoveries of my person. In the meanwhile, 
 if any one says the Spectator has wit, it may be some 
 relief to them to think that he does not show it in 
 company. And if any one praises his morality, they 
 
No. 23.] THE SPECTATOR, 17 
 
 may comfort themselves by considering that his face 
 is none of the longest. — R. 
 
 No. 23.] Tuesday, March, 27, 171 1. 
 
 Saevit atrox Volscens, nee teli conspicit usquam 
 Auctorem, nee quo se ardens immittere possit. 
 
 ViRG., -^n., ix, 420. 
 
 Fierce Volscens foams with rage, and gazing round, 
 Descry' d not him who gave the fatal wound ; 
 Nor knew to fix revenge. Dryden. 
 
 There is nothing that more betrays a base ungen- 
 erous spirit than the giving of secret stabs to a man's 
 reputation ; lam.poons and satires, that are written 
 with wit and spirit, are like poisoned darts, which not 
 only inflict a wound, but make it incurable. For 
 this reason I am very much troubled when I see the 
 talents of humor and ridicule in the possession of an 
 ill-natured man. There cannot be a greater gratifi- 
 cation to a barbarous and inhuman wit, than to stir up 
 sorrow in the heart of a private person, to raise un- 
 easiness among near relations, and to expose whole 
 famihes to derision, at the same time that he remains 
 unseen and undiscovered. If beside the accomplish- 
 ments of being witty and ill-natured, a man is 
 vicious into the bargain, he is one of the most mis- 
 chievous creatm-es that can enter into a civil society. 
 His satire will, then chiefly fall upon those who ought 
 to be the most exempt from it. Virtue, merit, and 
 everything that is praiseworthy, will be made the sub- 
 ject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to 
 enumerate the evils which arise from these arrows 
 that fly in the dark ; and I know no other excuse that 
 is or can be made for them, than that the wounds 
 they give are only imaginary, and produce nothing 
 
i8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 23. 
 
 more than a secret shame and sorrow in the mind of 
 the suffering person. It must indeed be confessed, 
 that a lampoon or a satire do not carry in them rob- 
 bery or murder ; but at the same time how many are 
 there that would not rather lose a considerable sum of 
 money, or even life itself, than be set up as a mark 
 of infamy and derision? and in this case a man should 
 consider, that an injury is not to be measured by the 
 notions of him that gives, but of him that receives it. 
 
 Those who can put the best countenance upon the 
 outrages of this nature which are offered them, are 
 not without their secret anguish. I have often ob- 
 served a passage in Socrates's behavior at his death, 
 in a light wherein none of the critics have considered it. 
 That excellent man entertaining his friends, a little 
 before he drank the bowl of poison, with a discourse 
 on the immortality of the soul, at his entering upon 
 it says that he does not beheve any, the most comic 
 genius, can censure him for talking upon such a 
 subject at such a time. This passage, I think, evi- 
 dently glances upon Aristophanes, who wrote a com- 
 edy on purpose to ridicule the discourses of that di- 
 vine philosopher. It has been observed by many 
 writers, that Socrates was so little moved at this 
 piece of buffoonery, th^t he was several times present 
 on its being acted upon the stage, and never expressed 
 the least resentment of it. But with submission, I 
 think the remark I have here made shows us, that 
 this unworthy treatment made an impression upon his 
 mind, though he had been too wise to discover it. 
 
 When Juhus Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, he 
 invited him to supper, and treated him with such a gen- 
 erous civility, that he made the poet his friend ever 
 after. Cardinal Mazarine gave the same kind of 
 treatment to the learned Quillet, who had reflected 
 upon his eminence in a famous Latin poem. The 
 
No. 23.] THE SPECTATOR, 19 
 
 cardinal sent for him, and, after some kind expostu- 
 lations upon what he had written, assured him of his 
 esteem, and dismissed him with a promise of the next 
 good abbey that should fall, which he accordingly 
 conferred upon him a few months after. This had 
 so good an effect upon the author, that he dedicated 
 the second edition of his book to the cardinal, after 
 having expunged the passages which had given him 
 offense. 
 
 Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and forgiv- 
 ing a temper. Upon his being made pope, the statue 
 of Pasquin was one night dressed in a very dirty 
 shirt, with an excuse written under it, that he was 
 forced to wear foul linen, because his laundress was 
 made a princess. This was a reflection upon the 
 pope's sister, who before the promotion of her brother, 
 was in those mean circumstances that Pasquin repre- 
 sented her. As this pasquinade made a great noise 
 in Rome, the pope offered a considerable sum of 
 money to any person that should discover the author 
 of it. The author, relying upon his holiness's gen- 
 erosity, as also some private overtures which he had 
 received from him, made the discovery himself ; upon 
 which the pope gave him the reward he had promised, 
 but at the same time to disable the satirist for the 
 future, ordered his tongue to be cut out, and both 
 his hands to be chopped off. Aretine * is too trite 
 an instance. Every one knows that all the kings of 
 Europe were his tributaries. Nay, there is a letter 
 of his extant, in which he makes his boast that he 
 laid the Sophi of Persia under contribution. 
 
 Though, in the various examples which I have here 
 drawn together, these several great men behaved 
 themselves very differently toward the wits of the age 
 
 * Peter Aretine, infamous for his writings, died in 1556. 
 
20 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 23. 
 
 who had reproached them ; they all of them plainly 
 showed that they were very sensible of their re- 
 proaches, and consequently that they received them as 
 very great injuries. For my own part, I would never 
 trust a man that I thought was capable of giving these 
 secret wounds ; and cannot but think that he would 
 hurt the person whose reputation he thus assaults, in 
 his bodv or in his fortune, could he do it with the 
 same security. There is, indeed, something ver}- bar- 
 barous and inhuman in the ordinary' scribblers of 
 lampoons. An innocent young lady shall be ex- 
 posed for an unhappy feature ; a father of a family 
 turned to ridicule for some domestic calamity ; a wife 
 made uneasy all her life for a misrepresented word or 
 action ; nay, a good, a temperate, and a just man 
 shall be put out of countenance by the representation 
 of those qualities that should do him honor. So 
 pernicious a thing is wit, when it is not tempered 
 with virtue and humanity. 
 
 I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate 
 ^^Titers, that without any malice have sacrificed the 
 reputation of their friends and acquaintances to a 
 certain levity of temper, and a silly ambition of dis- 
 tinguishing themselves by a spirit of raillery and 
 satire : as if it were not infinitely more honorable to 
 be a good-natiu*ed man than a wit. Where there 
 is this little petulant humor in an author, he is often 
 ver\^ mischievous without designing to be so. For 
 which reason, I always lay it down as a rule, that an 
 indiscreet man is more hurtful than an ill-natured 
 one ; for as the latter will only attack his enemies, 
 and those he wishes ill to : the other injures indiffer- 
 ently both friends and foes. I cannot forbear on 
 this occasion transcribing a fable out of Sir Robert 
 I'Estrange, which accidentally has before me. ''*A 
 company of waggish boys were watching of frogs 
 
No. 25.] THE SPECTATOR. 21 
 
 at the side of a pond, and still as any of them put 
 up their heads, they would be pelting them down 
 again with stones. ' Children,' says one of the frogs, 
 ' you never consider, that though this may be play 
 for you, it is death to us.' " 
 
 As this week is in a manner set apart and dedi- 
 cated to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in 
 such speculations as may not be altogether unsuitable 
 to the season ; and in the meantime, as the settling 
 in ourselves a charitable frame of mind is a work 
 very proper for the time, I have in this paper en- 
 deavored to expose that particular breach of charity 
 which has been generally overlooked by divines, be- 
 cause there are but few who can be guilty of it, — C. 
 
 No. 25.] Thursday, March 29, 171 1. 
 
 .^Egrescitque medendo. — Virg., ^n., xii, 46. 
 
 And sickens by the very means of health. 
 
 The following letter will explain itself, and needs 
 no apology. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 '' I am one of that sickly tribe who are commonly 
 known by the name of yal etudinar ians ; and do con- 
 fess to you, that I first contracted this ill habit of 
 body, or rather of mind, by the study of physic. I 
 no sooner began to peruse books of this nature, but I 
 found my pulse was irregular ; and scarce ever read 
 the account of any disease that I did not fancy my- 
 self afflicted with. Dr. Sydenham's learned treatise 
 of fever threw me into a lingering hectic, which hung 
 upon me all the while I was reading that excellent 
 piece. I then applied myself to the study of several 
 
22 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 25. 
 
 authors who have ^vritten upon phthisical distempers, 
 and by that means fell into a consumption ; till at 
 length, growing very fat, I was in a manner shamed 
 out of that imagination. Not long after this, I found 
 in myself all the symptoms of the gout, except pain ; 
 but was cured of it by a treatise upon the gravel, 
 written by a very ingenious author, who (as it is 
 usual for physicians to convert one distemper into 
 another) eased me of the gout by giving me the 
 stone. I at length studied myself into a comphca- 
 tion of distempers ; but, accidentally taking into my 
 hand that ingenious discoiu-se written by Sanctorius, 
 I was resolved to direct myself by a scheme of rules, 
 which I had collected from his observations. The 
 learned world are very well acquainted with that 
 gentleman's invention ; who, for the better carrying 
 on his experiments, contrived a certain mathematical 
 chair, which was so artificially hung upon springs, 
 that it would weigh anything as well as a pair of 
 scales. By this means he discovered how many 
 ounces of his food passed by perspiration, what 
 quantity of it was turned into nourishment, and how 
 much went away by the other channels and distribu- 
 tions of nature. 
 
 '' Having provided myself with this chair, I used to 
 study, eat, drink, and sleep in it ; insomuch that I may 
 be said, for these last three years, to have lived in a 
 pair of scales. I compute myself, when I am in full 
 health, to be precisely two hundred weight, falling 
 short of it about a pound after a day's fast, and ex- 
 ceeding it as much after a very full meal ; so that it 
 is my continual employment to trim the balance be- 
 tween these two volatile pounds in my constitution. 
 In my ordinary meals I fetch myself up to two hun- 
 dred weight and half a pound ; and if, after having 
 dined, I find myself fall short of it, I drink so much 
 
No. 25-] THE SPECTATOR. 23 
 
 small beer, or eat such a quantity of bread, as is 
 sufficient to make me weight. In my greatest ex- 
 cesses, I do not transgress more than the other half- 
 pound ; which, for my health's sake, I do the first 
 Monday in every month. As soon as I find myself 
 duly poised after dinner, I walk till I have perspired 
 five ounces and four scruples ; and when I discover, 
 by my chair, that I am so far reduced, I fall to my 
 books, and study away three ounces more. As for 
 the remaining parts of the pound, I keep no account 
 of them. I do not dine and sup by the clock, but 
 by my chair ; for when that informs me my pound 
 of food is exhausted, I conclude myself to be hungry, 
 and lay in another with all diligence. In my days of 
 abstinence I lose a pound and a half, and on solemn 
 fasts am two pounds lighter than on the other days 
 of the year. 
 
 '' I allow myself, one night with another, a quar- 
 ter of a pound of sleep, within a few grains more or 
 less ; and if, upon my rising, I find that I have not 
 consumed my whole quantity, I take out the rest in 
 my chair. Upon an exact calculation of what I ex- 
 pended and received the last year, which I always 
 register in a book, I find the medium to be two hun- 
 dred weight, so that I cannot discover that I am 
 impaired one ounce in my health during a whole 
 twelvemonth. And yet. Sir, notwithstanding this my 
 great care to ballast myself equally every day, and 
 to keep my body in its proper poise, so it is, that I 
 find myself in a sick and languishing condition. My 
 complexion is grown very sallow, my pulse low, and 
 my body hydropical. Let me therefore beg you, Sir, 
 to consider me as your patient, and to give me more 
 certain rules to walk by than those I have akeady 
 observed, and you will very much oblige 
 
 '' Your humble servant." 
 
24 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 25. 
 
 This letter puts me in mind of an Italian epitaph 
 written on the monument of a valetudinarian : ''Stavo 
 ben, 77ia per star jneglio, sto qui: " which it is impossible 
 to translate.* The fear of death often proves mortal, 
 and sets people on methods to save their hves which 
 infallibly destroy them. This is a reflection made by 
 some historians, upon obsen'ing that there are many 
 more thousands killed in a flight, than in a battle ; 
 and may be appHed to those multitudes of imaginary 
 sick persons that break their constitutions by physic, 
 and throw themselves into the amis of death by 
 endeavoring to escape it. This method is not only 
 dangerous, but below the practice of a reasonable 
 creature. To consult the preser\-ation of life, as the 
 only end of it — to make our health our business — to 
 engage in no action that is not part of a regimen, or 
 course of physic — are purposes so abject, so mean, 
 so unworthy human nature, that a generous soul 
 would rather die than submit to them. Beside, that 
 a continual anxiety for life vitiates all the relishes of 
 it, and casts a gloom over the whole face of nature ; 
 as it is impossible we should take dehght in annhing 
 that we are ever}' moment afraid of losing. 
 
 I do not mean, by what I have here said, that I 
 think any one to blame for taking due care of their 
 health. On the contrary, as cheerfulness of mind, 
 and capacity for business are in a great measure the 
 effects of a well-tempered constitution, a man cannot 
 be at too much pains to cultivate and preserve it. 
 But this care, which we are prompted to. not only by 
 common sense, but by duty and instinct, should 
 never engage us in groundless fears, melancholy ap- 
 
 * The following translation, however, may give an English 
 reader some idea of the Italian epitaph : ** I was well, but try- 
 ing to be better, I am here." 
 
No. 25.] THE SPECTATOR. 25 
 
 prehensions, and imaginary distempers, which are 
 natural to every man who is more anxious to hve, 
 than how to live. In short, the preservation of life 
 should be only a secondary concern, and the direc- 
 tion of it our principal. If we have this frame of 
 mind, we shall take the best means to preserve life, 
 without being over-solicitous about the event ; and 
 shall arrive at that point of felicity which Martial has 
 mentioned as the perfection of happiness, of neither 
 fearing nor wishing for death. 
 
 In answer to the gentleman, who tempers his health 
 by ounces and by scruples, and instead of comply- 
 ing with those natural solicitations of hunger and 
 thirst, drowsiness, or love of exercise, governs him- 
 self by the prescriptions of his chair, I shall tell him 
 a short fable. Jupiter, says the mythologist, to re- 
 ward the piety of a certain countryman, promised to 
 give him wjiatever he would ask. The countryman 
 desired that he might have the management of the 
 weather on his own estate. He obtained his request, 
 and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sun- 
 shine, among his several fields, as he thought the 
 nature of the soil required. At the end of the year, 
 when he expected to see a more than ordinary crop, 
 his harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neigh- 
 bors. Upon which (says the fable) he desired Jupi- 
 ter to take the weather again into his own hands, or 
 that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself. — C. 
 
26 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 27. 
 
 No. 27.] Saturday, March 31, 171 1. 
 
 Ut uox longa quibus mentitur arnica, diesque 
 LoDg^a videtur opus debentibus ; ut piger annus 
 Pupillis, quos dura premit custodia matrum : 
 Sic mitii tarda fluunt ingrataque tempora, quae spem 
 Consiliumque morantur agendi gnaviter id, quod 
 ^que pauperibus prodest, locupletibus seque, 
 -£que neglectum pueris senibusque nocebit. 
 
 HoR., I Ep., I, 20. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Long as to him, who works for debt, the day; 
 
 Long as the night to her, whose love's away; 
 
 Long as the year's dull circle seems to run 
 
 When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one : 
 
 So slow th' unproiitable moments roll, 
 
 That lock up all the functions of my soul ; 
 
 That keep me from myself, and still delay 
 
 Life's instant business to a future day: 
 
 That task, which as we follow, or despise, 
 
 The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise ; 
 
 Which done, the poorest' can no wants endure. 
 
 And which not done the richest must be poor.— Pope. 
 
 There is scarce a thinking man in the world, who 
 is involved in the business of it, but hves under a 
 secret impatience of the hurry^ and fatigue he suffers, 
 and has formed a resolution to fix himself, one time or 
 other, in such a state as is suitable to the end of his 
 being. You hear men ever^^ day in conversation pro- 
 fess, that all the honor, power, and riches, which they 
 propose to themselves, cannot give satisfaction enough 
 to reward them for half the anxiety they undergo in 
 the pursuit or the possession of them. While men 
 are in this temper (which happens very frequently), 
 how inconsistent are they with themselves ! They 
 are wearied w^th the toil they bear, but cannot find 
 in their hearts to relinquish it : retirement is what 
 they want, but they cannot betake themselves to it. 
 While they pant after shade and covert, they still 
 affect to appear in the most glittering scenes of life. 
 Sure this is but just as reasonable as if a man should 
 call for more light, when he has a mind to go to sleep. 
 
No. 27.] THE SPECTATOR, 27 
 
 Since then it is certain that our own hearts deceive 
 us in the love of the world, and that we cannot com- 
 mand ourselves enough to resign it, though we every- 
 day wish ourselves disengaged from its allurements ; 
 let us not stand upon a formal taking of leave, but 
 wean ourselves from them while we are in the midst 
 of them. 
 
 It is certainly the general intention of the greater 
 part of mankind to accomplish this work, and live 
 according to their own approbation, as soon as they 
 possibly can. But since the duration of life is so 
 uncertain (and that has been a common topic of dis- 
 course ever since there has been such a thing as hfe 
 itself), how is it possible that we should defer a mo- 
 ment the beginning to live according to the rules of 
 reason ? 
 
 The man of business has ever some one point to 
 carry, and then he tells himself he will bid adieu to 
 all the vanity of ambition. The man of pleasure re- 
 solves to take his leave at least, and part civilly with 
 his mistress ; but the ambitious man is entangled 
 every moment in a fresh pursuit, and the lover sees 
 new charms in the object he fancied he could aban- 
 don. It is therefore a fantastical way of thinking, 
 when we promise ourselves an alteration in our con- 
 duct from change of place and difference of circum- 
 stances ; the same passions will attend us wherever 
 we are, until they are conquered ; and we can never 
 live to our satisfaction in the deepest retirement, un- 
 less we are capable of living so, in some measure, 
 amidst the noise and business of the world. 
 
 I have ever thought men were better known by 
 what could be observed of them from a perusal of 
 their private letters, than any other way. My friend 
 the clergyman, the other day, upon serious discourse 
 with him concerning the danger of procrastina- 
 
28 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 27. 
 
 tion, gave me the following letters from persons 
 with whom he lives in great friendship and intimacy, 
 according to the good breeding and good sense of 
 his character. The first is from a man of business, 
 who is his convert : the second from one who is 
 in no state at all, but carried one way and an- 
 other by starts. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 'M know not with what words to express to you 
 the sense I have of the high obhgation you have laid 
 upon me, in the penance you enjoined me, of doing 
 some good or other to a person of worth every day 
 I live. The station I am in furnishes me with daily 
 opportunities of this kind ; and the noble principle 
 with which you have inspired me, of benevolence to 
 all I have to deal with, quickens my apphcation in 
 everything I undertake. When I relieve merit from 
 discountenance, when I assist a friendless person, 
 when I produce concealed worth,* I am displeased 
 with myself, for having designed to leave the world 
 in order to be virtuous. I am sorr}' you decline the 
 occasions which the condition I am in might afford 
 me of enlarging yoiu- fortunes : but know I con- 
 tribute more to your satisfaction, when I acknowl- 
 edge I am the better man, from the influence and 
 authority you have over. Sir, 
 
 " Your most obliged and most humble servant, 
 * * * * '• j^ o." 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 '* There is no state of life so anxious as that of a 
 man who does not live according to the dictates of his 
 own reason. It will seem odd to you, when I assure 
 vou that my love of retirement first of all brought me 
 to court ; but this will be no riddle when I acquaint 
 you, that I placed myself here with a design of get- 
 
No. 33-] THE SPECTATOR, 29 
 
 ting so much money as might enable me to purchase 
 a handsome retreat in the country. At present my 
 circumstances enable me, and my duty prompts me, 
 to pass away the remaining part of my life in such 
 a retirement as I at first proposed to myself; but to 
 my great misfortune I have entirely lost the relish of 
 it, and should now return to the country with greater 
 reluctance than I at first came to court. I am so 
 unhappy, as to know that what I am fond of are 
 trifles, and that what I neglect is of the greatest im- 
 portance : in short, I find a contest in my own mind 
 between reason and fashion. I remember you once 
 told me, that I might live in the world, and out of 
 it, at the same time. Let me beg of you to explain 
 this paradox more at large to me, that I may con- 
 form my life, if possible, both to my duty and my 
 inclination. I am yours, etc. 
 
 R. ''R. B." 
 
 No. 33.] Saturday, April 7, 171 1. 
 
 Fervidus tecum puer, et solutis 
 Gratiae zonis, properentC[ue nymphae, 
 Et parum comis sine te juventas, 
 
 Mercuriusque. — Hor. i Od., xxx, 5. 
 
 The graces with their zones unloos'd ; 
 The nymphs, with beauties all expos' d, 
 
 From every spring, and every plain ; 
 Th}'- powerful, not, and winged boy; 
 Aild youth, that's dull without thy joy* 
 
 And Mercury, compose thy tram.— Creech. 
 
 A Friend of mine has two daughters, whom I will 
 call Laetitia and Daphne ; the former is one of the 
 greatest beauties of the age in which she Hves, the 
 latter no way remarkable for any charms in her per- 
 son. Upon this one circumstance of their outward 
 form, the good and ill of their life seems to turn. 
 
30 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 33. 
 
 Laetitia has not, from her very childhood, heard any- 
 thing else but commendations of her features and 
 complexion, by which means she is no other than 
 nature made her, a very beautiful outside. The con- 
 sciousness of her charms has rendered her insupport- 
 ably vain and insolent toward all who have to do with 
 her. Daphne, who was almost twenty before one 
 civil thing had ever been said to her, found herself 
 obliged to acquire some accomplishments to make up 
 for the want of those attractions which she saw in her 
 sister. Poor Daphne was seldom submitted to in a 
 debate wherein she was concerned ; her discourse had 
 nothing to recommend it but the good sense of it, 
 and she was always under a necessity to have very well 
 considered what she was to say before she uttered it ; 
 while Lsetitia was listened to with partiality, and ap- 
 probation sat on the countenances of those she con- 
 versed with, before she communicated what she had 
 to say. These causes have produced suitable effects, 
 and Lsetitia is as insipid a companion as Daphne is 
 an agreeable one. Lsetitia, confident of favor, has 
 studied no arts to please ; Daphne, despairing of any 
 inchnation toward her person, has depended only 
 on her merit. Laetitia has always something in her 
 air that is sullen, grave, and disconsolate. Daphne 
 has a countenance that is cheerful, open, and uncon- 
 cerned. A young gentleman saw Lsetitia this winter 
 at a play, and became her captive. His fortune was 
 such, that he wanted very little introduction to speak 
 his sentiments to her father. The lover w^as admitted 
 with the utmost freedom into the family, where a con- 
 strained behavior, severe looks, and distant civihties, 
 were the highest favors he could obtain of Laetitia ; 
 while Daphne used him with the good humor, fa- 
 miharity, and innocence of a sister : insomuch that he 
 would often say to her, " Dear Daphne, wert thou but 
 
No. 33-] THE SPECTATOR, 31 
 
 as handsome as Lsetitia — " She received such lan- 
 guage with that ingenuousness and pleasing mirth 
 which is natural to a woman without design. He 
 still sighed in vain for Laetitia, but found certain relief 
 in the agreeable conversation of Daphne. At length, 
 heartily tired with the haughty impertinence of Lse- 
 titia, and charmed with the repeated instances of good 
 humor he had observed in Daphne, he one day told the 
 latter that he had something to say to her he hoped 
 she would be pleased with — '' Faith, Daphne," con- 
 tinued he, '* I am in love with thee, and despise thy sis- 
 ter sincerely." The manner of his declaring himself 
 gave his mistress occasion for a very hearty laughter. 
 — ''Nay," says he, 'T knew you would laugh at me, 
 but I will ask your father." He did so ; the father 
 received this intelligence with no less joy than sur- 
 prise, and was very glad he had now no care left but 
 for his beauty, which he thought he could carry to 
 market at his leisure. I do not know anything that 
 has pleased me so much for a great while, as this 
 conquest of my friend Daphne's. All her acquaint- 
 ance congratulate her upon her chance-medley, and 
 laugh at that premeditating murderer her sister. As 
 it is an argument of a hght mind, to think the worse 
 of oiu-selves for the imperfections of our person, it is 
 equally below us to value om'selves upon the advan- 
 tages of them. The female world seem to be almost 
 incorrigibly gone astray in this particular ; for which 
 reason I shall recommend the following extract out 
 of a friend's letter to the professed beauties, who are 
 a people almost as insufferable as the professed wits. 
 '' Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one of 
 his essays with affirming, that the last sighs of a 
 handsome woman are not so much for the loss of 
 her life, as of her beauty. Perhaps this raillery is 
 pursued too far, yet it is turned upon a very obvious 
 
32 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 33. 
 
 remark, that woman's strongest passion is for hei 
 own beauty, and that she values it as her favorite 
 distinction. From hence it is that all arts which pre- 
 tend to improve or preserve it, meet with so general 
 a reception among the sex. To say nothing of many 
 false helps and contraband wares of beauty which are 
 daily vended in this great mart, there is not a maiden 
 gentlewoman of good family in any county of South 
 Britain, who has not heard of the virtues of May- 
 dew, or is unfurnished with some receipt or other in 
 favor of her complexion ; and I have known a phy- 
 sician of learning and sense, after eight years' study 
 in the university, and a course of travels into most 
 countries of Europe, owe the first raising of his for- 
 tunes to a cosmetic wash. 
 
 '' This has given me occasion to consider how so 
 universal a disposition in womankind, which springs 
 from a laudable motive — the desire of pleasing — and 
 proceeds upon an opinion not altogether groundless 
 — that nature may be helped by art — may be turned 
 to their advantage. And, methinks, it would be an 
 acceptable service to take them out of the hands of 
 quacks and pretenders, and to prevent their imposing 
 upon themselves, by discovering to them the true 
 secret and art of improving beauty. 
 
 " In order to do this, before I touch upon it di- 
 rectly, it will be necessary to lay down a few prelimi- 
 nary maxims, \\z : — 
 
 ** That no woman can be handsome by the force of 
 features alone, any more than she can be witty only 
 by the help of speech. 
 
 " That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and 
 affectation is a more terrible enemy to fine faces than 
 the small-pox. 
 
 '*' That no woman is capable of being beautiful, 
 who is not incapable of being false. 
 
No. 33-] THE SPECTATOR, 33 
 
 '' And, That what would be odious in a friend is 
 deformity in a mistress. 
 
 '' From these few principles, thus laid down, it will 
 be easy to prove, that the true art of assisting beauty 
 consists in embellishing the whole person by the 
 proper ornaments of virtuous and commendable quali- 
 ties. By this help alone it is, that those who are the 
 favorite work of nature, or, as Mr. Dryden expresses 
 it, the porcelain clay of human kind, become ani- 
 mated, and are in a capacity of exerting their charms ; 
 and those who seem to have been neglected by her, 
 like models wrought in haste, are capable in a great 
 measure of finishing what she has left imperfect. 
 
 '^ It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that 
 sex, which was created to refine the joys and soften 
 the cares of humanity by the most agreeable partici- 
 pation, to consider them merely as objects of sight. 
 This is abridging them of their natural extent of 
 power, to put them upon a level with their pictures 
 at Kneller's. How much nobler is the contempla- 
 tion of beauty heightened by virtue, and commanding 
 our esteem and love while it draws our observation ! 
 How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, 
 when compared with the real loveliness of Sophronia's 
 innocence, piety, good humor, and truth ; virtues 
 which add a new softness to her sex, and even beau- 
 tify her beauty ! That agreeableness which must 
 otherwise have appeared no longer in the modest 
 virgin, is now preserved in the tender mother, the 
 prudent friend, and the faithful wife. Colors artfully 
 spread upon canvas may entertain the eye, but 
 not affect the heart ; and she who takes no care 
 to add to the natural graces of her person any ex- 
 cellent qualities, may be allowed still to amuse, as a 
 picture, but not to triumph as a beauty. 
 
 ''When Adam is introduced by Milton, describ- 
 
34 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 35. 
 
 ing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel the im- 
 pressions he felt upon seeing her at her first creation, 
 he does not represent her like a Grecian Venus, by 
 her shape or features, but by the luster of her mind 
 which shone in them, and gave them their power of 
 charming : 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, heav'n in her eye, 
 In all her gestures dignity and love I 
 
 '' Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair 
 one ought to know, whatever her glass may tell her 
 to the contrary, that her most perfect features are un- 
 informed and dead. 
 
 '* I cannot better close this moral than by a short 
 epitaph written by Ben Jonson with a spirit which 
 nothing could inspire but such an object as I have 
 been describing : 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lie 
 As much \'irtue as could die ; 
 Which when alive did vigor give 
 To as much beauty as could live. 
 
 '' I am. Sir, vour most humble servant, 
 
 ^^' 35-] TuESDAV, April 10, 1711. 
 
 Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est. 
 
 Catull. Carm.. 39, in Enat. 
 
 Nothing so foolish as the laugh of fools. 
 
 Among all kinds of writing, there is none in which 
 authors are more apt to miscarry than in works of 
 humor, as there is none in which they are more 
 ambitious to excel. It is not an imagination that 
 teems with monsters, a head 'that is filled with ex- 
 
No- 35-] THE SPECTATOR, 35 
 
 travagant conceptions, which is capable of furnish- 
 ing the world with diversions of this nature : and yet 
 if we look into the production of several v/riters, who 
 set up for men of humor, what wild irregular fancies, 
 what unnatural distortions of thought do we meet 
 with? If they speak nonsense, they believe they are 
 talking humor ; and when they have drawn together 
 a scheme of absurd, inconsistent ideas, they are not 
 able to read it over to themselves without laughing. 
 These poor gentlemen endeavor to gain themselves 
 the reputation of wits and humorists, by such mon- 
 strous conceits as almost qualify them for Bedlam ; 
 not considering that humor should always lie under 
 the check of reason, and that it requires the direc- 
 tion of the nicest judgment, by so much the more 
 as it indulges itself in the most boundless freedoms. 
 There is a kind of nature that is to be observed in 
 this sort of compositions, as well as in all other; 
 and a certain regularity of thought which must 
 discover the writer to be a man of sense, at the 
 same time that he appears altogether given up to 
 caprice. For my part, when I read the delirious 
 mirth of an unskillful author, I cannot be so barbarous 
 as to divert myself with it, but am rather apt to pity 
 the man, than laugh at anything he writes. 
 
 The deceased Mr. Shadwell, who had himself a 
 great deal of the talent which I am treating of, rep- 
 resents an empty rake, in one of his plays, as very 
 much surprised to hear one say, that breaking of 
 windows was not humor; and I question not but 
 several English readers will be as much startled to 
 hear me affirm, that many of those raving incoher- 
 ent pieces which are often spread among us under 
 odd chimerical titles, are rather the offsprings of a 
 distempered brain, than works of humor. 
 
 It is indeed much easier to describe what is not 
 
36 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 35. 
 
 humor, than what is ; and very difficult to define it 
 otherwise than as Cowley has done wit, by negatives. 
 Were I to give my own notions of it, I would deliver 
 them after Plato's manner, in a kind of allegory — 
 and by supposing Humor to be a person, deduce to 
 him all his quahfications, according to the following 
 genealogy. Truth was the founder of the family, 
 and the father -of Good Sense. Good Sense was the 
 father of Wit, who married a lady of collateral line 
 called Mirth, by whom he had issue Humor. Hu- 
 mor therefore being the youngest of this illustrious 
 family, and descended from parents of such different 
 dispositions, is very various and unequal in his tem- 
 per ; sometimes you see him putting on grave looks 
 and a solemn habit, sometimes airy in his behavior 
 and fantastic in his dress ; insomuch that at different 
 times he appears as serious as a judge, and as jocu- 
 lar as a merry-andrew. But as he has a great deal 
 of the mother in his constitution, whatever mood he 
 is in, he never fails to make his company laugh. 
 
 But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes 
 upon him the name of this young gentleman, and 
 would wilHngly pass for him in the world ; to the 
 end that well-meaning persons may not be imposed 
 upon by cheats, I would desire my readers, when 
 they meet with this pretender, to look into his pa- 
 rentage, and to examine him strictly, whether or no 
 he be remotely allied to Truth, and lineally descended 
 from Good Sense ; if not, they may conclude him a 
 counterfeit. They may Hkewise distinguish him by a 
 loud and excessive laughter, in which he seldom gets 
 his company to join with him. For as True Humor 
 generally looks serious while everybody laughs about 
 him ; False Humor is always laughing, while ever}^- 
 body about him looks serious. I shall only add, if 
 he has not in him a mixture of both parents, that is, 
 
No. 35-] THE SPECTATOR. 37 
 
 if he would pass for the offspring of Wit without 
 Mirth, or Mirth without Wit, you may conclude him 
 to be altogether spurious and a cheat. 
 
 The impostor of whom I am speaking, descends 
 originally from Falsehood, who was the mother of 
 Nonsense, who was brought to bed of a son called 
 Frenzy, who married one of the daughters of Folly, 
 commonly known by the name of Laughter, on whom 
 he begot that monstrous infant of which I have here 
 been speaking. I shall set down at length the gen- 
 ealogical table of False Humor, and, at the same 
 time, place under the genealogy of True Humor, 
 that the reader may at one view behold their differ- 
 ent pedigi'ee and relations : — 
 
 Falsehood. 
 Nonsense. 
 
 Frenzy Laughter. 
 
 False Humor. 
 
 Truth. 
 Good Sense. 
 
 Wit Mirth. 
 
 Humor. 
 
 I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several 
 of the children of false humor, who are more in num- 
 ber than the sands of the sea, and might in particu- 
 lar enumerate the many sons and daughters which he 
 has begot in this island. But as this would be a very 
 invidious task, I shall only observe in general, that 
 False Humor differs from the True, as a monkey 
 does from a man. 
 
 First of all. He is exceedingly given to Httle apish 
 tricks and buffooneries. 
 
 Secondly, He so much delights in mimicry, that it is 
 
38 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 35. 
 
 all one to him whether he exposes by it vice and 
 folly, luxury and avarice ; or, on the contrary, virtue 
 and wisdom, pain and poverty. 
 
 Thirdly, He is wonderfully unlucky, insomuch that 
 he will bite the hand that feeds him, and endeavor 
 to ridicule both friends and foes indifferently. For 
 having but small talents, he must be merry where he 
 can, not where he should. 
 
 Fourthly, Being entirely void of reason, he pur- 
 sues no point either of morality or instruction, but is 
 ludicrous only for the sake of being so. 
 
 Fifthly, Being incapable of anything but mock 
 representations, his ridicule is always personal, and 
 aimed at the vicious man or the writer — not at the 
 vice or the writing. 
 
 I have here only pointed at the whole species of 
 false humorists ; but as one of my principal designs in 
 this paper is to beat down that malignant spirit which 
 discovers itself in the writings of the present age, I 
 shall not scruple, for the future, to single out any of 
 the small wits that infest the world with such com- 
 positions as are ill-natured, immoral, and absurd. 
 This is the only exception which I shall make to the 
 general rule I have prescribed myself, of attacking 
 multitudes, since every honest man ought to look 
 upon himself as in a natural state of war with the 
 libeler and lampooner, and to annoy them wherever 
 they fall in his way. This is but retahating upon 
 them and treating them as they treat others. — C. 
 
No. 38.] TH& SPECTATOR, 39 
 
 No. -^"^^^ Friday, April 13, 171 i. 
 
 Cupias non placuisse nimis. — Mart. 
 
 One would not please too much. 
 
 A LATE conversation which I fell into, gave me an 
 opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty in. a 
 very handsome woman, and as much wit in an in- 
 genious man, turned into deformity in the one, and 
 absurdity in the other, by the mere force of affec- 
 tation. The fair one had something in her person 
 (upon which her thoughts were fixed) that she at- 
 tempted to show to advantage in every look, word, 
 and gesture. The gentleman was as diligent to do 
 justice to his fine parts as the lady to her beauteous 
 form. You might see his imagination on the stretch 
 to find out something uncommon, and what they call 
 bright, to entertain her, while she writhed herself into 
 as many different postures to engage him. When she 
 laughed, her lips were to sever at a greater distance 
 than ordinary, to show her teeth ; her fan was to point 
 at something at a distance, that in the reach she may 
 discover the roundness of her arm ; then she is utterly 
 mistaken in what she saw, falls back, smiles at her own 
 folly, and is so wholly discomposed, that her tucker is 
 to be aSjusted, her bosom exposed, and the whole 
 woman put into new airs and graces. While she was 
 doing all this, the gallant had time to think of some- 
 thing very pleasant to say next to her, or to make some 
 unkind observation on some other lady to feed her 
 vanity. These unhappy effects of affectation natu- 
 rally led me to look into that strange state of mind 
 which so generally discolors the behavior of most 
 people we meet with. 
 
 The learned Dr. Burnet in his Theory of the Earth, 
 
40 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 38. 
 
 takes occasion to observe, that every thought is at- 
 tended with a consciousness and representativeness ; 
 the mind has nothing presented to it but what is 
 immediately followed by a reflection of conscience, 
 which tells you whether that which was so presented 
 is graceful or unbecoming. This act of the mind dis- 
 covers itself in the gestm^e, by a proper behavior in 
 those whose consciousness goes no farther than to 
 direct them in the just progress of their present state 
 or action ; but betrays an interniption in every second 
 thought, when the consciousness is employed in too 
 fondly approving a man's own conceptions ; which 
 sort of consciousness is what we call affectation. 
 
 As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms 
 as a strong, incentive to worthy actions, it is a very 
 difficult task to get above a desire of it for things 
 that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose 
 hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the 
 consciousness that they are the objects of love and 
 admiration, are ever changing the air of their counte- 
 nances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to 
 strike the hearts of their beholders with new sense of 
 their beauty. The dressing part of our sex, whose 
 minds are the same with the sillier part of the other, 
 are exactly in the like uneasy condition to be re- 
 garded for a well-tied cravat, a hat cocked with an 
 imcommon briskness, a very well chosen coat, or 
 other instances of merit, which they are impatient to 
 see unobserved. 
 
 This apparent affectation, arising from an ill-gov- 
 erned consciousness, is not so much to be wondered 
 at in such loose and trivial minds as these : but when 
 we see it reign in characters of worth and distinction, 
 it is what you cannot but lament, not without some 
 indignation. It creeps into the heart of the wise 
 man as well as that of the coxcomb. When you see 
 
No. 38.] THE SPECTATOR. 41 
 
 a man of sense look about for applause, and discover 
 an itching inclination to be commended ; lay traps 
 for a little incense, even from those whose opinion he 
 values in nothing but his own favor; who is safe 
 against this weakness? or who knows whether he is 
 guilty of it or not? The best way to get clear of 
 such a light fondness for applause, is to take all pos- 
 sible care to throv/ off the love of it upon occasions 
 that are not in themselves laudable, but as it appears 
 we hope for no praise from them. Of this nature are 
 all graces in men's persons, dress, and bodily deport- 
 ment, which will naturally be winning and attractive 
 if we think not of them, but lose their force in pro- 
 portion to our endeavor to make them such. 
 
 When our consciousness turns upon the main de- 
 sign of life, and our thoughts are employed upon the 
 chief purpose either in business or pleasure, we shall 
 never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty 
 of it : but when we give the passion for praise an un- 
 bridled liberty, our pleasure in little perfections robs 
 us of what is due to us for great virtues, and worthy 
 qualities. How many excellent speeches and honest 
 actions are lost, for want of being indifferent where 
 we ought? Men are oppressed with regard to their 
 way of speaking and acting^ instead of having their 
 thoughts bent upon what they should do or say ; and 
 by that means bury a capacity for great things, by 
 their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, per- 
 haps, cannot be called affectation ; but it has some 
 tincture of it, at least so far, as that their fear of err- 
 ing in a thing of no consequence, argues they v/ould 
 be too much pleased in performing it. 
 
 It is only from a thorough disregard to himself 
 in such particulars, that a man can act with a laud- 
 able sufHciency ; his heart is fixed upon one point 
 in view ; and he commits no errors, because he thinks 
 
-;2 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 38. 
 
 nothing an error but what de\'iates from that inten- 
 tion. 
 
 The w-ild havoc affectation makes in that part of 
 the world which should be most pohte, is visible 
 wherever we turn our eyes : it pushes men not only into 
 impertinencies in conversation, but also in their pre- 
 meditated speeches. At the bar it torments the 
 bench, whose business it is to cut off all superfluities 
 in what is spoken before it by the practitioner ; as well 
 as several Httle pieces of injustice which arise from 
 the law itself. I have seen it make a man run from 
 the purpose before a judge, who was, when at the bar 
 himself, so close and logical a pleader, that with all 
 the pomp of eloquence in his power, he never spoke 
 a word too much.* 
 
 It might be borne even here, but it often ascends 
 the pulpit itself ; and the declaimer in that sacred 
 place is frequently so impertinently witt}', speaks of 
 the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, that 
 there is no man who understands railler}', but must 
 resolve to sin no more. Xay, you may behold him 
 sometimes in prayer, for a proper dehver}- of the 
 great truths he is to utter, humble himself with so 
 ver\" well-turned phrase, and mention his own un- 
 worthiness in a way so ver\' becoming, that the air 
 of the pretty gentleman is presen'ed under the lowh- 
 ness of the preacher. 
 
 I shall end this with a short letter I v>TOte the other 
 day to a ver\^ witty man, overrun \\-ith the fault I am 
 speaking of : 
 
 " Dear Sir: 
 
 " I spent some time T\-ith you the other day, and 
 
 * This seems to be intended as a compliment to Chancellor 
 Cowper. 
 
No. 47-] THE SPECTATOR, 43 
 
 must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the 
 insufferable affectation you are guilty of in all you 
 say and do. When I gave you a hint of it, you 
 asked me whether a man was to be cold to what his 
 friends think of him? No, but praise is not to be 
 the entertainment of every moment. He that hopes 
 for it must be able to suspend the possession of it 
 till proper periods of life, or death itself. If you 
 would not rather be commended than be praiseworthy, 
 contemn little merits ; and allow no man to be so 
 free w^ith you, as to praise you to your face. Your 
 vanity by this means will want its food. At the same 
 time your passion for esteem will be more fully grati- 
 fied ; men will praise you in their actions : where you 
 now receive one compliment, you will then receive 
 twenty civilities. Till then you v/ill never have of 
 either, farther than, 
 
 ^^ Sir, your humble servant." T. 
 
 No. 47.] Tuesday, April 24, 171 1. 
 
 Ride, si sapis Mart. 
 
 Laugh, if you are wise. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs, in his Discourse of Human Nature, 
 which, in my humble opinion, is much the best of all 
 his works, after some very curious observations upon 
 laughter, concludes thus : '' The passion of laughter 
 is nothing else but sudden glory arising from some 
 sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, 
 by comparison with the infirmities of others, or with 
 our own formerly : for men laugh at the follies of 
 themselves past, when they come suddenly to re- 
 membrance, except they bring with them any pres- 
 ent dishonor." 
 
44 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 47. 
 
 According to this author, therefore, when we hear 
 a man laugh excessively, instead of saying he is very 
 merry, we ought to tell him he is very proud. And 
 indeed, if we look into the bottom of this matter, we 
 shall meet with many observations to confirm us in 
 this opinion. Every one laughs at somebody that is 
 in an inferior state of folly to himself. It was for- 
 merly the custom for every great house in England 
 to keep a tame fool dressed in petticoats, that the 
 heir of the family might have an opportunity of jok- 
 ing upon him, and diverting himself w^ith his absurdi- 
 ties. For the same reason, idiots are still in request 
 in most of the courts in Germany, where there is not 
 a prince of any great magnificence, who has not two 
 or three dressed, distinguished, undisputed fools in 
 his retinue, w^hom the rest of the courtiers are always 
 breaking their jests upon. 
 
 The Dutch, who are more famous for their industry 
 and application than for wit and humor, hang up in 
 several of their streets what they call the sign of 
 the Gaper, that is, the head of an idiot dressed in 
 a cap and bells, and gaping in a most immoderate 
 manner. This is a standing jest at Amsterdam. 
 
 Thus every one diverts himself with some person 
 or other that is below him in point of understanding, 
 and triumphs in the superiority of his genius, while he 
 has such objects of derision before his eyes. Mr. 
 Dennis has very well expressed this in a couple of 
 humorous lines, which are part of a translation of a 
 satire in Monsieur Boileau : — 
 
 Thus one fool lolls his tongue out at another, 
 And shakes his empty noddle at his brother. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs's reflection gives us the reason why the 
 insignificant people above mentioned are stirrers up 
 of laughter among men of a gross taste : but as the 
 
No. 47-] THE SPECTATOR. 45 
 
 more understanding part of mankind do not find 
 their risibility affected by such ordinary objects, it 
 may be worth the while to examine into the several 
 provocatives of laughter in men of superior sense and 
 knowledge. 
 
 In the first place I must observe, that there is a 
 set of merry drolls, whom the common people of all 
 countries admire, and seem to love so well, '' that they 
 could eat them," according to the old proverb: I 
 mean those circumforaneous wits whom every nation 
 calls by the name of that dish of meat which it loves 
 best : in Holland they are termed Pickled Herrings ; 
 in France, Jean Pottages ; in Italy, Macaronies ; 
 and in Great Britain, Jack Puddings. These merry 
 wags, from whatsoever food they receive their titles, 
 that they may make their audiences laugh, always 
 appear in a fool's coat, and commit such blunders 
 and mistakes in every step they take, and every word 
 they utter, as those who listen to them would be 
 ashamed of. 
 
 But this little triumph of the understanding, under 
 the disguise of laughter, is nowhere more visible than 
 in that custom which prevails everywhere among us 
 on the first day of the present month, when every- 
 body takes it into his head to make as many fools as 
 he can. In proportion as there are more follies dis- 
 covered, so there is more laughter on this day than 
 on any other in the whole year. A neighbor of mine, 
 who is a haberdasher by trade, and a very shallow 
 conceited fellow, makes his boast that for these ten 
 years successively he has not made less than a hun- 
 dred April fools. My landlady had a falling out 
 with him about a fortnight ago, for sending every 
 one of her children upon some sleeveless errand, as 
 she terms it. Her eldest son went to buy a half- 
 penny-worth of inkle at a shoemaker's ; the eldest 
 
46 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 47. 
 
 daughter was dispatched half a mile to see a mon- 
 ster ; and in short the whole family of innocent chil- 
 dren made April fools. Nay, my landlady her^lf 
 did not escape him. This empty fellow has laughed 
 upon these conceits ever since. 
 
 This art of wit is well enough, when confined to 
 one day in a twelvemonth ; but there is an ingenious 
 tribe of men sprung up of late years, who are for 
 making April fools every day in the year. These 
 gentlemen are commonly distinguished by the name 
 of Biters ; a race of men that are perpetually em- 
 ployed in laughing at those mistakes which are of 
 their own production. 
 
 Thus we see, in proportion as one man is more re- 
 fined than another, he chooses his fool out of a lower 
 or higher class of mankind ; or to speak in a more 
 philosophical language, that secret elation or pride of 
 heart which is generally called laughter, arises in him, 
 from his comparing himself with an object below 
 him, whether it so happens that it be a natm*al or an 
 artificial fool. It is, indeed, very possible that the 
 persons we laugh at may in the main of their char- 
 acters be much wiser men than ourselves ; but if they 
 would have us laugh at them, they must fall short 
 of us in those respects which stir up this passion. 
 
 I am afraid I shall appear too abstracted in my 
 speculations, if I show, that when a man of wit 
 makes us laugh, it is by betraying some oddness or 
 infirmity in his own character, or in the representa- 
 tion which he makes of others ; and that when we 
 laugh at a brute, or even at an inanimate thing, it is 
 at some action or incident that bears a remote anal- 
 ogy to any blunder or absurdity in reasonable creat- 
 ures. 
 
 But to come into common life ; I shall pass by the 
 consideration of those stage coxcombs that are able 
 
No. 47-] THE SPECTATOR. 47 
 
 to shake a whole audience, and take notice of a par- 
 ticular sort of men who are such provokers of mirth 
 in conversation, that it is impossible for a club or 
 merry meeting to subsist without them — I mean those 
 honest gentlemen that are always exposed to the wit 
 and raillery of their well-wishers and companions ; 
 that are pelted by men, women, and children, friends 
 and foes, and in a word, stand as butts in conversa- 
 tion, for every one to shoot at that pleases. I know 
 several of these butts who are men of wit and sense, 
 though by some odd turn of humor, some unlucky 
 cast in their person or behavior, they have always the 
 misfortune to make the company merry. The truth 
 of it is, a man is not qualified for a butt, who has not 
 a good deal of wit and vivacity, even in the ridicu- 
 lous side of his character. A stupid butt is only fit 
 for the conversation of ordinary people : men of wit 
 require one that will give them play, and bestir him- 
 self in the absurd part of his behavior. A butt with 
 these accompHshments frequently gets the laugh on 
 his side and turns the ridicule upon him that attacks 
 him. 
 
 Sir John Falstaff was a hero of this species, and 
 gives a good description of himself in his capacity of 
 a butt, after the following manner : '' Men of all 
 sorts," says that merry knight, '' take a pride to gird 
 at me. The brain of man is not able to invent any- 
 thing that tends to laughter more than I invent, or 
 is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself, 
 but the cause that wit is in other men." — C. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. [No. 57. 
 
 No. 57.] Saturday, May 5, 171 1. 
 
 Buem praestare potest mulier galea ta pudorem, 
 uae fugit a seiu ? Juv., Sat., vi, 251. 
 
 What sense of shame in woman's breast can lie, 
 Inur'd to arms, and her own sex to fly ? 
 
 When the wife of Hector, in Homer's Iliad, dis- 
 courses with her husband about the battle in which 
 he was going to engage, the hero, desiring her to 
 leave the matter to his care, bids her go to her 
 maids, and mind her spinning : by which the poet 
 intimates, that men and women ought to busy them- 
 selves in their proper spheres, and on such matters 
 only as are suitable to their respective sex. 
 
 I am at this time acquainted with a young gentle- 
 man, who has passed a great part of his life in the 
 nurser}^, and upon occasion can make a caudle or a 
 sack-posset better than any man in England. He is 
 Hkewise a wonderful critic in cambric and musHns, 
 and he will talk an hour together upon a sweet-meat. 
 He entertains his mother ever}- night with obser\"a- 
 tions that he makes both in to^vTi and court : as what 
 lady shows the nicest fancy in her dress : what man of 
 quahty wears the fairest Tvig : who has the finest hnen, 
 who the prettiest snuff-box ; with many other the hke 
 curious remarks, that may be made in good company. 
 
 On the other hand, I have verv* frequently the op- 
 portunity of seeing a rural Andromache, who came 
 up to town last winter, and is one of the greatest fox- 
 hunters in the country. She talks of hounds and 
 horses, and makes nothing of leaping over a six-bar 
 gate. If a man tells her a waggish stor\-, she gives 
 him a push with her hand in jest, and calls him an 
 impudent dog ; and if her servant neglects his busi- 
 ness, threatens to kick him out of the house. I have 
 
No. 57.] THE SPECTATOR. 49 
 
 heard her in her wrath call a substantial tradesman a 
 lousy cur ; and remember one day, when she could 
 not think of the name of a person, she described him 
 in a large company of men and ladies by the fellow 
 with the broad shoulders. 
 
 If those speeches and actions, which in their own 
 nature are indifferent, appear ridiculous when they 
 proceed from a wrong sex, the faults and imperfec- 
 tions of one sex transplanted into another appear 
 black and monstrous. As for the men, I shall not 
 in this paper any farther concern myself about them ; 
 but as I would fain contribute to make womankind, 
 which is the most beautiful part of creation, entirely 
 amiable, and wear out all those little spots and 
 blemishes that are apt to rise among the charms 
 which nature has poured out upon them, I shall dedi- 
 cate this paper to their service. The spot which I 
 would here endeavor to clear them of, is that party 
 rage which of late years is very much crept into their 
 conversation. This is, in its nature, a male vice, 
 and made up of many angry and cruel passions that 
 are altogether repugnant to the softness, the modesty, 
 and those other endearing qualities which are natu- 
 ral to the fair sex. Women were formed to temper 
 mankind, and soothe them into tenderness and com- 
 passion ; not to set an edge upon their minds, and 
 blow up in them those passions which are too apt to 
 rise of their own accord. When I have seen a pretty 
 mouth uttering calumnies and invectives, what would 
 I not have given to have stopt it? How I have 
 been troubled to see some of the finest features in the 
 world grow pale and tremble with party rage ! Ca- 
 milla is one of the greatest beauties in the British 
 nation, and yet values herself more upon being the vi- 
 rago of one party, than upon being the toast of both. 
 The dear creature, about a week ago, encountered the 
 
50 THE SPECTATOR. .-[No. 57. 
 
 fierce and beautiful Penthesilea across a tea-table, but 
 in the height of her anger, as her hand chanced to 
 shake with the earnestness of the dispute, she scalded 
 her fingers, and spilt a dish of tea upon her petticoat. 
 Had not this accident broken off the debate, nobody 
 knows where it would have ended. 
 
 There is one consideration which I would earnestly 
 recommend to all my female readers, and which, I 
 hope, will have some weight with them. In short, it 
 is this, that there is nothing so bad for the face as 
 party zeal. It gives an ill-natured cast to the eye, 
 and a disagreeable sourness to the look : beside that 
 it makes the lines too strong, and flushes them worse 
 than brandy. I have seen a woman's face break 
 out in heats, as she had been talking against a great 
 lord, whom she had never seen in he-r life ; and in- 
 deed I never knew a party-woman that kept her 
 beauty for a twelvemonth. I would therefore advise 
 all my female readers, as they value their complexions, 
 to let alone all disputes of this nature ; though, at the 
 same time, I would give free liberty to all superan- 
 nuated motherly partisans to be as violent as they 
 please, since there will be no danger either of their 
 spoiling their faces, or of their gaining converts. 
 
 For my own part, I think a man makes an odious 
 and despicable figure, that is violent in a party ; but a 
 woman is too sincere to mitigate the fur}' of her prin- 
 ciples w4th temper and discretion, and to act with 
 that caution and reser^'edness which are requisite in 
 oiu sex. When this unnatural zeal gets into them, it 
 throws them into ten thousand heats and extrava- 
 gances ; their generous souls set no bounds to their 
 love or to their hatred ; and whether a whig or a tor\', 
 a lap-dog or a gallant, an opera or a puppet-show, be 
 the object of it, the passion, while it reigns, engrosses 
 the whole woman. 
 
No. 57.] THE SPECTATOR, 51 
 
 I remember, when Dr. Titus Oates * was in all his 
 glory, I accompanied my friend Will Honeycomb in 
 a visit to a lady of his acquaintance. We were no 
 sooner sat down, but upon casting my eyes about the 
 room, I found in almost every corner of it a print that 
 represented the doctor in all magnitudes and dimen- 
 sions. A little after, as the lady was discoursing with 
 my friend, and held her snuff-box in her hand, who 
 should I see in the lid of it but the doctor ! It was 
 not long after this when she had occasion for her 
 handkerchief, which, upon first opening, discovered 
 among the plaits of it the figure of the doctor. Upon 
 this my friend Will, who loves raillery, told her, that 
 if he VN^as in Mr. Truelove's place (for that was the 
 name of her husband), he should be made as uneasy 
 by a handkerchief as ever Othello was. '' I am afraid," 
 said she, '' Mr. Honeycomb, you are a tory ; tell me 
 truly, are you a friend to the doctor or not? " Will, 
 instead of making her a reply, smiled in her face (for 
 indeed she was very pretty) and told her that one of 
 her patches was dropping off. She immediately ad- 
 justed it, and looking a little serious, '' Well," says she, 
 '' I will be hanged if you and your silent friend there 
 are not against the doctor in your hearts ; I suspected 
 as much by his saying nothing." Upon this she 
 took her fan in her hand, and upon the opening of it, 
 again displayed to us the figure of the doctor, who was 
 placed with great gravity among the sticks of it. In 
 a word, I found that the doctor had taken possession 
 of her thoughts, her discourse, and most of her furni- 
 ture ; but finding myself pressed too close by her 
 question, I winked upon my friend to take his leave, 
 which he did accordingly. — C. 
 
 * Though the name of Dr. T. Oates is made use of here, 
 Dr. Sacheverell is the person alluded to. 
 
THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 62. 
 
 No. 62.] Friday, May ii, 171 i. 
 
 Scribendi recte sapere est et principium, et fons. 
 
 HoR., Ars. Poet., ver. 509, 
 
 Sound judgment is the ground of writing well. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 Mr. Locke has an admirable reflection upon the 
 difference of wit and judgment, whereby he endeav- 
 ors to show the reason why they are not always the 
 talents of the same person. His words are as follow : 
 ''And hence, perhaps, may be given some reason of 
 that common observation, ' That men who have a 
 great deal of wit, and prompt memories, have not 
 always the clearest judgment or deepest reason.' For 
 wit lying most in the assemblage of ideas, and put- 
 ting those together with quickness and variety wherein 
 can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby 
 to make up pleasant pictures, and agreeable visions 
 in the fancy ; judgment, on the contrary, lies quite 
 on the other side, in separating carefully one from 
 another ideas wherein can be found the least differ- 
 ence, thereby to avoid being m^isled by simiHtude, 
 and by affinity to take one thing for another. This 
 is a way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor and 
 allusion ; wherein, for the most part, lies that enter- 
 tainment and pleasantry of wit, which strikes so lively 
 on the fancy, and is therefore so acceptable to all 
 people." 
 
 This is, I think, the best and most philosophical 
 account that I have ever met with of wit, which 
 generally, though not always, consists in such a resem- 
 blance and congruity of ideas as this author men- 
 tions. I shall only add to it, by way of explanation, 
 that every resemblance of ideas is not that which we 
 call wit, unless it be such a one that gives delight and 
 
No. 62.] THE spectator: 53 
 
 surprise to the reader. These two properties seem 
 essential to wit, more particularly the last of them. 
 In order, therefore, that the resemblance in the ideas 
 be wit, it is necessary that the ideas should not lie 
 too near one another in the nature of things ; for 
 where the likeness is obvious, it gives no surprise. To 
 compare one man's singing to that of another, or to 
 represent the whiteness of any object by that of milk 
 and snow, or the variety of its colors by those of the 
 rainbow, cannot be called wit, unless, beside this ob- 
 vdous resemblance, there be some farther congruity 
 discovered in the two ideas, that is capable of giv- 
 ing the reader some surprise. Thus when a poet 
 tells us the bosom of his mistress is as white as snow, 
 there is no wit in the comparison ; but when he adds, 
 with a sigh, it is as cold too, it then grows into wit. 
 Every reader's memory may supply him with innu- 
 merable instances of the same nature. For this reason, 
 the similitudes in heroic poets, who endeavor rather 
 to fill the mind with great conceptions than to divert 
 it with such as are new and surprising, have seldom 
 anything in them that can be called wit. Mr. 
 Locke's account of wit, with this short explanation, 
 comprehends most of the species of wit, as meta- 
 phors, similitudes, allegories, enigmas, mottoes, para- 
 bles, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic writings, bur- 
 lesque, and all the methods of allusion. There are 
 many other species of wit (how remote soever they 
 may appear at first sight from the foregoing descrip- 
 tion) which, upon examination, will be found to agree 
 with it. 
 
 As true wit generally consists in this resemblance 
 and congruity of ideas, false wit chiefly consists in 
 the resemblance and congruity sometimes of single 
 letters, as in anagrams, chronograms, lipograms, and 
 acrostics ; sometimes of syllables, as in echoes and 
 
54 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 62. 
 
 doggerel rhymes: sometimes of words, as in puns 
 and quibbles ; and sometimes of whole sentences or 
 poems, cast into the figures of eggs, axes, or altars : 
 nay, some carry- the notion of wit so far, as to ascribe 
 it even to external mimicry ; and to look upon a 
 man as an ingenious person that can resemble the 
 tone, posture, or face of another. 
 
 As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas, 
 and false wit in the resemblance of words, according 
 to the foregoing instances ; there is another kind of 
 wit which consists partly in the resemblance of ideas, 
 and partly in the resemblance of words, which for 
 distinction-sake I shall call mixed wit. This kind of 
 wit is that which abounds in Cowley, more than in 
 any other author that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has 
 hkewise a great deal of it. Mr. Dryden is very 
 sparing in it. Milton had a genius much above it. 
 Spenser is in the same class with Milton. The Ital- 
 ians, even in their epic poetry, are full of it. Mon- 
 sieur Boileau, who formed himself upon the ancient 
 poets, has everywhere rejected it with scorn. If we 
 look after mixed wit among the Greek writers, we 
 shall find it nowhere but in the epigrammatists. 
 There are indeed some strokes of it in the little poem 
 ascribed to Musaeus, which by that, as well as many 
 other marks, betrays itself to be a modem composi- 
 tion. If we look into the Latin writers, we find 
 none of this mixed wit in Virgil, Lucretius, or Catul- 
 lus ; very little in Horace, but a great deal of it in 
 Ovid, and scarce anything else in Martial. 
 
 Out of the innumerable branches of mixed wit, I 
 shall choose one instance which may be met with in 
 all the wTiters of this class. The passion of love, in 
 its nature, has been thought to resemble fire ; for 
 which reason the words fire and flame are made use 
 of to signify love. The witty poets therefore have 
 
No. 62.] THE SPECTATOR, 55 
 
 taken an advantage from the double meaning of the 
 word fire, to make an infinite number of witticisms. 
 Cowley, observing the cold regard of his mistress's 
 eyes, and at the same time their power of producing 
 love in him, considers them as burning-glasses made 
 of ice ; and finding himself able to live in the great- 
 est extremities of love, concludes the torrid zone to 
 be habitable. When his mistress has read his letter 
 written in juice of lemon, by holding it to the fire, 
 he desires her to read it over a second time by love's 
 flame. When she weeps, he wishes it were inward 
 heat that distilled those drops from the limbeck. 
 When she is absent, he is beyond eighty, that is, 
 thirty degrees nearer the pole than when she is with 
 him. His ambitious love is a fire that naturally 
 mounts upward ; his happy love is the beams of 
 heaven, and his unhappy love flames of hell. When it 
 does not let him sleep, it is a flame that sends up no 
 smoke ; when it is opposed by counsel and advice, it 
 is a fire that rages the more by the winds blowing 
 upon it. Upon the dying of a tree, in which he had 
 cut his loves, he observed that his written flames 
 had burnt up and withered the tree. When he re- 
 solves to give over his passion, he tells us that one 
 burnt like him forever dreads the fire. His heart is 
 an ^tna, that instead of Vulcan's shop, incloses Cu- 
 pid's forge in it. His endeavoring to drown his love 
 in wine, is throv/ing oil upon the fire. He would in- 
 sinuate to his mistress that the fire of love, Hke that 
 of the sun (which produces so many living creatures), 
 should not only warm, but beget. Love in another 
 place cooks pleasure at his fire. Sometimes the 
 poet's heart is frozen in every breast, and sometimes 
 scorched in every eye. Sometimes he is drowned in 
 tears and burnt in love, hke a ship set on fire in the 
 middle of the sea. 
 
56 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 62. 
 
 The reader may obsen-e in every one of these in- 
 stances, that the poet mixes the qualities of iire with 
 those of love ; and in the same sentence, speaking oi 
 it both as a passion and as real tire, surprises the 
 reader with those seeming resemblances or contra- 
 dictions, that make up all the wit in this kind of writ- 
 ing. Mixed wit therefore is a composition of pun 
 and true wit, and is more or less perfect as the resem- 
 blance lies in the ideas or in the words. Its founda- 
 tions are laid partly in falsehood and partly in truth ; 
 reason puts in her claim for one half of it, and ex- 
 travagance for the other. The only province there- 
 fore for this kind of vriX. is epigram, or those little 
 occasional poems that in their own nature are nothing 
 else but a tissue of epigrams. I cannot conclude this 
 head of mixed wit, without owning that the admirable 
 poet, out of whom I have taken the examples of it, had 
 as much true wit as any author that ever wTOte ; and 
 indeed, all other talents of an extraordinary' genius. 
 
 It may be expected since I am upon this subject, 
 that I should take notice of Mr. Dryden's definition 
 of wit ; which, with all the deference that is due to 
 the judgment of so great a man, is not so properly a 
 definition of wit as of good writing in general. Wit, 
 as he defines it, is " a propriety of words and thoughts 
 adapted to the subject." If this be a true definition 
 of wit, I am apt to think that Euclid was the greatest 
 wit that ever set pen to paper. It is certain there 
 never was a greater propriety of words and thoughts 
 adapted to the subject, than what that author has 
 made use of in his Elements. I shall only appeal to 
 my reader if this definition agrees with any notion he 
 has of wit. If it be a true one, I am sure Mr. Dr\'- 
 den was not only a better poet, but a greater wit, 
 than Mr. Cowley ; and Virgil a much more facetious 
 man than either Ovid or Martial. 
 
No. 62.] THE SPECTATOR. 57 
 
 Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most pene- 
 trating of all French critics, has taken pains to show, 
 that it is impossible for any thought to be beautiful 
 which is not just, and has not its foundation in the 
 nature of things ; that the basis of all wit is truth ; 
 and that no thought can be valuable, of which good 
 sense is not the groundwork. Boileau has endeav- 
 ored to inculcate the same notion in several parts of 
 his writings, both in prose and verse. This is that 
 natural way of writing, that beautiful simplicity, 
 which we so much admire in the compositions of the 
 ancients ; and which nobody deviates from, but those 
 who want strength of genius to make a thought shine 
 in its own natural beauties. Poets who want this 
 strength of genius to give that majestic simplicity to 
 nature, which we so much admire in the works of 
 the ancients, are forced to hunt after foreign orna- 
 ments, and not tp let any piece of wit of what kind 
 soever escape them. I look upon these writers as 
 Goths in poetry, who, like those in architecture, not 
 being able to come up to the beautiful simplicity of 
 the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavored to 
 supply its place with all the extravagances of an ir- 
 regular fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handsome 
 observation on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to 
 ^neas, in the following words : '' Ovid," says he, 
 speaking of Virgil's fiction of Dido and ^neas, 
 '' takes it up after him, even in the same age, and 
 makes an ancient heroine of Virgil's new-created 
 Dido ; dictates a letter for her just before her death 
 to the ungrateful fugitive, and very unluckily for 
 himself, is for measuring a sword with a man so much 
 superior in force to him on the same subject. I 
 think I may be judge of this, because I have trans- 
 lated both. The famous author of the Art of Love 
 h^s nothing of his own ; he borrows all from a greater 
 
58 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 62. 
 
 master in his own profession^ and, which is worse, 
 improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him, 
 and, being forced to his old shift, he has recourse to 
 witticism. This passes indeed w^ith his soft admirers, 
 and gives him the preference to Virgil in their esteem." 
 Were I not supported by so great an authority as 
 that of Mr. Dryden, I should not venture to observe, 
 that the taste of most of our EngKsh poets, as well 
 as readers, is extremely Gothic. He quotes Mon- 
 sieur Segrais, for a threefold distinction of the read- 
 ers of poetry ; in the first of which he comprehends 
 the rabble of readers, w^hom he does not treat as 
 such with regard to their quality, but to their num- 
 bers and the coarseness of their t^ste. His words 
 are as follow : '' Segrais has distinguished the readers 
 of poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into 
 three classes." [He might have said the same of 
 writers too, if he had pleased.] '' In the lowest form 
 he places those whom he calls Les Petits Esprits, 
 such things as our upper-gallery audience in a play- 
 house ; w^ho like nothing but the husk and rind of 
 wit, and prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram, be- 
 fore solid sense and elegant expression. These are 
 mob readers. If Virgil and Martial stood for parha- 
 ment-men, we know already w^ho would carry it. But 
 though they made the greatest appearance in the 
 field, and cried the loudest, the best of it is, they are 
 but a sort of French Huguenots, or Dutch boors, 
 brought over in herds, but not naturalized ; who have 
 not lands of two pounds per annum in Parnassus, 
 and therefore are not privileged to poll. The au- 
 thors are of the same level, fit to represent them on 
 a mountebank's stage, or to be masters of the cere- 
 monies in a bear-garden ; yet these are they who 
 have the most admirers. But it often happens, to 
 their mortification, that as their readers improve their 
 
No. 68.] THE SPECTATOR, 59 
 
 Stock of sense (as they may by reading better books, 
 and by conversation with men of judgment), they 
 soon forsake them." 
 
 I must not dismiss this subject without observing, 
 that as Mr. Locke in the passage above-mentioned 
 has discovered the most fruitful source of wit, so 
 there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which 
 does likewise branch itself out into several kinds. 
 For not only the resemblance, but the opposition 
 of ideas, does very often produce wit ; as I could 
 show in several little points, turns, and antitheses, that 
 I may possibly enlarge upon in some future specula- 
 tion. — C. 
 
 No. (>Z.\ Friday, May 18, 171 i. 
 
 Nos duo turba sumus Ovid Met., i, 355. 
 
 We two are a multitude. 
 
 One would think that the larger the company is 
 in which we are engaged, the greater variety of 
 thoughts and subjects would be started in discourse ; 
 but instead of this, we find that conversation is never 
 so much straitened and confined as in numerous as- 
 sembhes. When a multitude meet together on any 
 subject of discourse, their debates are taken up 
 chiefly with forms and general positions ; nay, if we 
 come into a more contracted assembly of men and 
 women, the talk generally runs upon the weather, 
 fashion, news, and the like public topics. In pro- 
 portion as conversation gets into clubs and knots of 
 friends, it descends into particulars, and grows more 
 free and communicative : but the most open, instruct- 
 ive, and unreserved discourse, is that which passes 
 between two persons who are famihar and intimate 
 
6o THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 68. 
 
 friends. On these occasions, a man gives a loose to 
 every passion and every thought that is uppermost, 
 discovers his most retired opinions of persons and 
 things, tries the beauty and strength of his senti- 
 ments, and exposes his whole soul to the examination 
 of his friend. 
 
 Tully was the first who observed, that friendship 
 improves happiness and abates misery, by the doub- 
 ling of our joy, and dividing of our grief; a thought 
 in which he hath been followed by all the essayers 
 upon friendship that have written since his time. Sir 
 Francis Bacon has finely described other advantages, 
 or as he calls them, fruits of friendship ; and, indeed, 
 there is no subject of morality which has been better 
 handled and more exhausted than this. Among the 
 several fine things which have been spoken of it, I 
 shall beg leave to quote some out of a very ancient 
 author, whose book would be regarded by our mod- 
 ern wits as one of the most shining tracts of morality 
 that is extant, if it appeared under the name of a 
 Confucius, or of any celebrated Grecian philosopher : 
 I mean the little apocryphal treatise, entitled The 
 Wisdom of the Son of Sirach. How finely has he 
 described the art of making friends by an obliging 
 and affable behavior ! — and laid down that precept, 
 which a late excellent author has delivered as his 
 own, That we should have many well-wishers, but 
 few friends. " Sweet language will multiply friends ; 
 and a fair-speaking tongue will increase kind greet- 
 ings. Be in peace with many, nevertheless have but 
 one counselor of a thousand." * With what prudence 
 does he caution us in the choice of our friends ! 
 And with what strokes of nature (I could almost say 
 of humor) has he described the behavior of a treach- 
 
 * Ecclus., vi, 5, 6. 
 
No. 68.] THE SPECTATOR, 6i 
 
 erous and self-interested friend ! ''If thou wouldst 
 get a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to 
 credit him : for some man is a friend for his own oc- 
 casion, and will not abide in the day of thy trouble. 
 And there is a friend, who being turned to enmity 
 and strife, will discover thy reproach." Again, 
 '' Some friend is a companion at the table, and will 
 not continue in the day of thy affliction : but in thy 
 prosperity he will be as thyself, and will be bold over 
 thy servants. If thou be brought low he will be 
 against thee, and hide himself from thy face." * What 
 can be more strong and pointed than the following 
 verse? ''Separate thyself from thine enemies, and 
 take heed of thy friends." In the next words he 
 particularizes one of those fruits of friendship which 
 is described at length by the two famous authors 
 above-mentioned, and falls into a general eulogium 
 of friendship, which is very just as well as very sub- 
 lime. " A faithful friend is a strong defense ; and he 
 that hath found such a one hath found a treasure. 
 Nothing doth countervail a faithful friend, and his 
 excellency is invaluable. A faithful friend is the 
 medicine of Hfe ; and they that fear the Lord shall 
 find him. Whoso feareth the Lord shall direct his 
 friendship aright; for as he is, so shall his neighbor 
 (that is his friend) be also." t I do not remember to 
 have met with any saying that has pleased me more 
 than that of a friend's being the medicine of life, to 
 express the efficacy of friendship in healing the pains 
 and anguish which naturally cleave to our existence 
 in this world ; and am wonderfully pleased with the 
 turn in the last sentence, that a virtuous man shall as 
 a blessing meet with a friend who is as virtuous as 
 himself. There is another saying in the same author, 
 
 , * Ecclus., vi, 7, et seq. t Ibid, vi, 15 — 18. 
 
62 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 68. 
 
 which would have been ver\^ much admired in a hea- 
 then ^Titer : *' Forsake not an old friend, for the new 
 is not comparable to him: a new friend is as new 
 wine ; Y>'hen it is old thou shalt drink it with pleas- 
 ure." ^ With what strength of allusion, and force of 
 thought, has he described the breaches and violations 
 of friendship? — '' Whoso casteth a stone at the birds 
 frayeth them away ; and he that upbraideth his 
 friend, breaketh friendship. Though thou drawest a 
 sword at a friend, yet despair not, for there may be 
 a returning to favor. If thou hast opened thy mouth 
 against thy friend, fear not, for there may be a recon- 
 cihation ; except for upbraiding, or pride, or disclos- 
 ing of secrets, or a treacherous wound ; for, for these 
 things every friend will depart." t We may observe 
 in this and several other precepts in this author, those 
 Httle famihar instances and illustrations which are so 
 much admired in the moral wTitings of Horace and 
 Epictetus. There are ver\^ beautiful instances of this 
 nature in the following passages, which are likewise 
 written on the same subject : ''Whoso discovereth 
 secrets loseth his credit, and shall never find a friend 
 to his mind. Love thy friend and be faithful to him ; 
 but if thou be^^Tayeth his secret, follow no more after 
 him : for as a man hath destroyed his enemy, so hast 
 thou lost the love of thy friend ; as one that letteth 
 a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let thy friend 
 go, and shall not get him again : follow after him no 
 more, for he is too far off ; he is as a roe escaped out 
 of the snare. As for a wound it may be bound up, 
 and after revihng there may be a reconciliation ; but 
 he that bewTayeth secrets is without hope."{ 
 
 Among the several qualifications of a good friend, 
 
 * Ecclus., ix, 10. t Ibid, xxii, 20 — 22. 
 
 I Ibid, xxvii, 16, et seq. 
 
No. 68.] THE SPECTATOR, 63 
 
 this wise man has very justly singled out constancy 
 and faithfulness, as the principal: to these, others 
 have added virtue, knowledge, discretion, equality 
 in age and fortune, and, as Cicero calls it, Moriun 
 comitas^ '' a pleasantness of temper." If I were to 
 give opinion upon such an exhausted subject, I 
 should join to these other quahfications, a certain 
 equability or evenness of behavior. A man often 
 contracts a friendship with one whom perhaps he 
 does not find out till after a year's conversation ; 
 when on a sudden some latent ill humor breaks out 
 upon him, which he never discovered or suspected at 
 his first entering into an intimacy with him. There 
 are several persons who in some certain periods of 
 their lives are inexpressibly agreeable, and in others 
 as odious and detestable. Martial has given us a 
 very pretty picture of one of this species, in the fol- 
 lowing epigram : 
 
 Difficilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem, 
 
 Nee tecum possum vivere, nee sine te. — Epig. xii, 47. 
 
 In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, 
 Thou'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow ; 
 Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, 
 There is no living with thee, nor without thee. 
 
 It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a 
 friendship with one, who, by these changes and vi- 
 cissitudes of humor, is sometimes amiable and some- 
 times odious : and as most men are at some times in 
 admirable frame and disposition of mind, it should be 
 one of the greatest tasks of wisdom to keep ourselves 
 well when we are so, and never to go out of that 
 which is the agreeable part of our character. — C. 
 
64 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 77. 
 
 No. 77.] Tuesday, May 29, 1711. 
 
 Non convivere licet, nee urbe tota 
 Quisquam est tam prope tam proculque nobis. 
 
 Mart., Epig. i, 87. 
 
 What correspondence can I hold with you, 
 Who are so near, and j^et so distant too ? 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb is one of those sort of 
 men who are very absent in conversation, and what 
 the French call a reveur and a distrait, K little be- 
 fore our club-time last night, we were walking to- 
 gether in Somerset-gardens, where Will picked up a 
 small pebble of so odd a make, that he said he would 
 present it to a friend of his, an eminent virtuoso. 
 After we had walked some time, I made a full stop 
 with my face toward the west, which Will knowing to 
 be my usual way of asking what's o'clock of an after- 
 noon, immediately pulled out his watch, and told me 
 we had seven minutes good. We took a turn or two 
 more, when to my great surprise, I saw him squirt 
 away his watch a considerable way into the Thames, 
 and with great sedateness in his looks put up the 
 pebble he had before found into his fob. As I have 
 naturally an aversion to much speaking, and do not 
 love to be the messenger of ill news, especially when 
 it comes too late to be useful, I left him to be con- 
 vinced of his mistake in due time, and continued my 
 walk, reflecting on these little absences and distrac- 
 tions in mankind, and resolving to make them the 
 subject of a future speculation. 
 
 I was the more confirmed in my design, when I 
 considered that they were very often blemishes in 
 the characters of men of excellent sense ; and helped 
 to keep up the reputation of that Latin proverb, 
 
No. 77.] THE SPECTATOR. 65 
 
 which Mr. Dryden has translated in the following 
 
 lines : — 
 
 Great wit to madness sure is near allied, 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide.* 
 
 My reader does, I hope, perceive, that I distin- 
 guish a man who is absent, because he thinks of 
 something else, from one w^ho is absent because he 
 thinks of nothing at all. The latter is too innocent 
 a creature to be taken notice of ; but the distractions 
 of the former may, I believe, be generally accounted 
 for from one of these reasons : 
 
 Either their minds are wholly fixed on some par- 
 ticular science, which is often the case w^ith mathe- 
 maticians and other learned men ; or are wholly 
 taken up with some violent passion, such as anger, 
 fear, or love, which ties the mind to some distant ob- 
 ject ; or lastly, these distractions proceed from a cer- 
 tain vivacity and fickleness in a man's temper, which, 
 while it raises up infinite numbers of ideas in the 
 mind, is continually pushing it on, without allowing 
 it to rest on any particular image. Nothing therefore 
 is more unnatm'al than the thoughts and conceptions 
 of such a man, which are seldom occasioned either 
 by the company he is in, or any of those objects 
 which are placed before him. While you fancy he is 
 admiring a beautiful woman, it is an even wager that 
 he is solving a proposition in Euclid: and while you 
 may imagine he is reading the Paris Gazette, it is far 
 from being impossible that he is pulling down and re- 
 building the front of his country house. 
 
 At the same time that I am endeavoring to expose 
 this weakness in others, I shall readily confess that I 
 once labored under the same infirmity myself. The 
 
 * Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae. — Se- 
 neca De Tranquil. Anim., cap. xv. 
 
66 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 77. 
 
 method I took to conquer it was a firin resolution to 
 learn something from whatever I was obliged to see 
 or hear. There is a way of thinking, if a man can 
 attain to it, by which he may strike somev\-hat out of 
 anything. I can at present observe those starts of 
 good sense and struggles of unimproved reason in the 
 conversation of a clown, with as much satisfaction as 
 the most shining periods of the most finished orator ; 
 and can make a shift to command my attention at a 
 puppet-show or an opera, as vrell as at Hamlet or 
 Othello. I always make one of the company I am 
 in ; for though I say little myself, my attention to 
 others, and those nods of approbation which I never 
 bestow unmerited, sufficiently show that I am among 
 them. Whereas Will Honeycomb, though a fellow 
 of good sense, is every day doing and saying a hun- 
 dred things, which he afterward confesses, with a 
 well-bred frankness, were somewhat inal-a-propos and 
 undesigned. 
 
 I chanced the other day to get into a coffee-house 
 where Will was standing in the midst of several audi- 
 tors, whom he had gathered round him. and was giv- 
 ing them an account of the person and character of 
 Moll Hinton. My appearance before him just put 
 him in mind of me, without making him reflect that 
 I was actually present. So that keeping his eyes full 
 upon me, to the great surprise of his audience, he 
 broke off his first harangue, and proceeded thus: — 
 '' Why now there's my friend," mentioning me by 
 name, *' he is a fellow that thinks a great deal, but 
 never opens his mouth ; I warrant you he is now 
 thrusting his short face into some coffee-house 
 about 'Change. I was his bail in the time of the 
 Popish plot, when he was taken up for a Jesuit." 
 If he had looked on me a little longer, he had 
 certainly described me so particularly without even 
 
No. 77.] THE SPECTATOR, 67 
 
 considering what led him into it, that the whole com- 
 pany must necessarily have found me out : for which 
 reason remembering the old proverb, '' Out of sight 
 out of mind," I left the room ; and upon meeting 
 him an hour afterward, was asked by him, with a 
 great deal of good humor, in what part of the world 
 I lived, that he had not seen me these three days. 
 
 Monsieur Bruyere has given us the character of an 
 absent man with a great deal of humor, which he has 
 pushed to an agreeable extravagance : with the heads 
 of it I shall conclude my present paper. 
 
 '' Menalcas," * says that excellent author, '' comes 
 down in the morning, opens his door to go out, but 
 shuts it again, because he perceives that he has his 
 night-cap on ; and examining himself farther, finds 
 that he is but half-shaved, that he has stuck his sword 
 on his right side, that his stockings are about his 
 heels, and that his shirt is over his breeches. When 
 he is dressed, he goes to coiu-t, comes into the draw- 
 ing-room, and walking bolt upright under a branch 
 of candlesticks, his wig is caught by one of them, 
 and hangs dangHng in the air. All the courtiers fall 
 a laughing, but Menalcas laughs louder than any of 
 them, and looks about for the person that is the jest 
 of the company. Coming down to the court-gate 
 he finds a coach, which taking for his own, he whips 
 into it ; and the coachman drives off, not doubting 
 but he carries his master. As soon as he stops, Me- 
 nalcas throws himself out of the coach, crosses the 
 court, ascends the stair-case, and runs through all the 
 chambers with the greatest famiharity ; reposes him- 
 self on a couch, and fancies himself at home. The 
 master of the house at last comes in ; Menalcas rises 
 
 * Said to be the Duke de Brancas, the most absent-minded 
 man of his day. 
 
68 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 77. 
 
 to receive him, and desires him to sit down ; he talks, 
 muses, and then talks again. The gentleman of the 
 house is tired and amazed ; Menalcas is no less so, 
 but is every moment in hopes that his impertinent 
 guest will at last end his tedious visit. Night comes 
 on, when Menalcas is hardly undeceived. 
 
 '' When he is playing at backgammon, he calls for 
 a full glass of wine and water ; it is his turn to throw ; 
 he has the box in one hand, and his glass in the 
 other; and being extremely dry, and unwilling to 
 lose time, he swallows down both the dice, and at 
 the same time throws his wine into the tables. He 
 writes a letter, and flings the sand into the ink-bottle ; 
 he writes a second, and mistakes the superscriptions. 
 A nobleman receives one of them, and, upon opening 
 it, reads as follows : ' I would have you, honest 
 Jack, immediately upon the receipt of this, take in 
 hay enough to serve me the w^inter.' His farmer 
 receives the other, and is amazed to see in it, ' My 
 lord, I received your grace's commands, with an en- 
 tire submission too.' — If he is at an entertainment, 
 you may see the pieces of bread continually multi- 
 plying round his plate. It is true the rest of the 
 company want it, as well as their knives and forks, 
 which Menalcas does not let them keep long. Some- 
 times in a morning he puts his whole family in a 
 hurry, and at last goes out without being able to stay 
 for his coach or dinner, and for that day you may 
 see him in every part of the town, except the very 
 place where he had appointed to be upon business of 
 importance. You would often take him for every- 
 thing that he is not ; for a fellow quite stupid, for he 
 hears nothing ; for a fool, for he talks to himself, 
 and has a hundred grimaces and motions in his head, 
 which are altogether involuntary ; for a proud man, 
 for he looks full upon you, and takes no notice of 
 
No. 93-] THE SPECTATOR, 69 
 
 your saluting him. The truth of it is, his eyes are 
 open, but he makes no use of them and neither sees 
 you — nor any man, nor anything else. He came 
 once from his country-house, and his own footmen 
 attempted to rob him, and succeeded. They held a 
 flambeau to his throat, and bid him deliver his purse ; 
 he did so, and coming home told his friends he had 
 been robbed ; they desired to know the particulars : 
 'Ask my servants,' says Menalcas, 'for they were 
 with me.' " — X. 
 
 No. 93. J Saturday, June 16, 171 1 
 
 -Spatio brevi 
 
 Spem longam reseces : dum loquimur, fugerit invida 
 w^tas : carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. 
 
 HoR. I Od. xi, 6. 
 
 Thy lengthen' d hopes with prudence bound 
 
 Proportion'd to the flying hour; 
 While thus we talk in careless ease, 
 
 The envious moments wing their flight. 
 Instant the fleeting pleasure seize, 
 
 Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful light. — Francis. 
 
 We all of us complain of the shortness of time, 
 saith Seneca, and yet have much more than we know 
 what to do with. Our lives, says he, are spent either 
 in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the 
 purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. 
 We are always complaining our days are few, and 
 acting as though there would be no end of them. 
 That noble philosopher has described our inconsist- 
 ency with ourselves in this particular, by all those 
 various turns of expression and thought which are 
 peculiar to his writings. 
 
 I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent 
 with itself in a point that bears some affinity to the 
 former. Though we seem grieved at the shortness of 
 
70 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 93. 
 
 life in general, we are wishing every period of it an 
 end. The minor longs to be at age, then to be a 
 man of business, then to make up an estate, then to 
 arrive at honors, then to retire. Thus, although the 
 whole Hfe is allowed by every one to be short, the 
 several divisions of it appear long and tedious. We 
 are lengthening our span in general, but would fain 
 contract the parts of which it is composed. The 
 usurer would be very well satisfied to have all the 
 time annihilated that lies between the present moment 
 and next quarter-day. The politician would be con- 
 tented to lose three years in his life, could he place 
 things in the posture which he fancies they will stand 
 in after such a revolution of time. The lover would 
 be glad to strike out of his existence all the moments 
 that are to pass away before the happy meeting. 
 Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should be ver^- 
 glad in most parts of our lives that it ran much faster 
 than it does. Several hours of the day hang upon 
 our hands, nay we wish away whole years ; and 
 travel through time as through a country filled with 
 many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain 
 hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little 
 settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dis- 
 persed up and down in it. 
 
 If we divide the hfe of most men into twenty parts, 
 we shall find, that at least nineteen of them are mere 
 gaps and chasms, which are neither filled with pleas- 
 .ure nor business. I do not, however, include in this 
 calculation the Hfe of those men who are in a per- 
 petual hurry of affairs, but of those only who are not 
 always engaged in scenes of action ; and I hope I 
 shall not do an unacceptable piece of service to these 
 persons, if I point out to them certain methods for the 
 filling up their empty spaces of life. The methods I 
 shall propose to them are as follow : 
 
Nc. 93-] THE SPECTATOR. 71 
 
 The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most gen- 
 eral acceptation of the word. The particular scheme 
 which comprehends the social virtues^ may give em- 
 ployment to the most industrious temper, and find a 
 man in business more than the most active station of 
 life. To advise the ignorant, reheve the needy, com- 
 fort the afflicted, are duties that fall in our way almost 
 every day of our lives. A man has frequently op- 
 portunities of mitigating the fierceness of a party ; of 
 doing justice to the charactei* of a deserving man ; 
 of softening the envious, quieting the angry, and rec- 
 tifying the prejudiced ; which are all of them employ- 
 ments suited to a reasonable nature, and bring great 
 satisfaction to the person who can busy himself in 
 them with discretion. 
 
 There is another kind of virtue that may find em- 
 ployment for those retired hours in which wx are al- 
 together left to ourselves, and destitute of company 
 and conversation ; 1 mean that intercourse and com- 
 munication which every reasonable creatiu-e ought to 
 maintain with the great Author of his being. The 
 man who lives under an habitual sense of the divine 
 presence keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of tem- 
 per, and enjoys every moment the satisfaction of 
 thinking himself in company with his dearest and best 
 of friends. The time never lies heavy upon him ; it 
 is impossible for him to be alone. His thoughts and 
 passions are the most busied at such hours when those 
 of other men are the most inactive. He no sooner 
 steps out of the world but his heart burns with de- 
 votion, swells with hope, and triumphs in the con- 
 sciousness of that presence which everywhere sur- 
 rounds him ; or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, 
 its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the great supporter 
 of its existence. 
 
 .1 have here only considered the necessity of a 
 
72 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 93. 
 
 man's being virtuous, that he may have something to 
 do ; but if we consider farther, that the exercise of 
 virtue is not only an amusement for the time it lasts, 
 but that its influence extends to those parts of our ex- 
 istence which lie beyond the grave, and that our 
 whole eternity is to take its color from those hours 
 which we here employ in virtue or in vice, the argu- 
 ment redoubles upon us for putting in practice this 
 method of passing away our time. 
 
 When a man has but a little stock to improve, and 
 has opportunities of turning it all to good account, 
 what shall we think of him if he suffers nineteen 
 parts of it to he dead, and perhaps employs even the 
 twentieth to his ruin or disadvantage? But because 
 the mind cannot be always in its fervor, nor strained 
 up to a pitch of virtue, it is necessary to find out 
 proper employments for it in its relaxations. 
 
 The next method therefore that I would propose 
 to fill up our time, should be useful and innocent di- 
 versions. I must confess I think it is below reason- 
 able creatures to be altogether conversant in such di- 
 versions as are merely innocent, and have nothing 
 else to recommend them but that there is no hurt in 
 them. Whether any kind of gaming has even thus 
 much to say for itself I shall not determine ; but I 
 think it is very wonderful to see persons of the best 
 sense passing away a dozen hours together in shuf- 
 fling and dividing a pack of cards, with no other con- 
 versation but what is made up of a few game phrases, 
 and no other ideas but those of black or red spots 
 ranged together in different figures. Would not a 
 man laugh to hear any one of this species complain- 
 ing that hfe is short? 
 
 The stage might be made a perpetual source of 
 the most noble and useful entertainments, were it un- 
 der proper regulations. 
 
No. 93-] THE SPECTATOR. 73 
 
 But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably as 
 in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. There 
 is indeed no blessing of hfe that is any way com- 
 parable to the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous 
 friend. It eases and unloads the mind, clears and 
 improves the understanding, engenders thoughts and 
 knowledge, animates virtue and good resolutions, 
 soothes and allays the passions, and finds employ- 
 ments for most of the vacant hours of life. 
 
 Next to such an intimacy with a particular per- 
 son, one would endeavor after a more general con- 
 versation with such as are able to entertain and 
 improve those with whom they converse, which are 
 qualifications that seldom go asunder. 
 
 There are many other useful employments of life, 
 which one would endeavor to multiply, that one 
 might on all occasions have recourse to something, 
 rather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or run adrift 
 with any passion that chances to rise in it. 
 
 A man that has a taste of music, painting, or ar- 
 chitecture, is like one that has another sense, w^hen 
 compared with such as have no relish of those arts. 
 The florist, the planter, the gardener, the husband- 
 man, when they are only as accomplishments to the 
 man of fortune, are great reHefs to a country life, and 
 many ways useful to those who are possessed of 
 them. 
 
 But of all the diversions of life, there is none so 
 proper to fill up its empty spaces as the reading of 
 useful and entertaining authors. But this I shall 
 only touch upon, because it in some measure inter- 
 feres with the third method, which I shall propose in 
 another paper, for the employment of our dead in- 
 active hours, and which I shall only mention in gen- 
 eral to be the pursuit of knowledge. — L. 
 
74 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 94. 
 
 No. 94.] MoxDAv, June 18, 17 
 
 1 1 
 
 ■ Hoc est 
 
 Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui. 
 
 Mart. Epig. xxiii, xo. 
 
 The present joys of life we doubly taste, 
 By looking back with pleasure to the pasL 
 
 The last method which I proposed in my Satur- 
 day's paper, for filling up those empty spaces of life 
 which are so tedious and burdensome to idle people, 
 is the employing ourselves in the pursuit of knowl- 
 edge. I remember Mr. Boyle, speaking of a cer- 
 tain mineral, tells us, that a man may consume his 
 w^hole hfe in the study of it, without arriving at the 
 knowledge of all its qualities. The truth of it is, 
 there is not a single science, or any branch of it, that 
 might not furnish a man with business for life, though 
 it were much longer than it is. 
 
 I shall not here engage on those beaten subjects 
 of the usefulness of knowledge ; nor of the pleasure 
 and perfection it gives the mind ; nor on the methods 
 of obtaining it ; nor recommend any particular branch 
 of it ; all which have been the topics of many other 
 wTiters ; but shall indulge myself in a speculation 
 that is more uncommon, and may therefore perhaps 
 be more entertaining. 
 
 I have before shown how the unemployed parts of 
 life appear long and tedious, and shall here endeavor 
 to show how those parts of life which are exercised 
 in study, reading, and the pursuits of knowledge, are 
 long, but not tedious, and by that means discover a 
 method of lengthening our lives, and at the same 
 time of turning all the parts of them to our advantage. 
 
 Mr. Locke observes, '' That we get the idea of time 
 or duration, by reflecting on that train of ideas which 
 
No. 94-] THE SPECTATOR, 75 
 
 succeed one another in our minds : that for this rea- 
 son, when we sleep soundly without dreaming, we 
 have no perception of time, or the length of it while 
 we sleep ; and that the moment wherein we leave off 
 to think, till the moment w^e begin to think again, 
 seems to have no distance." To which the author 
 adds, ''and so I doubt not but it would be to a wak- 
 ing man if it were possible for him to keep only one 
 idea in his mind, without variation, and the succes- 
 sion of others ; and we see, that one who fixes his 
 thoughts very intently on one thing, so as to take but 
 little notice of the succession of ideas that pass in his 
 mind while he is taken up with that earnest contem- 
 plation, lets slip out of his account a good part of 
 that duration, and thinks that time shorter than it is." 
 
 We might carry this thought farther ; and con- 
 sider a man as, on one side, shortening his time by 
 thinking on nothing, or but a few things ; so on the 
 other, as lengthening it, by employing his thoughts 
 on many subjects, or be entertaining a quick and 
 constant succession of ideas. Accordingly, Monsieur 
 Malebranche, in his Inquiry after Truth (which was 
 pubhshed several years before Mr. Locke's Essay on 
 Human Understanding), tells us, ''that it is possible 
 some creatures may think half an hour as long as we 
 do a thousand years ; or look upon that space of 
 duration which we call a minute, as an hour, a week, 
 a month, or a whole age." 
 
 This notion of Monsieur Malebranche is capable 
 of some little explanation from what I have quoted 
 out of Mr. Locke ; for if our notion of time is pro- 
 duced by our reflecting on the succession of ideas in 
 our mind, and this succession may be infinitely ac- 
 celerated or retarded, it will follow, that different be- 
 ings may have different notions of the same parts of 
 duration, according as their ideas, which we suppose 
 
76 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 94. 
 
 are equally distinct in each of them, follow one 
 another in a greater or less degree of rapidity. 
 
 There is a famous passage in the Alcoran, which 
 looks as if Mahomet had been possessed of the notion 
 we are now speaking of. It is there said that the 
 Angel Gabriel took Mahomet out of his bed one 
 morning to give him a sight of all things in the seven 
 heavens, in paradise, and in hell, which the prophet 
 took a distinct view of : and after having held ninety 
 thousand conferences with God, was brought back 
 again to his bed. All this, says the Alcoran, was 
 transacted in so small a space of time, that Mahomet 
 at his return found his bed still warm, and took up 
 an earthen pitcher, which was thrown down at the 
 very instant that the Angel Gabriel carried him away, 
 before the water was all spilled.* 
 
 There is a very pretty story in the Turkish tales, 
 which relates to this passage of that famous impostor, 
 and bears some affinity to the subject we are now 
 upon. A sultan^ of Egypt, who was an infidel, used 
 to laugh at this circumstance in Mahomet's hfe, as 
 what was altogether im.possible and absurd ; but con- 
 versing one day with a great doctor in the law, who 
 had the gift of working miracles, the doctor told him 
 he would quickly convince him of the truth of this 
 passage in the history of Mahomet, if he would con- 
 sent to do what he should desire of him. Upon this 
 the sultan was directed to place himself by a huge 
 tub of w^ater, which he did accordingly ; and as he 
 stood by the tub amid a circle of his great men, the 
 holy man bid him plunge his head into the water, 
 and draw it up again. The king accordingly thrust 
 
 * The Spectator's memory hath here deceived him ; no such 
 passage is to be found in the Alcoran, though it possibly may 
 in some of the histories of Mahomet's life. 
 
No. 94.] THE SPECTATOR. 77 
 
 his head into the water, and at the same time found 
 himself at the foot of a mountain on the sea-shore. 
 The king immediately began to rage against his doc- 
 tor for this piece of treachery and witchcraft ; but at 
 length, knowing it was in vain to be angry, he set 
 himself to think on proper methods for getting a live- 
 hhood in this strange country. Accordingly he ap- 
 plied himself to some people whom he saw at work 
 in a neighboring wood : these people conducted him 
 to a town that stood at a little distance from the 
 wood, where, after some adventures, he married a 
 woman of great beauty and fortune. He lived with 
 this woman so long, that he had by her seven sons 
 and seven daughters. He was afterward reduced to 
 great want, and forced to think of plying in the 
 streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day as he 
 was walking alone by the sea-side, being seized with 
 many melancholy reflections upon his former and his 
 present state of life, which had raised a fit of devo- 
 tion' in him, he threw off his clothes with a design to 
 wash himself, according to the custom of the Ma- 
 hometans, before he said his prayers. 
 
 x\fter his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner 
 raised his head above the water but he found himself 
 standing by the side of the tub, with the great men 
 of his court about him, and the holy man at his side. 
 He immediately upbraided his teacher for having sent 
 him on such a course of adventiu-es, and betrayed 
 him into so long a state of misery and servitude ; 
 but was wonderfully surprised when he heard that 
 the state he talked of was only a dream and delu- 
 sion ; that he had not stirred from the place where he 
 then stood ; and that he had only dipped his head 
 into the water, and immediately taken it out again. 
 
 The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of in- 
 structing the sultan, that nothing was impossible with 
 
78 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 94. 
 
 God ; and that He, with whom a thousand years are 
 but as one day, can, if He pleases, make a single 
 day, nay, a single moment, appear to any of his creat- 
 ures as a thousand years. 
 
 I shall leave my reader to compare these eastern 
 fables with the notions of those two great philoso- 
 phers whom I have quoted _ in this paper ; and shall 
 only, by way of application, desire him to consider 
 how we may extend life beyond its natural dimen- 
 sion, by applying ourselves dihgently to the pursuits 
 of knowledge. 
 
 The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his 
 ideas, as those of a fool are by his passions. The 
 time of the one is long, because he does not know 
 what to do with it ; so is that of the other, because 
 he distinguishes every moment of it with useful or 
 amusing thoughts ; or, in other words, because the 
 one is always wishing it away, and the other always 
 enjoying it. 
 
 How different is the view of past life, in the man 
 who is grown old in knowledge and wisdom, from 
 that of him who is grown old in ignorance and folly ! 
 The latter is like the owner of a barren country, that 
 fills his eye with the prospect of naked hills and 
 plains, which produce nothing either profitable or 
 ornamental ; the other beholds a beautiful and spa- 
 cious landscape divided into delightful gardens, green 
 meadows, fruitful fields, and can scarce cast his eye 
 on a single spot of his possessions, that is not covered 
 with some beautiful plant or flower. — L. 
 
No. 103.] THE SPECTATOR, 79 
 
 No. 103.] Thursday, June 28, 1711. 
 
 -Sibi quiYis 
 
 Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
 Ausus idem. Hor., Ars. Poet., v, 240. 
 
 Such all might hope to imitate at ease : 
 
 Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 
 
 Should find their labor and their hopes are vain. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 My friend the divine having been used with words 
 of complaisance (which he thinks could be properiy 
 appHed to no one living, and I think could be only 
 spoken of him, and that in his absence), was so ex- 
 tremely offended with the excessive way of speaking 
 civilities among us, that he made a discourse against 
 it at the club, which he concluded with this remark, 
 '' that he had not heard one compliment made in our 
 society since its commencement." Every one was 
 pleased with his conclusion ; and as each knew his 
 good- will to the rest, he was convinced that the many 
 professions of kindness and service, which we ordi- 
 narily meet with, are not natural where the heart is 
 well inchned : but are a prostitution of speech, sel- 
 dom intended to mean any part of what they express, 
 never to mean all they express. Our reverend friend, 
 upon this topic, pointed to us two or three paragraphs 
 on this subject in the first sermon of the first volume 
 of the late archbishop's posthumous works.* I do 
 not know that I ever read anything that pleased me 
 more ; and as it is the praise of Longinus, that he 
 speaks of the subhme in a style suitable to it, so one 
 may say of this author upon sincerity, that he abhors 
 
 * See Archbishop Tillotson's Sermon on Sincerity, from 
 John, chap, i, ver. 47, being the last discourse he preached, 
 July 29, 1694. He died Nov. 24, following. 
 
8o THE SPECTATOR. [No. 103. 
 
 any pomp of rhetoric on this occasion, and treats it 
 with a more than ordinary simphcity, at once to be a 
 preacher and an example. With what command of 
 himself does he lay before us, in the language and 
 temper of his profession, a fault which, by the least 
 liberty and warmth of expression, would be the most 
 lively wit and satire ! But his heart was better dis- 
 posed, and the good man chastised the great wit in 
 such a manner, that he was able to speak as follows : 
 '' — Among too many other instances of the great 
 corruption and degeneracy of the age wherein we 
 live, the great and general want of sincerity in conver- 
 sation is none of the least. The world is grown so 
 full of dissimulation and compliment, that men's 
 words are hardly any signification of their thoughts ; 
 and if any man measure his words by his heart, and 
 speaks as he thinks, and do not express more kind- 
 ness to every man than men usually have for any 
 man, he can hardly escape the censure of want of 
 breeding. The old Enghsh plainness and sincerity 
 — that generous integrity of nature, and honesty of 
 disposition, w^hich always argues true greatness of 
 mind and is usually accompanied with undaunted 
 courage and resolution, is in a great measure lost 
 among us. There hath been a long endeavor to 
 transform us into foreign manners and fashions, and 
 to bring us to a servile imitation of none of the best 
 of our neighbors, in some of the worst of their quali- 
 ties. The dialect of conversation is now-a-days so 
 swelled with vanity and comphment, and so surfeited 
 (as I may say) of expressions of kindness and respect, 
 that if a man that hved an age or two ago should 
 return into the world again, he would really want a 
 dictionary to help him to understand his own lan- 
 guage, and to know the true intrinsic value of the 
 phrase in fashion — and would hardly at first believe 
 
No. 103.] THE SPECTATOR, 81 
 
 at what a low rate the highest strains and expres- 
 sions of kindness imaginable do commonly pass in 
 current payment : and when he should come to 
 understand it, it would be a great while before he 
 could bring himself with a good countenance and a 
 good conscience to converse with men upon equal 
 terms, and in their own way. 
 
 '' And in truth it is hard to say, whether it should 
 more provoke our contempt or our pity, to hear what 
 solemn expressions of respect and kindness will pass 
 between men, almost upon no occasion ; how great 
 honor and esteem they will declare for one whom 
 perhaps they never saw before, and how entirely they 
 are all on the sudden devoted to his service and in- 
 terest, for no reason ; how infinitely and eternally 
 obliged ^o him, for no benefit ; and how extremely 
 they will be concerned for him, yea, and afflicted too, 
 for no cause. I know it is said, in justification of 
 this hollow kind of conversation, that there is no 
 harm, no real deceit in compliment, but the matter is 
 well enough, so long as we understand one another ; 
 et verba valent id nujnmi^ ' words are like money ; ' 
 and when the current value of them is generally 
 understood, no man is cheated by them. This is 
 something, if such words were anything ; but being 
 brought into the account, they are mere ciphers. 
 However it is still a just matter of complaint, that 
 sincerity and plainness are out of fashion, and that 
 our language is running into a lie ; that men have al- 
 most quite perverted the use of speech, and made 
 words to signify nothing ; that the greatest part of 
 the conversation of mankind is httle else but driving 
 a trade of dissimulation ; insomuch that it would 
 make a man heartily sick and weary of the world, to 
 see the little security that is in use and practice 
 among men." 
 
82 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 103. 
 
 When the vice is placed in this contemptuous hght, 
 he argues unanswerably against it, in words and 
 thoughts so natural, that any man who reads them 
 would imagine he himself could have been the au- 
 thor of them. 
 
 '' If the shovv^ of anything be good for anything, I 
 am sure sincerity is better : for w^hy does any man 
 dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but 
 because he thinks it good to have such a quality as 
 he pretends to? For to counterfeit and dissemble, 
 is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. 
 Now the best way in the world to seem to be any- 
 thing, is really to be what he would seem to be. Be- 
 side, that it is many times as troublesome to make 
 good the pretense of a good quality, as to have it ; 
 and if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is 
 discovered to want it ; and then all his pains and la- 
 bor to seem to have it, are lost." 
 
 In another part of the same discourse he goes on 
 to show, that all artifice must naturally tend to the 
 disappointment of him that practices it. 
 
 '' Whatsoever convenience may be thought to be 
 in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over ; but 
 the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings 
 a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, 
 so that he is not believed w^hen he speaks truth, nor 
 trusted when perhaps he means honestly. When a 
 man has once forfeited the reputation of his integ- 
 rity, he is set fast, and nothing will then serve his 
 turn, neither truth nor falsehood." — R. 
 
No. 105.] THE SPECTATOR. 83 
 
 No. 105.] Saturday, June 30, 17 11. 
 
 -Id arbitror 
 
 Adprime in vita esse utile, ne quid nimis. 
 
 Ter. Andr., act i, sc. i. 
 
 I take it to be a principal rule of life, not to be too much addicted to 
 any one thing. 
 
 Too much of anything, is good for nothing. — Eng. Prov. 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb values himself very 
 much upon what he calls the knowledge of mankind, 
 which has cost him many disasters in his youth ; for 
 Will reckons every misfortune that he has met with 
 among the women, and every rencounter among the 
 men, as parts of his education ; and fancies he should 
 never have been the man he is, had he not broke 
 windows, knocked down constables, disturbed honest 
 people with his midnight serenades, and beat up a 
 lewd woman's quarters, when he was a young fellow. 
 The engaging in adventures of this nature Will calls 
 the studying of mankind ; and terms this knowledge 
 of the town the knowledge of the world. Will ingen- 
 uously confesses that for half his life his head ached 
 every morning with reading of men over night ; and 
 at present comforts himself under certain pains which 
 he endures from time to time, that without them he 
 could not have been acquainted with the gallantries 
 of the age. This Will looks upon as the learning of 
 a gentleman, and regards all other kinds of science 
 as the accomplishments of one whom he calls a 
 scholar, a bookish man, or a philosopher. 
 
 For these reasons Will shines in mixed company, 
 where he has the discretion not to go out of his depth, 
 and has often a certain way of making his real igno- 
 rance appear a seeming one. Our club however has 
 frequently caught him tripping, at which times they 
 
84 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 105. 
 
 never spare him. For as Will often insults us with 
 his knowledge of the town, we sometimes take our 
 revenge upon him by our knowledge of books. 
 
 He was last week producing two or three letters 
 which he wrote in his youth to a coquette lady. The 
 raillery of them was natural and well enough for a 
 mere man of the town : but, very unluckily, several 
 of the words were wrong spelt. Will laughed this 
 off at first as well as he could ; but finding himself 
 pushed on all sides, and especially by the Templar, 
 he told us with a httle passion, that he never liked 
 pedantry in spelling, and that he spelt like a gentle- 
 man, and not like a scholar : upon this Will had 
 recourse to his old topic of showing the narrow- 
 ^spiritedness, the pride, and ignorance of pedants ; 
 which he carried so far, that upon my retiring to my 
 lodgings, I could not forbear throwing together such 
 reflections as occurred to me upon that subject. 
 
 A man who has been brought up among books, 
 and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indiffer- 
 ent companion, and what we call a pedant. But, 
 methinks, we should enlarge the title, and give it to 
 every one that does not know how to think out of 
 his profession and particular way of hfe. 
 
 What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the 
 town? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue of the 
 reigning beauties, and an account of a few fashionable 
 distempers that have befallen him, and you strike him 
 dumb. How m.any a pretty gentleman's knowledge 
 Hes all within the verge of the court? He will tell 
 you the names of the principal favorites, repeat the 
 shrewd sayings of a man of quahty ; whisper an in- 
 trigue that is not yet blown upon by common fame ; 
 or, if the sphere of his observations is a httle larger 
 than ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, 
 turns, and revolutions, in a game of ombre. When 
 
No. 105.] THE SPECTATOR, . 85 
 
 he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole 
 circle of his accomplishments ; his parts are drained, 
 and he is disabled from any further conversation. 
 What are these but rank pedants? and yet these are 
 the men who value themselves most on their exemp- 
 tion from the pedantry of colleges. 
 
 I might here mention the military pedant, who al- 
 ways talks in a camp — ^and is storming towns, making 
 lodgments, and fighting battles, from one end of the 
 year to the other. Everything he speaks smells of 
 gunpowder ; if you take away his artillery from him, 
 he has not a word to say for himself. I might hke- 
 v/ise mention the law pedant, that is perpetually 
 putting cases, repeating the transactions of West- 
 minster-hall, wrangling with you upon the most indif- 
 ferent circumstances of hfe, and not to be convinced 
 of the distance of a place, or of the most trivial point 
 in conversation, but by dint of argument. The state 
 pedant is wrapped up in news, and lost in politics. 
 If you mention either of the kings of Spain or Po- 
 land, he talks very notably ; but if you go out of the 
 Gazette, you drop him. In short, a mere courtier, 
 a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere anything, is 
 an insipid pedantic character, and equally ridiculous. 
 
 Of all the species of pedants which I have men- 
 tioned, the book pedant is much the most support- 
 able ; he has at least an exercised understanding, a 
 head which is full, though confused — so that a man 
 who converses with him may often receive from him 
 hints of things that are worth knowing, and what he 
 may possibly turn to his own advantage, though they 
 are of little use to the owner. The worst kind of 
 pedants among learned men, are such as are naturally 
 endued with a very small share of common sense, and 
 have read a great number of books without taste or 
 distinction. 
 
86 THE SPECTATOR. [No. iii. 
 
 The truth of it is, learning, hke travehng, and all 
 other methods of improvement, as it finishes good 
 sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand times 
 more insufferable, by supplying variety of matter to 
 his impertinence, and giving him an opportunity of 
 abounding in absurdities. 
 
 Shallow pedants cry up one another much more 
 than men of soKd and useful learning. To read the 
 titles they give an editor, or collator of a manuscript, 
 you would take him for the glory of the common- 
 wealth of letters, and the wonder of his age! when 
 perhaps upon examination you find that he has only 
 rectified a Greek particle, or laid out a whole sen- 
 tence in proper commas. 
 
 They are obhged indeed to be thus lavish of their 
 praises, that they may keep one another in counte- 
 nance ; and it is no wonder if a great deal of knowl- 
 edge which is not capable of making a man wise, 
 has a natural tendency to make him vain and arro- 
 gant. — L. 
 
 No. III.] Saturday, July 7, 1711. 
 
 Inter silvas academi quserere verum. 
 
 HoR. 2 Ep. ii, 45. 
 
 To search for truth in academic groves. 
 
 The course of my last speculation led me insensi- 
 bly into a subject upon which I always meditate with 
 great dehght ; I mean the immortality of the soul. I 
 was yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's 
 woods, and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was 
 running over in my mind the several arguments that 
 estabhshed this great point, which is the basis of 
 morahty, and the source of all the pleasing hopes 
 and secret joys that can arise in the heart of 
 
No. III.] THE SPECTATOR. 87 
 
 a reasonable creature. I considered those several 
 proofs, drawn : 
 
 First, from the nature of the soul itself, and par- 
 ticularly its immateriality, which, though not abso- 
 lutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I 
 think, been evinced to almost a demonstration. 
 
 Secondly, from its passions and sentiments, as par- 
 ticularly from its love of existence, its horror of anni- 
 hilation, and its hopes of immortality, with that secret 
 satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue, 
 and that uneasiness which follows in it upon the com- 
 mission of vice. 
 
 Thirdly, from the natiu-e of the Supreme Being, 
 whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are 
 all concerned in this great point. 
 
 But among these and other excellent arguments 
 for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn 
 from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfec- 
 tion, without a possibility of ever arriving at it ; which 
 is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened 
 and improved by others who have written on this sub- 
 ject, though it seems to me to carry a great weight 
 with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, 
 that the soul, which is capable of such immense per- 
 fections, and of receiving new improvements to all 
 eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon 
 as it is created ? Are such abilities made for no pur- 
 pose ? A brute arrives at the point of perfection that 
 he can never pass : in a few years he has all the en- 
 dowments he is capable of : and, w^ere he to live ten 
 thousand more, would be the same thing he is at pres- 
 ent. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her ac- 
 complishments ; were her faculties to be full blown, 
 and incapable of farther enlargements, I could imagine 
 it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a 
 state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking 
 
88 THE SPECTATOR. [No. iii. 
 
 being, that is in a perpetual progress of improve- 
 ments, and traveling on from perfection to perfection, 
 after having just looked abroad into the works of its 
 Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite 
 goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first 
 setting out, and in the beginning of her inquiries? 
 
 A man, considered in his present state, seems only 
 sent into the world to propagate his kind. He pro- 
 \^des himself with a successor, and immediately quits 
 his post to make room for him. 
 
 Hseres 
 
 Hseredem alterius, velut unda siipervenit undam. 
 
 HoR. 2 Ep. ii, 175. 
 
 Heir crowds heir, as in a rollino: flood 
 
 Wave urges wave. — Creech. 
 
 He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver 
 it down to others. This is not surprising to consider 
 in animals, which are formed for oiu* use. and can 
 finish their business in a short life. The silkworm, 
 after having spun her task, lays her ^gg and dies. 
 But a man can never have taken in his full measure 
 of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, 
 establish his soul in virtue and come up to the per- 
 fection of his nature, before he is hurried off the 
 stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such 
 glorious creatures for so mean a purpose? Can he 
 dehght in the production of such abortive intelh- 
 gences, such short -hved reasonable beings? Would 
 he give us talents that are not to be exerted? capaci- 
 ties that are never to be gratified? How can we find 
 that wisdom, which shines through all his works in 
 the formation of man, without looking on this world 
 as only a nursery for the next, and believing that the 
 several generations of rational creatures, which rise 
 up and disappear in such quick successions, are only 
 to receive their first rudiments of existence here, and 
 
No. III.] THE SPECTATOR. 89 
 
 afterward to be transplanted into a more friendly 
 climate, where they may spread and flourish to all 
 eternity ! 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and 
 triumphant consideration in rehgion than this of the 
 perpetual progress which the soul makes toward the 
 perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a 
 period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from 
 strength to strength, to consider that she is to shine 
 forever with new accessions of glory, and brighten to 
 all eternity; that she will be still adding virtue to 
 virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it 
 something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition 
 which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must 
 be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his 
 creation forever beautifying in his eyes, and drawing 
 nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance. 
 
 Methinks this single consideration of the progress 
 of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to ex- 
 tinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt 
 in superior. That cherubim, which now^ appears as a 
 God to a human soul, knows very well that the period 
 will come about in eternity, v/hen the human soul 
 shall be as perfect as he himself now is : nay, when 
 she shall look down upon that degree of perfection, 
 as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, the 
 higher nature still advances, and by that means pre- 
 serves his distance and superiority in the scale of be- 
 ing ; but he knows that how high soever the station 
 is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior 
 nature -will at length mount up to it, and shine forth 
 in the same degree of glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration may we 
 look into our own souls, where there are such hidden 
 stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted 
 sources of perfection? We know not yet what we 
 
90 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 115. 
 
 shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart of man 
 to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve 
 for him. The soul, considered with its Creator, is 
 like one of those mathematical lines that may draw 
 nearer to another for all eternity without a possibility 
 of touching it ;^ and can there be a thought so trans- 
 porting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual 
 approaches to him, who is not only the standard of 
 perfection but of happiness! — L. 
 
 No. 115.] Thursday, July 12, 17 11 
 
 Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano. 
 
 Juv., Sat. X, 356. 
 
 Pray for a sound mind in a sound body 
 
 Bodily labor is of two kinds, — either that which 
 a man submits to for his livehhood, or that which he 
 undergoes for his pleasure. The latter of them gen- 
 erally changes the name of labor for that of exercise, 
 but differs only from ordinary labor as it rises from 
 another motive. 
 
 A country Hfe abounds in both these kinds of la- 
 bor — and for that reason gives a man a greater stock 
 of health, and consequently a more perfect enjoy- 
 ment of himself, than any other way of hfe. I con- 
 sider the body as a system of tubes and glands, or, 
 to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and 
 strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful a 
 manner as to make a proper engine for the soul to 
 work with. This description does not only compre- 
 
 ^ Those lines are what the geometricians call the asymp- 
 totes of the hyperbola, and the allusion to them here is, per- 
 haps, one of the most beautiful that has ever been made. 
 
No. 115.] THE SPECTATOR, 91 
 
 hend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, and 
 arteries, but every muscle, and every ligature, which 
 is a composition of fibers, that are so many imper- 
 ceptible tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with 
 invisible glands or strainers. 
 
 This general idea of a human body, without con- 
 sidering it in the niceties of anatomy, lets us see how 
 absolutely necessary labor is for the right preservation 
 of it. There must be frequent motions and agita- 
 tions, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained 
 in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that infinitude of 
 pipes and strainers of which it is composed, and to 
 give their solid parts a more firm and lasting tone. 
 Labor or exercise ferments the humors, casts them 
 into their proper channels, throws off redundancies, 
 and helps nature in those secret distributions, without 
 which the body cannot subsist in its vigor, nor the 
 soul act with cheerfulness. 
 
 I might here mention the effects which this has 
 upon all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the 
 understanding clear, the imagination untroubled, and 
 refining those spirits which are necessary for the 
 proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during 
 the present laws of union between soul and body. It 
 is to a neglect in this particular that we must ascribe 
 the spleen, which is so frequent in men of studious 
 and sedentary tempers, as well as the vapors, to 
 which those of the other sex are so often subject. 
 
 Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our 
 well-being, nature would not have made the body so 
 proper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs, 
 and such a pliancy to every part as necessarily pro- 
 duce those compressions, extensions, contortions, dila- 
 tions, and all other kinds of motions that are necessary 
 for the preservation of such a system of tubes and 
 glands as has been before mentioned. And that we 
 
92 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 115. 
 
 might not want inducements to engage us in such an 
 exercise of the body as is proper for its welfare, it is 
 so ordered that nothing valuable can be procured 
 without it. Not to mention riches and honor, even 
 food and raiment are not to be come at without the 
 toil of the hands and the sweat of the brows. Provi- 
 dence furnishes materials, but expects that we should 
 work them up ourselves. The earth must be labored 
 before it gives its increase ; and Vv^hen it is forced 
 into its several products, how many hands must they 
 pass through before they are fit for use? Manufact- 
 ures, trade, and agriculture, naturally employ more 
 than nineteen parts of the species in twenty ; and as 
 for those who are not obliged to labor, by the condi- 
 tion in which they are born, they are more miserable 
 than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge them- 
 selves in that voluntary labor which goes by the 
 name of exercise. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable man 
 in business of this kind, and has hung several parts of 
 his house with the trophies of his former labors. The 
 walls of his great hall are covered with the horns of 
 several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chase, 
 which he thinks the most valuable furniture of his 
 house, as they afford him frequent topics of discourse, 
 and show that he has not been idle. At the lower 
 end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with hay, 
 which his mother ordered to be hung up in that man- 
 ner, and the knight looks upon it with great satisfac- 
 tion, because it seems he was but nine years old when 
 his dog killed him. A little room adjoining to the 
 hall is a kind of arsenal filled with guns of several sizes 
 and inventions, with which the knight has made great 
 havoc in the woods, and destroyed many thousands 
 of pheasants, partridges, and woodcocks. His stable- 
 doors are patched with noses that belonged to foxes 
 
No. 115.] THE SPECTATOR, 93 
 
 of the knight's own hunting down. Sir Roger showed 
 me one of them that for distinction sake has a brass 
 nail struck through it, which cost him about fifteen 
 hours' riding, carried him through half a dozen coun- 
 ties, killed him a brace of geldings, and lost above 
 half his dogs. This the knight looks upon as one of 
 the greatest exploits of his life. The perverse widow, 
 whom I have given some account of, was the death 
 of several foxes ; for Sir Roger has told me, that in 
 the course of his amours he patched the western door 
 of his stable. Whenever the widow was cruel, the 
 foxes were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his 
 passion for the widow abated and old age came on, 
 he left off fox-hunting ; but a hare is not yet safe that 
 sits within ten miles of his house. 
 
 There is no kind of exercise which I would so 
 recommend to my readers of both sexes as this of 
 riding, as there is none which so much conduces to 
 health, and is every way accommodated to the body, 
 according to the idea which I have given of it. Doc- 
 tor Sydenham is very lavish in its praises ; and if the 
 English reader w^ould see the mechanical effects of it 
 described at length, he may find them in a book 
 published not many years since, under the title of 
 Mediciiia Gym?iastica.^ For my own part, when I 
 am in town, for want of these opportunities, I exer- 
 cise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb-bell 
 that is placed in a corner of my room, and it pleases 
 me the more because it does everything that I require 
 of it in the most profound silence. My landlady 
 and her daughters are so well acquainted w^ith my 
 hours of exercise, that they never come into my room 
 to disturb me while I am ringing. 
 
 When I w^as some years younger than I am at pres- 
 
 •^ * By Francis Fuller, M. A. 
 
94 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 123. 
 
 ent, I used to employ myself in a more laborious di- 
 version, which I learned from a Latin treatise of ex- 
 ercises that is written with great erudition : * it is there 
 called the fighting with a man's own shadow, and 
 consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped 
 m each hand, and loaden with plugs of lead at either 
 end. This opens the chest, exercises the limbs, and 
 gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, without the 
 blows. I could wish that several learned men would 
 lay out that time which they employ in controversies 
 and disputes about nothing, in this method of fighting 
 with their own shadows. It might conduce very 
 much to evaporate the spleen, which makes them un- 
 easy to the public as well as to themselves. 
 
 To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and 
 body, I consider myself as obhged to a double scheme 
 of duties ; and think I have not fulfilled the business 
 of the day when I do not thus employ the one in 
 labor and exercise, as well as the other in study and 
 contemplation. 
 
 No. 123.] Saturday, July 21, 171 i. 
 
 Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, 
 
 Rectique cultus pectora roborant : 
 
 Utcunque defecere mores, 
 
 Dedecorant bene nata culpae. — Hor. 4, Od. iv, 33. 
 
 Yet the best blood b3" learning is refin'd, 
 And virtue arms the solid mind ; 
 While vice will stain the noblest race, 
 And the paternal stamp efface. — Oldisworth. 
 
 As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend 
 Sir Roger, we were met by a fresh-colored ruddy 
 
 * This is Hieronymus Mercurialis's celebrated book, Artis 
 Gymnasticce apud Antiquos, etc. Libri sex. Venet., 1569, 
 4to. See lib. iv, cap. 5, and lib. vi, cap. 2. 
 
No. 123.] THE SPECTATOR. 95 
 
 young man who rode by us full speed, with a couple 
 of servants behind him. Upon my inquiry who he 
 was, Sir Roger told me he was a young gentleman of a 
 considerable estate, who had been educated by a ten- 
 der mother that lived not many miles from the place 
 where we were. She is a very good lady, says my 
 friend, but took so much care of her son's health, that 
 she has made him good for nothing. She quickly 
 found that reading was bad for his eyes, and that 
 writing made his head ache. He was let loose among 
 the woods as soon as he was able to ride on horse- 
 back, or to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To be 
 brief, I found, by my friend's account of him, that he 
 had got a great stock of health, and nothing else ; 
 and that if it were a man's business only to live, there 
 would not be a more accomphshed young fellow in 
 the whole country. 
 
 The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts, 
 I have seen and heard innumerable instances of young 
 heirs and elder brothers, who, either from their own 
 reflecting upon the estates they are born to, and 
 therefore thinking all other accomphshments unneces- 
 sary, or from hearing these notions frequently incul- 
 cated to them by the flattery of their servants and 
 domestics, or from the same fooHsh thought prevail- 
 ing in those who have the care of their education, 
 are of no manner of use but to keep up their families, 
 and transmit their lands and houses in a line to pos- 
 terity. 
 
 This makes me often think on a story I have heard 
 of two friends, which I shall give my readers at large, 
 under feigned names. The moral of it may, I hope, 
 be useful, though there are some circumstances which 
 make it rather appear hke a novel, than a true story. 
 
 Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with small 
 estates. They were both of them men of good sense 
 
96 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 123. 
 
 and gi-eat virtue. They prosecuted their studies to- 
 gether in their earher years, and entered into such a 
 friendship as lasted to the end of their hves. Eu- 
 doxus, at his first setting out in the world, threw him- 
 self into a court, where by his natural endowments 
 and his acquii'ed abihties, he made his way from 
 one post to another, until at length he had raised a 
 very considerable fortune. Leontine, on the contrary, 
 sought all opportunities of improving his mind by 
 study, conversation, and travel. He was not only 
 acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most 
 eminent professors of them throughout Europe. He 
 knew perfectly well the interests of its princes, with 
 the customs and fashions of their courts, and could 
 scarce meet with the name of an extraordinary person 
 in the Gazette Vv'hom he had not either talked to or 
 seen. In short, he had so well mixed and adjusted 
 his knowledge of men and books, that he made one 
 of the most accomplished persons of his age. Dur- 
 ing the whole com'se of his studies and travels he kept 
 up a punctual correspondence with Eudoxus, who 
 often made himself acceptable to the principal men 
 about court, by the inteUigence which he received 
 from Leontine. When they were both turned of 
 forty (an age in which, according to Mr. Cowley, 
 *' there is no dallying with hfe "), they determined, 
 pursuant to the resolution they had taken in the be- 
 ginning of their hves, to retire, and pass the remainder 
 of their days in the country. In order to this, they 
 both of them married much about the same time. 
 Leontine, with his own and wife's fortune, bought a 
 farm of three hundred a year, which lay within the 
 neighborhood of his friend Eudoxus, who had pur- 
 chased an estate of as many thousands. They were 
 both of them fathers about the same time — Eudoxus 
 having a son born to him. and Leontine a daughter ; 
 
No. 123.] THE SPECTATOR. 97 
 
 but to the unspeakable grief of the latter, his young 
 wife (in whom all his happiness was wrapt up), died 
 in a few days after the birth of her daughter. His 
 affliction would have been insupportable, had not he 
 been comforted by the daily visits and conversations 
 of his friend. As they were one day talking together 
 with their usual intimacy, Leontine, considering how 
 incapable he was of giving his daughter a proper 
 education in his own house, and Eudoxus reflecting 
 on the ordinary behavior of a son who knows himself 
 to be the heir of a great estate, they both agreed upon 
 an exchange of children, namely, that the boy should 
 be bred up with Leontine as his son, and that the 
 girl should hve with Eudoxus as his daughter, until 
 they were each of them arrived at years of discretion. 
 The wife of Eudoxus, knowing that her son could not 
 be so advantageously brought up as under the care 
 of Leontine, and considering at the same time that 
 he would be perpetually under her own eye, was by 
 degrees prevailed upon to fall in with the project. 
 She therefore took Leonilla, for that was the name 
 of the girl, and educated her as her own daughter. 
 The two friends on each side had wrought themselves 
 to such an habitual tenderness for the children who 
 were under their direction, that each of them had the 
 real passion of a father, where the title was but 
 imaginary. Florio, the name of the young heir that 
 lived with Leontine, though he had all the duty and 
 affection imaginable for his supposed parent, was 
 taught to rejoice at the sight of Eudoxus, who visited 
 his friend very frequently, and was dictated by his 
 natural affection, as well as by the rules of prudence, 
 to make himself esteemed and beloved by Florio. 
 The boy was now old enough to know his suppos:ed 
 father's circumstances, and that therefore he had to 
 make his way in the world by his own industry. This 
 
98 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 123. 
 
 consideration grew stronger in him every day, and 
 produced so good an effect, that he applied himself 
 with more than ordinary attention to the pursuits of 
 everything w^hich Leontine recommended to him. 
 His natural abilities, Avhich were very good, assisted 
 by the directions of so excellent a counsellor, enabled 
 him to make a quicker progress than ordinary through 
 all the parts of his education. Before he was twenty 
 years of age, having finished his studies and exercises 
 with great applause, he was removed from the uni- 
 versity to the inns of court, where there are very few 
 that make themselves considerable proficients in the 
 studies of the place, who know they shall arrive at 
 great estates without them. This was not Florio's 
 case ; he found that three hundred a year was but a 
 poor estate for Leontine and himself to live upon, so 
 that he studied without intermission till he gained a 
 very good insight into the constitution and laws of 
 his country. 
 
 I should have told my reader that, while Florio 
 lived at the house of his foster-father, he was always 
 an acceptable guest in the family of Eudoxus, where 
 he became acquainted with Leonilla from her infancy. 
 His acquaintance with her by degrees grew into love, 
 which in a mind trained up in all the sentiments of 
 honor and virtue became a very uneasy passion. He 
 despaired of gaining an heiress of so great a fortune 
 and would rather have died than attempted it by any 
 indirect methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of 
 the greatest beauty, joined with the greatest modesty, 
 entertained at the same time a secret passion for 
 Florio, but conducted herself with so much prudence 
 that she never gave him the least intimation of it. 
 Florio was now engaged in all those arts and im- 
 provements that are proper to raise a man's private 
 fortune and give him a figure in his country, but se- 
 
No. 123.] THE SPECTATOR, 99 
 
 cretly tormented with that passion which burns with 
 the greatest fury in a virtuous and noble heart, when 
 he received a sudden summons from Leontine to re- 
 pair to him in the country the next day : for it seems 
 Eudoxus was so filled with the report of his son's 
 reputation, that he could no longer withhold making 
 himself known to him. The morning after his arrival 
 at the house of his supposed father, Leontine told him 
 that Eudoxus had something of great importance to 
 communicate to him ; upon which the good man em- 
 braced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner arrived 
 at the great house that stood in his neighborhood, 
 but Eudoxus took him by the hand, after the first 
 salutes were over, and conducted him into his closet. 
 He there opened to him the w^iole secret of his pa- 
 rentage and education, concluding after this man- 
 ner : '' I have no other way left of acknowledging my 
 gratitude to Leontine, than by marrying you to his 
 daughter. He shall not lose the pleasure of being 
 your father by the discovery I have made to you. 
 Leonilla, too, shall be still my daughter: her filial 
 piety, though misplaced, has been so exemplary, that 
 it deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it. 
 You shall have the pleasure of seeing a great estate 
 fall to you, which you would have lost the relish of 
 had you known yourself born to it. Continue only 
 to deserve it in the same manner you did before you 
 possessed it. I have left your mother in the next 
 room. Her heart yearns toward you. She is making 
 the same discoveries to Leonilla which I have made 
 to yourself." Florio was so overwhelmed wnth this 
 profusion of happiness, that he was not able to make 
 a reply, but threw himself down at his father's feet, 
 and, amidst a flood of tears, kissed and embraced 
 his knees, asking his blessing, and expressing in dumb 
 show those sentiments of love, duty, and gratitude. 
 
loo THE SPECTATOR. [No. 128. 
 
 that were too big for utterance. To conclude, the 
 happy pair were married, and half Eudoxus's estate 
 settled upon them. Leontine and Eudoxus passed 
 the remainder of their lives together : and receiving 
 in the dutiful and affectionate behavior of Florio and 
 Leonilla the just recompense, as well as the natural 
 effects, of that care which they had bestowed upon 
 them in their education. — L. 
 
 No. 128.] Thursday, July 27, 171 1 
 
 -Concordia discors. — Lucan., i, 98. 
 -Harmonious discord. 
 
 Women in their nature are much more gay and 
 joyous than men ; whether it be that their blood is 
 more refined, their fibers more delicate, and their ani- 
 mal spirits more light and volatile ; or whether, as 
 some have imagined, there may not be a kind of sex 
 in the very soul, I shall not pretend to determine. 
 As vivacity is the gift of women, gravity is that of 
 men. They should each of them therefore keep a 
 watch upon the particular bias which nature has fixed 
 in their minds, that it may not draw too much, and 
 lead them out of the paths of reason. This will cer- 
 tainly happen, if the one in every word and action 
 affects the character of being rigid and severe, and 
 the other of being brisk and airy. Men should be- 
 ware of being captivated by a kind of savage phi- 
 losophy, women by a thoughtless gallantr\^ Where 
 these precautions are not observed, the man often de- 
 generates into a cynic, the woman into a coquette ; 
 the man grows sullen and morose, the woman im- 
 pertinent and fantastical. 
 
No. 128.] THE SPECTATOR. loi 
 
 By what I have said, we may conchide, men and 
 women were made as counterparts to one another, 
 that the pains and anxieties of the husband might be 
 relieved by the sprightHness and good humor of the 
 wife. When these are rightly tempered, care and 
 cheerfulness go hand in hand ; and the family, hke a 
 ship that is duly trimmed, w^ants neither sail nor bal- 
 last. 
 
 Natural historians observe (for while I am in the 
 country, I must fetch my allusions from thence) that 
 only the male birds have voices ; that their songs be- 
 gin a little before breeding-time, and end a little after : 
 that while the hen is covering her eggs, the male 
 generally takes his stand upon a neighboring bough 
 within her hearing : and by that means amuses and 
 diverts her with his songs during the whole time of 
 her sitting. 
 
 This contract among birds lasts no longer than till 
 a brood of young ones arises from it : so that in the 
 feathered kind, the cares and fatigues of the married 
 state, if I may so call it, lie principally upon the fe- 
 male. On the contrary, as, in our species, the man 
 and the woman are joined together for life, and the 
 main burden rests upon the former, nature has given 
 all the Httle arts of soothing and blandishment to 
 the female, that she may cheer and animate her com- 
 panion in a constant and assiduous application to the 
 making a provision for his family, and the educating 
 of their common children. This however is not to 
 be taken so strictly, as if the same duties were not 
 often reciprocal, and incumbent on both parties ; 
 but only to set forth what seems to have been the 
 general intention of nature, in the different incHna- 
 tions and endowments which are bestowed on the 
 different sexes. 
 
 But whatever was the reason that man and woman 
 
102 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 128. 
 
 were made with this variety of temper, if we observe 
 the conduct of the fair sex, we find that they choose 
 rather to associate themselves with a person who re- 
 sembles them in that light and volatile humor which 
 is natural to them, than to such as are qualified to 
 moderate and counterbalance it. It has been an old 
 complaint, that the coxcomb carries it with them be- 
 fore the man of sense. When we see a fellow loud 
 and talkative, full of insipid hfe and laughter, we may 
 ventm-e to pronounce him a female favorite. Noise 
 and flutter are such accomplishments as they cannot 
 withstand. To be short, the passion of an ordinary 
 woman for a man is nothing else than self-love di- 
 verted upon another object. She would have the 
 lover a woman in everything but the sex. I do not 
 know a finer piece of satire on this part of woman- 
 kind, than those lines of Mr. Dryden : 
 
 Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form, 
 And empty noise ; and loves itself in man. 
 
 This is a source of infinite calamities to the sex, as 
 it frequently joins them to men who, in their own 
 thoughts, are as fine creatures as themselves ; or if 
 they chance to be good-humored, serve only to dissi- 
 pate their fortunes, inflame their folhes, and aggravate 
 their indiscretions. 
 
 The same female levity is no less fatal to them 
 after marriage than before. It represents to their 
 imaginations the faithful, prudent husband, as an 
 honest, tractable, and domestic animal ; and turns 
 their thoughts upon the fine, gay gentleman that 
 laughs, sings, and dresses so much more agreeably. 
 
 As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray the 
 hearts of ordinary women in the choice of their lov- 
 ers and the treatment of their husbands, it operates 
 with the same pernicious influence toward their chil- 
 
No. 128.] THE SPECTATOR. 103 
 
 dren, who are taught to accomphsh themselves in all 
 those sublime perfections that appear captivating in 
 the eye of their mother. She admires in her son what 
 she loved in her gallant ; and by that means contrib- 
 utes all she can to perpetuate herself in a worthless 
 progeny. 
 
 The younger Faustina was a lively instance of this 
 sort of women. Notwithstanding she was married 
 to Marcus Aurelius, one of the greatest, wisest, and 
 best of the Roman emperors, she thought a com- 
 mon gladiator much the prettier gentleman ; and had 
 taken such care to accomplish her son Commodus 
 according to her own notions of a fine man, that 
 when he ascended the throne of his father, he became 
 the most foolish and abandoned tyrant that ever was 
 placed at the head of the Roman empire, signalizing 
 himself in nothing but the fighting of prizes, and 
 knocking out men's brains. As he had no taste of 
 true glory, we see him in several medals and statues, 
 which are still extant of him, equipped like a Her- 
 cules, with a club and a lion's skin. 
 
 I have been led into this speculation by the charac- 
 ters I have heard of a country gentleman and his lady, 
 who do not live many miles from Sir Roger. The 
 wife is an old coquette that is ahvays hankering after 
 the diversions of the town ; the husband a morose 
 rustic, that frowns and frets at the name of it. The 
 wife is overrun with affectation, the husband sunk 
 into brutality. The lady cannot bear the noise of the 
 larks and nightingales, hates your tedious summer- 
 days, and is sick at the sight of shady w^oods and 
 purling streams ; the husband wonders how any one 
 can be pleased with the fooleries of plays and operas, 
 and rails from morning till night at essenced fops and 
 tawdry courtiers. The children are educated in these 
 different notions of their parents. The sons follow 
 
I04 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 133. 
 
 their father about his grounds, while the daughters 
 read volumes of love-letters and romances to their 
 mother. By this means it comes to pass that the 
 girls look upon their father as a clown, and the boys 
 think their mother no better than she should be. 
 
 How different are the lives of Aristus and Aspasia! 
 The innocent vivacity of the one is tempered and 
 composed by the cheerful gravity of the other. The 
 wife grows wise by the discourses of the husband, and 
 the husband good-humored by the conversations of 
 the wife. Aristus would not be so amiable were it 
 not for his Aspasia, nor Aspasia so much esteemed 
 were it not for her Aristus. Their virtues are blended 
 in their children, and diffuse through the whole family 
 a perpetual spirit of benevolence, complacency, and 
 satisfaction. — C. 
 
 No. 133.] Thursday, August 2, 171 1. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus 
 Tam chaxi capitis ?— Hor. 1 Od. xxiv, i. 
 
 Such was his worth, our loss is such, 
 
 We cannot love too well, or grieve too much. 
 
 Oldisworth. 
 
 There is a sort of delight, which is alternately 
 mixed with terror and sorrow in the contemplation of 
 death. The soul has its curiosity more than ordinarily 
 awakened, when it turns its thoughts upon the con- 
 duct of such who have behaved themselves with an 
 equal, a resigned, a cheerful, a generous, or heroic 
 temper in that extremity. We are affected with these 
 respective manners of behavior, as we secretly believe 
 the part of the dying person imitated by ourselves, 
 or such as we imagine ourselves more particularly 
 capable of. Men of exalted minds march before us 
 
No. 133.] THE SPECTATOR, 105 
 
 like princes, and are to the ordinary race of mankind 
 rather subjects of their admiration than example. 
 However, there are no ideas strike more forcibly 
 upon our imaginations, than those which are raised 
 from reflections upon the exits of great and excellent 
 men. Innocent men who have suffered as criminals, 
 though they were benefactors to human society, seem 
 to be persons of the highest distinction, among the 
 vastly greater number of human race, the dead. 
 When the iniquity of the times brought Socrates to 
 his execution, how great and wonderful is it to behold 
 him, unsupported by anything but the testimony of 
 his own conscience and conjectures of hereafter, re- 
 ceive the poison with an air of warmth and good- 
 humor, and, as if going on an agreeable journey, 
 bespeak some deity to make it fortunate! 
 
 When Phocion's good actions had met with the 
 hke reward from his country, and he was led to death 
 with many other of his friends, they bewailing their 
 fate, he walking composedly toward the place of his 
 execution, how gracefully does he support his illus- 
 trious character to the very last instant! One of the 
 rabble spitting at him as he passed, with his usual 
 authority he called to know if no one was ready to 
 teach this fellow how to behave himself. When a 
 poor-spirited creature that died at the same time for 
 his crimes, bemoaned himself unmanfully, he rebuked 
 him with this question, '' Is it no consolation to such 
 a man as thou art to die with Phocion? " At the 
 instant when he was to die, they asked what com- 
 mands he had for his son : he answered, '' To forget 
 this injury of the Athenians." Niocles, his friend, 
 under the same sentence, desired he might drink the 
 potion before him : Phocion said '' because he never 
 had denied him anything, he would not even this, the 
 most difficult request he had ever made." 
 
io6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 133. 
 
 These instances were very noble and great, and 
 the reflections of those sublime spirits had made death 
 to them what it is really intended to be by the Author 
 of nature, a relief from a various being, ever subject 
 to sorrow^s and difficulties. 
 
 Epaminondas, the Theban general, having received 
 in fight a mortal stab with a sword, which was left in 
 his body, lay in that postm*e till he had intelKgence 
 that his troops had obtained the victory, and then 
 permitted it to be drawn out, . at which instant he 
 expressed himself in this manner : '' This is not the 
 end of my life, my fellow-soldiers ; it is now" your 
 Epaminondas is born, who dies in so much glory." 
 
 It were an endless labor to collect the accounts, 
 with which all ages have filled the world, of noble 
 and heroic minds that have resigned this being, as if 
 the termination of hfe were but an ordinary occur- 
 rence of it. 
 
 This commonplace way of thinking I fell into from 
 an awkward endeavor to throw off a real and fresh 
 affliction, by turning over books in a melancholy 
 mood ; but it is not easy to remove griefs which 
 touch the heart, by applying remedies w^hich only 
 entertain the imagination. As therefore this paper 
 is to consist of anything w^hich concerns hmxian life, 
 I cannot help letting the present subject regard what 
 has been the last object of my eyes, though an enter- 
 tainment of sorrow. 
 
 I went this evening to visit a friend, with a design 
 to rally him, upon a story I had heard of his intend- 
 ing to steal a marriage without the privity of us, his 
 intimate friends and acquaintance. I came into his 
 apartment with that intimacy which I have done for 
 very many years, and walked direcdy into his bed- 
 chamber, where I found my friend in the agonies of 
 death. — What could I do? The innocent mirth of 
 
No. 133.] THE SPECTATOR, 107 
 
 my thoughts struck upon me Hke the most flagitious 
 wickedness : I in vain called upon him ; he was 
 senseless, and too far spent to have the least knowl- 
 edge of my sorrow, or any pain in himself. Give 
 me leave then to transcribe my soliloquy, as I stood 
 by his mother, dumb with the weight of grief for a 
 son who was her honor and her comfort, and never 
 till that hour since his birth had been a moment's 
 sorrow to her. 
 
 ''How surprising is the change! From the pos- 
 session of vigorous life and strength, to be reduced 
 in a few hours to this fatal extremity! Those lips 
 which look so pale and livid, within these few days 
 gave delight to all who heard their utterance ; ' it was 
 the business, the purpose of his being, next to obey- 
 ing him to whom he is gone, to please and instruct, 
 and that for no other end but to please and instruct. 
 Kindness was the motive of his actions, and with all 
 the capacity requisite for making a figure in a con- 
 tentious world, moderation, good-nature, affability, 
 temperance, and chastity, were the arts of his excel- 
 lent life. — There as he lies in helpless agony, no wise 
 man who knew him so well as I, but would resign 
 all the world can bestow to be so near the end of 
 such a life. Why does my heart so little obey my 
 reason as to lament thee, thou excellent man? — 
 Heaven receive him or restore him!- — Thy beloved 
 mother, thy obliged friends, thy helpless servants, 
 stand around thee without distinction. How much 
 wouldst thou, hadst thou thy senses, say to each of us ! 
 
 '' But now that good heart bursts, and he is at rest. 
 With that breath expired a soul who never indulged 
 a passion unfit for the place he is gone to. Where 
 are now thy plans of justice, of truth, of honor? Of 
 what use the volumes thou hast collated, the argu- 
 ments thou hast invented, the examples thou hast 
 
io8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 143. 
 
 followed? Poor were the expectations of the studi- 
 ous, the modest, and the good, if the reward of their 
 labors were only to be expected from man. No, my 
 friend ; thy intended pleadings, thy intended good 
 offices to thy friends, thy intended services to thy 
 country, are already performed (as to thy concern in 
 them) in his sight, before whom the past, present, 
 and future appear at one view. While others with 
 their talents were tormented with ambition, with vain- 
 glory, with envy, with emulation — how well didst 
 thou turn thy mind to its own improvement in things 
 out of the power of fortune : in probity, in integrity, 
 in the practice and study of justice! How silent thy 
 passage, how private thy journey, how glorious thy 
 end! 'Many have I known more famous, some 
 more knowing, not one so innocent.' "^R. 
 
 No. 143.] Tuesday, August 14, 171 1. 
 
 I^on est vivere, sed valere, vita.— Martial, Epig. Ixx, 6. 
 For life is only life, when blest with health. 
 
 It is an unreasonable thing some men e-xpect of 
 their acquaintance. They are ever complaining that 
 they are out of order, or displeased, or they know not 
 how, and are so far from letting that be a reason for 
 retiring to their own homes, that they make it their 
 argument for coming into company. What has any- 
 body to do with accounts of a man's being indisposed, 
 but his physician? If a man laments in company, 
 where the rest are in humor enough to enjoy them- 
 selves, he should not take it ill if a servant is ordered 
 to present him with a porringer of caudle or posset- 
 drink, by way of admonition that he go home to bed. 
 That part of life which we ordinarily understand by 
 
No. 143.] THE SPECTATOR, 109 
 
 the word conversation, is an indulgence to the socia- 
 ble part of our make ; and should incline us to bring 
 our proportion of good-will or good-humor among 
 the friends we meet with, and not to trouble them 
 with relations which must of necessity obhge them to 
 a real or feigned affliction. Cares, distresses, dis- 
 eases, uneasinesses, and dislikes of our own, are by 
 no means to be obtruded upon our friends. If we 
 would consider how little of this vicissitude of motion 
 and rest, which we call life, is spent with satisfaction, 
 we should be more tender of our friends than to bring 
 them little sorrows which do not belong to them. 
 There is no real life but cheerful life ; therefore vale- 
 tudinarians should be sworn, before they enter into 
 company, not to say a word of themselves until the 
 meeting breaks up. It is not here pretended that 
 we should be always sitting with chaplets of flowers 
 round our heads, or be crowned with roses in order 
 to make our entertainment agreeable to us ; but if 
 (as it is usually observed) they who resolve to be 
 merry, seldom are so ; it will be much more unlikely 
 for us to be well pleased, if they are admitted who 
 are always complaining they are sad. Whatever we 
 do, we should keep up the cheerfulness of our spirits, 
 and never let them sink below an inclination at least 
 to be well pleased. The way to this, is to keep our 
 bodies in exercise, our minds at ease. That insipid 
 state wherein neither are in vigor, is not to be ac- 
 counted any part of our portion of being. When we 
 are in the satisfaction of some innocent pleasure, or 
 pursuit of some laudable design, we are in the posses- 
 sion of life, of human hfe. Fortune will give us dis- 
 appointments enough, and nature is attended with 
 infirmities enough, without our adding to the unhappy 
 side of our account by our spleen or ill-humor. Poor 
 Cottilus, among so many real evils, a chronical dis- 
 
no THE SPECTATOR, [No. 143. 
 
 temper and a narrow fortune, is never heard to com- 
 plain. That equal spirit of his, which any man may 
 have, that, Hke him, will conquer pride, vanity, and 
 affectation, and follow nature, is not to be broken, 
 because it has no points to contend for. To be 
 anxious for nothing but what nature demands as 
 necessary, if it is not the way to an estate, is the w^ay 
 to what men aim at by getting an estate. This tem- 
 per wall preserve health in the body, as well as tran- 
 quillity in the mind. Cottilus sees the w^orld in a 
 hurry, with the same scorn that a sober person sees 
 a man drunk. Had he been contented with what he 
 ought to have been, how could, says he, such a one 
 have met with such a disappointment? If another 
 had valued his mistress for what he ought to have 
 loved her, he had not been in her power. If her 
 virtue had had a part of his passion, her levity had 
 been his cure ; she could not then have been false 
 and amiable at the same time. 
 
 Since we cannot promise ourselves constant health, 
 let us endeavor at such a temper as may be our best 
 support in the decay of it. Uranius has arrived at 
 that composure of soul, and wrought himself up to 
 such a neglect of everything wath which the generality 
 of mankind is enchanted, that nothing but acute 
 pains can give him disturbance, and against those 
 too he will tell his intimate friends he has a secret 
 which gives him present ease. Uranius is so thor- 
 oughly persuaded of another hfe, and endeavors so 
 sincerely to secure an interest in it, that he looks 
 upon pain but as a quickening of his pace to a home, 
 where he shall be better provided for than in his 
 present apartment. Instead of the melancholy views 
 which others are apt to give themselves, he will tell 
 you that he has forgot he is mortal, nor will he think 
 of himself as such. He thinks at the time of his 
 
No. 143.] THE SPECTATOR. iii 
 
 birth he entered into an eternal being ; and the short 
 article of death he will not allow an interruption of 
 hfe ; since that moment is not of half the duration 
 as his ordinary sleep. Thus is his being one uniform 
 and consistent series of cheerful diversions and mod- 
 erate cares, without fear or hope of futurity. Health 
 to him is more than pleasiure to another man, and 
 sickness less affecting to him than indisposition is to 
 others. 
 
 I must confess, if one does not regard life after 
 this manner, none but idiots can pass it away with 
 any tolerable patience. Take a fine lady who is of 
 a delicate frame, and you may observe, from the 
 hour she rises, a certain weariness of all that passes 
 about her. I know more than one who is much too 
 nice to be quite alive. They are sick of such strange 
 frightful people they meet ; one is so awkward, and 
 another so disagreeable, that it looks like a penance 
 to breathe the same air with them. You see this is 
 so very true, that a great part of ceremony and good 
 breeding among the ladies turns upon their uneasi- 
 ness ; and I will undertake, if the how-do-ye-serv^ants 
 of our women were to make a weekly bill of sickness, 
 as the parish-clerks do of mortality, you would not 
 find in an account of seven days, one in thirty that 
 was not downright sick or indisposed, or but a very 
 little better than she was, and so forth. 
 
 It is certain, that to enjoy life and health as a con- 
 stant feast, wx should not think pleasure necessary ; 
 but, if possible, to arrive at an equahty of mind. It 
 is as mean to be overjoyed upon occasions of good 
 fortune, as to be dejected in circumstances of distress. 
 Laughter in one condition, is as unmanly as weeping 
 in another. We should not form our minds to expect 
 transport on every occasion, but know how to make 
 it enjoyment to be out of pain. Ambition, envy, 
 
112 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 143. 
 
 vagrant desire, or impertinent mirth, will take up our 
 minds, without we can possess ourselves in that 
 sobriety of heart which is above all pleasures, and 
 can be felt much better than described. But the 
 ready way, I believe, to the right enjoyment of life 
 is, by a prospect toward another, to have but a very 
 mean opinion of it. A great author of our time * 
 has set this in an excellent light, when, with a phil- 
 osophical pity of human life, he spoke of it in his 
 Theory of the Earth in the following manner : 
 
 "' For what is this life but a circulation of little 
 mean actions? We lie down and rise again, dress 
 and undress, feed and wax hungry, work or play, 
 and are weary, and then we lie down again, and the 
 circle returns. We spend the day in trifles, and when 
 the night comes we throw ourselves into the bed of 
 folly, among dreams, and broken thoughts, and wild 
 imaginations. Our reason lies asleep by us, and we 
 are for the time as arrant brutes as those that sleep 
 in the stalls or in the field. Are not the capacities 
 of man higher than these ? And ought not his am- 
 bition and expectations to be greater? Let us be 
 adventurers for another world. It is at least a fair 
 and noble chance ; and there is nothing in this worth 
 our thoughts or our passions. If we should be dis- 
 appointed, we are still no worse than the rest of our 
 fellow-mortals; and if we succeed in our expecta- 
 tions, we are eternally happy." — T. 
 
 * Dr. Thomas Burnet, master of the Charter-house. The- 
 oria Telluris, 4to., Amst., 1699, p. 241. 
 
No. 170.] THE SPECTATOR, 11, 
 
 No. 170.] Friday, September 14, 171 1. 
 
 In amore Lsec omnia insunt vitia : injuriae, 
 
 Suspiciones, inimicitiae, induciae, 
 
 Bellum, pax rursum Ter. Eun., act i, sc. i. 
 
 In love are all these ills: suspicions, quarrels, 
 
 Wrongs, reconcilements, war, and peace again. — Coleman. 
 
 Upon looking over the letters of my female corre- 
 spondents, I find several from women complaining of 
 jealous husbands, and at the same time protesting 
 their own innocence ; and desiring my advice on this 
 occasion. I shall therefore take this subject into my 
 consideration ; and the more willingly, because I find 
 that the Marquis of Halifax, who in his Advice to a 
 Daughter, has instructed a wife how to behave her- 
 self toward a false, an intemperate, a choleric, a sul- 
 len, a covetous or a silly husband, has not spoken 
 one word of a jealous husband. 
 
 '' Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from the 
 apprehension that he is not equally beloved by the 
 person whom he entirely loves." Now because our 
 inward passions and inclinations can never make 
 themselves visible, it is impossible for a jealous man 
 to be thoroughly cured of his suspicions. His 
 thoughts hang at best in a state of doubtfulness and 
 uncertainty ; and are never capable of receiving any 
 satisfaction on the advantageous side; so that his 
 inquiries are most successful when they discover noth- 
 ing. His pleasure arises from his disappointments, 
 and his life is spent in pursuit of a secret that destroys 
 his happiness if he chance to find it. 
 
 An ardent love is always a strong ingredient in his 
 passion ; for the same affection which stirs up the 
 jealous man's desires, and gives the party beloved 
 so beautiful a figure in his imagination, makes him 
 
114 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 170. 
 
 believe she kindles the same passion in others, and 
 appears as amiable to all beholders. And as jealousy 
 thus arises from an extraordinary love, it is of so deli- 
 cate a nature, that it scorns to take up with anything 
 less than an equal return of love. Not the warmest 
 expressions of affection, the softest and most tender 
 hypocrisy are able to give any satisfaction where we 
 are not persuaded that the affection is real, and the 
 satisfaction mutual. For the jealous man wishes him- 
 self a kind of deity to the person he loves. He 
 would be the only pleasure of her senses, the employ- 
 ment of her thoughts, and is angry at everything she 
 admires, or takes dehght in, beside himself. 
 
 Phaedra's request to his mistress, upon his leaving 
 her for three days, is inimitably beautiful and natiural : 
 
 Cum milite isto prsesens, absens ut sies : 
 Dies noctesque me ames : me desideres : 
 Me somnies : me expectes : de me cogites : 
 Me speres : me te oblectes : mecum tota sis : 
 Mens fac sis postremo animus, quando ego sum tuus. 
 
 Ter. Eun., act i, sc. 2. 
 
 Be with yon soldier present, as if absent. 
 
 All night and day love me : still long for me : 
 
 Dream, ponder still '' on " me : wish, hope for me, 
 
 Delight in me : be all in all with me : 
 
 Give your whole heart, for mine's all yours, to me. 
 
 Coleman. 
 
 The jealous man's disease is of so mahgnant a 
 nature, that it converts all it takes into its own nom'- 
 ishment. A cool behavior sets him on the rack, and 
 is interpreted as an instance of aversion or indiffer- 
 ence ; a fond one raises his suspicions, and looks too 
 much like dissimulation and artifice. If the person 
 he loves be cheerful, her thoughts must be employed 
 on another ; and if sad, she is certainly thinking on 
 
No. 170.] THE SPECTATOR, 115 
 
 himself. In short, there is no word or gesture so 
 insignificant, but it gives him new hints, feeds his 
 suspicions, and furnishes him with fresh matters of 
 discovery : so that if we consider the effects of his 
 passion, one would rather think it proceeded from an 
 inveterate hatred, than an excess of love ; for cer- 
 tainly none can meet with more disquietude and un- 
 easiness than a suspected wife, if we except the jealous 
 husband. 
 
 But the great unhappiness of this passion is, that it 
 naturally tends to alienate the affection which it is so 
 solicitous to engross ; and that for these two reasons, 
 because it lays too great a constraint on the words 
 and actions of the suspected person, and at the same 
 time shows you have no honorable opinion of her ; 
 both of which are strong motives to aversion. 
 
 Nor is this the worst effect of jealousy ; for it often 
 draws after it a more fatal train of consequences, and 
 makes the person you suspect guilty of the very 
 crimes you are so much afraid of. It is very natural 
 for such who are treated ill and upbraided falsely, to 
 find out an intimate friend that will hear their com- 
 plaints, condole their sufferings, and endeavor to 
 soothe and assuage their secret resentments. Beside, 
 jealousy puts a woman often in mind of an ill thing 
 that she would not otherwise perhaps have thought 
 of, and fills her imagination with such an unlucky 
 idea, as in time grows familiar, excites desire, and 
 loses all the shame and horror which might at first 
 attend it. Nor is it a wonder if she who suffers 
 wrongfully in a man's opinion of her, and has there- 
 fore nothing to forfeit in his esteem, resolves to g\w^ 
 him reason for his suspicions, and to enjoy the 
 pleasure of the crime, since she must undergo the 
 ignominy. Such probably were the considerations 
 that directed the wise man in his advice to husbands : 
 
ii6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 170. 
 
 '' Be not jealous over the wife of thy bosom, and teach 
 her not an evil lesson against thyself."* 
 
 And here among the other torments which this 
 passion produces, we may usually observe that none 
 are greater mourners than jealous men, when the per- 
 son who provokes their jealousy is taken from them. 
 Then it is that their love breaks out furiously, and 
 throws off all the mixtures of suspicion which choked 
 and smothered it before. The beautiful parts of the 
 character rise uppermost in the jealous husband's 
 memory, and upbraid him with the ill-usage of so 
 divine a creature as was once in his possession ; while 
 all the little imperfections, that were before so uneasy 
 to him, wear off from his remembrance, and show 
 themselves no more. - 
 
 We may see by what has been said, that jealousy 
 takes the deepest root in men of amorous disposi- 
 tions ; and of these we find three kinds who are most 
 overrun with it. 
 
 The first are those who are conscious to themselves 
 of any infirmity, whether it be weakness, old age, 
 deformity, ignorance, or the hke. These men are so 
 well acquainted with the unamiable part of them- 
 selves, that they have not the confidence to think 
 they are really beloved ; and are so distrustful of 
 their own merits, that all fondness towards them 
 puts them out of countenance, and looks like a jest 
 upon their persons. They grow suspicious on their 
 first looking in a glass, and are stung with jealousy at 
 the sight of a wrinkle. A handsome fellow^ immedi- 
 ately alarms them, and everything that looks young, 
 or gay, turns their thoughts upon their wives. 
 
 A second sort of men, who are most hable to this 
 passion, are those of cunning, wary, and distrustful 
 
 * Ecclesiasticus, ix, I. 
 
No. 170.] THE SPECTATOR. 117 
 
 tempers. It is a fault very justly found in histories 
 composed by politicians, that they leave nothing to 
 chance or humor, but are still for deriving every 
 action from some plot or contrivance, for drawing up 
 a perpetual scheme of causes and events, and preserv- 
 ing a constant correspondence between the camp and 
 the council-table. And thus it happens in the affairs 
 of love with men of too refined a thought. They put 
 a construction on a look, and find out a design in a 
 smile ; they give new senses and significations to 
 words and actions ; and are ever tormenting them- 
 selves with fancies of their own raising. They gen- 
 erally act in a disguise themselves, and therefore 
 mistake all outward shows and appearances for 
 hypocrisy in others; so that I believe no men see 
 less of the truth and reality of things, than these 
 great refiners upon incidents, who are so wonderfully 
 subtile and over-wise in their conceptions. 
 
 Now what these men fancy they know of women 
 by reflection, your lewd and vicious men believe they 
 have learned by experience. They have seen the 
 poor husband so misled by tricks and artifices, and 
 in the midst of his inquiries so lost and bewildered in 
 a crooked intrigue, that they still suspect an underplot 
 in every female action ; and especially where they 
 see any resemblance in the behavior of two persons, 
 are apt to fancy it proceeds from the same design in 
 both. These men therefore bear hard upon the sus- 
 pected party, piursue her close through all her turn- 
 ings and windings, and are too well acquainted with 
 the chase, to be flung off by any false steps, or 
 doubles. Beside, their acquaintance and conversa- 
 tion has lain wholly among the vicious part of 
 womankind, and therefore it is no wonder they cen- 
 sure all alike, and look upon the whole sex as a 
 species of impostors. But if, notwithstanding their pri- 
 
Ii8 THE SPECTATOR ^^^ ^^^^ 
 
 vate experience, they can get over tne^^ preiudices, 
 and entertain a favorable opinion of some wurnen ; 
 yet their own loose desires will stir up new suspicion^ 
 from another side, and make them believe all men 
 subject to the same inchnations with themselves. 
 
 Whether these or other motives are most pre- 
 dominant, we learn from the modern histories of 
 America, as well as from our own experience in this 
 part of the world, that jealousy is no northern pas- 
 sion, but rages most in those nations that lie nearest 
 the influence of the sun. It is a misfortune for a wo- 
 man to be born between the tropics ; for there he the 
 hottest regions of jealousy, which as you come north- 
 ward cools all along with the climate, till you scarce 
 meet with anything like it in the polar circle. Our 
 own nation is very temperately situated in this re- 
 spect ; and if we meet with some few disordered with 
 the violence of this passion, they are not the proper 
 growth of our country, but are many degrees nearer 
 the sun in their constitutions than in their climate. 
 
 After this frightful account of jealousy, and the 
 persons who are most subject to it, it will be but fair 
 to show by what means the passion may be best 
 allayed, and those who are possessed with it set at 
 ease. Other faults indeed are not under the wife's 
 jurisdiction, and should, if possible, escape her obser- 
 vation ; but jealousy calls upon her particularly for 
 its cure, and deserves all her art and application in 
 the attempt. Beside she has this for her encourage- 
 ment, that her endeavors will be always pleasing, and 
 that she will still find the affection of her husband 
 rising toward her in proportion as his doubts and 
 suspicions vanish ; for, as wx have seen all along, 
 there is so great a mixture of love and jealousy as is 
 well worth the separating. But this shall oe the sub- 
 ject of another paper. — L. 
 
No. 171.] THE SPECTATOR, 119 
 
 No. 171.] Saturday, September 15, 171 i. 
 
 Credula res amor est 
 
 Ovid. Met., vii, 826. 
 
 Love is a credulous passion. 
 
 Having in my yesterday's paper discovered the 
 nature of jealousy, and pointed out the persons who 
 are most subject to it, I must here apply myself to my 
 fair correspondents, who desire to live well with a 
 jealous husband, and to ease his mind of its unjust 
 suspicions. 
 
 The first rule I shall propose to be observed is, 
 that you never seem to dislike in another what the 
 jealous man is himself guilty of, or to admire any- 
 thing in which he himself does not excel. A jealous 
 man is very quick in his applications ; he knows how 
 to find a double edge in an invective, and to draw a 
 satire on himself out of a panegyric on another. He 
 does not trouble himself to consider the person, but 
 to direct the character; and is secretly pleased or 
 confounded, as he finds more or less of himself in it. 
 The commendation of anything in another stirs up his 
 jealousy, as it shows you have a value for others be- 
 side himself ; but the commendation of that, which 
 he himself wants, inflames him more, as it shows that 
 in some respects you prefer others before him. Jeal- 
 ousy is admirably described in this view by Horace in 
 his ode to Lydia : 
 
 Quum tu, Lydia, Telephi 
 
 Cervicem roseam, et cerea Telephi 
 
 Laudas brachia, vae meum 
 
 Fervens difficili bile tumet jecur : 
 
 Tunc nee mens mihi, nee color 
 
 Certa sede manet ; humor et in genas 
 
 Furtim labitur, arguens 
 
 Quam lentis penitus macerer ignibus. 
 
 I Od., xiii, I. 
 
I20 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 171. 
 
 When Telephus his youthful charms, 
 His rosy neck and winding arms, 
 With endless rapture you recite, 
 And in the pleasing name delight ; 
 My heart inflamed by jealous heats. 
 With numberless resentments beats : 
 From my pale cheek the color flies. 
 And all the man within me dies : 
 By turns my hidden grief apperTS 
 In rising sighs and falling tears, 
 That show too well the warm desires, 
 The silent, slow, consuming fires. 
 Which on my inmost vitals prey, 
 And melt my very soul away. 
 
 The jealous man is not indeed angry if you dislike 
 another ; but if you find those faults which are to be 
 found in his own character, you discover not only 
 your dislike of another but of himself. In short, he 
 is so desirous of engrossing all your love, that he is 
 grieved at the want of any charm, which he believes 
 has power to raise it ; and if he finds by your cen- 
 sures on others that he is not so agreeable in your 
 opinion as he might be, he naturally concludes you 
 could love him better if he had other qualifications, 
 and that by consequence your affection does not rise 
 so high as he thinks it ought. If therefore his tem- 
 per be grave or sullen, you must not be too much 
 pleased with a jest, or transported with anything that 
 is gay and diverting. If his beauty be none of the 
 best, you must be a professed admirer of prudence, 
 or any other quahty he is master of, or at least vain 
 enough to think he is. 
 
 In the next place, you must be sure to be free and 
 open in your conversation with him, and to let in 
 hght upon your actions, to unravel all your designs, 
 and discover every secret, however trifling or indif- 
 ferent. A jealous husband has a particular aversion 
 to winks and whispers ; and if he does not see to the 
 
No. 171.] THE SPECTATOR. 121 
 
 bottom of everything, will be sure to go beyond it in 
 his fears and suspicions. He will always expect to 
 be your chief confidant ; and where he finds himself 
 kept out of a secret, will beheve there is more in it 
 than there should be. And here it is of great con- 
 cern, that you preserve the character of your sincerity 
 uniform and of a piece ; for if he once finds a false 
 gloss put upon any single action, he quickly suspects 
 all the rest ; his working imagination immediately takes 
 a false hint, and runs off with it into several remote 
 consequences, till he has proved very ingenious in 
 working out his own misery. 
 
 If both these methods fail, the best way will be to 
 let him see you are much cast down and afflicted 
 for the ill opinion he entertains of you, and the dis- 
 quietudes he himself suffers for your sake. There are 
 many who take a kind of barbarous pleasure in the 
 jealousy of those who love them, that insult over an 
 aching heart, and triumph in their charms, which are 
 able to excite so much uneasiness : 
 
 Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentis gaudot amantis. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 208. 
 
 Though equal pains her peace of mind destroy, 
 A lover's torments give her spiteful joy. 
 
 But these often cany the humor so far, till their af- 
 fected coldness and indifference quite kills all the 
 fondness of a lover, and are then sure to meet in their 
 turn with all the contempt and scorn that is due to so 
 insolent a behavior. On the contrary, it is very 
 probable a melancholy, dejected carriage, the usual 
 effects of injured innocence, may soften the jealous 
 husband into pity, make him sensible of the wrong 
 he does you, and work out of his mind all those fears 
 and suspicions that make you both unhappy. At 
 least it will have this good effect, that he will keep 
 
122 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 171. 
 
 his jealousy to himself, and repine in private, either 
 because he is sensible it is a weakness, and will there- 
 fore hide it from your knowledge, or because he will 
 be apt to fear some ill effect it may produce in cool- 
 ing your love toward him, or diverting it to another. 
 
 There is still another secret that can never fail, if 
 you can once get it beheved, and which is often 
 practiced by women of greater cunning than virtue. 
 This is to change sides for a while with the jealous 
 man, and to turn his own passion upon himself ; to 
 take some occasion of growing jealous of him, and 
 to follow the example he himself hath set you. This 
 counterfeited jealousy will bring him a great deal of 
 pleasure, if he thinks it real ; for he knows experi- 
 mentally how much love goes along with this passion, 
 and will beside feel something like the satisfaction 
 of a revenge, in seeing you undergo all his own tort- 
 ures. But this, indeed, is an artifice so difficult, and 
 at the same time so disingenuous, that it ought never 
 to be put in practice but by such as have skill enough 
 to cover the deceit, and innocence to render it ex- 
 cusable. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with the story of Herod 
 and Mariamne, as I have collected it out of Josephus ;* 
 which may serve almost as an example to whatever 
 can be said on this subject. 
 
 Mariamne had all the charms that beauty, birth, 
 wit, and youth, could give a woman, and Herod all 
 the love that such charms are able to raise in a warm 
 and amorous disposition. In the midst of this his 
 fondness for Mariamne, he put her brother to death, 
 as he did her father not many years after. The bar- 
 barity of the action was represented to Mark Antony, 
 
 * Antiquities of the Jews, book xv, chap. 3, sect. 5, 6, 9, 
 chap. 7, sect. I, 2, etc. 
 
No. 171.] THE SPECTATOR. 123 
 
 who immediately summoned Herod into Egypt, to 
 answer for the crime that was there laid to his charge. 
 Herod attributed the summons to Antony's desire of 
 Mariamne, whom, therefore, before his departure, he 
 gave into the custody of his uncle Joseph, with pri- 
 vate orders to put her to death, if any such violence 
 was offered to himself. This Joseph was much de- 
 lighted with Mariamne's conversation, and endeav- 
 ored, with all his art and rhetoric, to set out the 
 excess of Herod's passion for her ; but when he still 
 found her cold and incredulous, he inconsiderately 
 told her, as a certain instance of her lord's affection, 
 the private orders he had left behind him, which 
 plainly showed, according to Joseph's interpretation, 
 that he could neither live nor die without her. This 
 barbarous instance of a wild unreasonable passion, 
 quite put out, for a time, those little remains of af- 
 fection she still had for her lord. Her thoughts were 
 so wholly taken up with the cruelty of his orders, that 
 she could not consider the kindness that produced 
 them, and therefore represented him in her imagina- 
 tion, rather under the frightful idea of a murderer 
 than a lover. 
 
 Herod was at length acquitted and dismissed by 
 Mark Antory, when his soul was all in flames for his 
 Mariamne ; but before their meeting he was not a 
 little alarmed at the report he had heard of his uncle's 
 conversation and familiarity with her in his absence. 
 This therefore was the first discourse he entertained 
 her with, in which she found it no easy matter to 
 quiet his suspicions. But at last he appeared so well 
 satisfied of her innocence, that from reproaches and 
 wranghngs he fell to tears and embraces. Both of 
 them wept very tenderly at their reconcihation, and 
 Herod poured out his whole soul to her in the warm- 
 est protestations of love and constancy ; when amidst 
 
124 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 171. 
 
 all his sighs and languishings she asked him, whether 
 the private orders he left with his uncle Joseph were 
 an instance of such an inflamed affection. The jeal- 
 ous king was immediately roused at so unexpected, a 
 question, and concluded his uncle must have been 
 too famihar with her, before he would have discov- 
 ered such a secret. In short, he put his uncle to 
 death, and very difficultly prevailed upon himself to 
 spare Mariamne. 
 
 After this he was forced on a second journey into 
 Egypt, when he committed his lady to the care of 
 Sohemus, with the same private orders he had before 
 given his uncle, if any mischief befell himself. In the 
 meanwhile Mariamne so won upon Sohemus by her 
 presents and obliging conversation, that she drew all 
 the secret from him, with which Herod had intrusted 
 him ; so that after his return, when he flew to her 
 with all the transports of joy and love, she received 
 him coldly with sighs and tears, and all the marks of 
 indifference and aversion. This reception so stirred 
 up his indignation, that he had certainly slain her 
 with his own hands, had not he feared he himself 
 should have become the greater sufferer by it. It 
 was not long after this, when he had another violent 
 return of love upon him : Mariamne was therefore 
 sent for to him, whom he endeavored to soften and 
 reconcile with all possible conjugal caresses and en- 
 dearments ; but she declined his embraces, and an- 
 swered all his fondness with bitter invectives for the 
 death of her father, and her brother. This behavior 
 so incensed Herod, that he very hardly refrained 
 from striking her ; when in the heat of their quarrel 
 there came in a witness, suborned by some of Mari- 
 amne's enemies, who accused her to the king of a de- 
 sign to poison him. Herod was now prepared to 
 hear anything in her prejudice, and immediately or- 
 
No. 172.] THE SPECTATOR. 125 
 
 dered her servant to be stretched upon the rack ; 
 who in the extremity of his torture confessed, that 
 his mistress's aversion to the king arose from some- 
 thing Sohemus had told her ; but as for any design 
 of poisoning, he utterly disowned the least knowledge 
 of it. This confession quickly proved fatal to Sohe- 
 mus, who now lay under the same suspicions and 
 sentence that Joseph had before him, on the like oc- 
 casion. Nor would Herod rest here ; but accused 
 her with great vehemence of a design upon his life, 
 and, by his authority with the judges, had her pub- 
 licly condemned and executed. Herod soon after 
 her death grew melancholy and dejected, retiring 
 from the public administration of affairs into a soli- 
 tary forest, and there abandoning himself to all the 
 black considerations, which naturally arise from a 
 passion made up of love, remorse, pity, and despair. 
 He used to rave for his Mariamne, and to call upon 
 her in his distracted fits : and in all probability would 
 soon have followed her, had not his thoughts been 
 seasonably called off from so sad an object by public 
 storms, which at that time very nearly threatened 
 him. — L. 
 
 No. 172.] Monday, September 17, 1711. 
 
 Non solum scientia, quse est remota a justitia, calliditas potius quam 
 sapientia est appellanda; verum etiam animus paratus ad periculum, si 
 sua cupiditate, non utilitate communi. impellitur, audacise potius nomen 
 habeat, quam fortitudinis Plato apud Tull. 
 
 As knowledge, without justice, ought to be called cunning, rather 
 than wisdom ; so a mind prepared to meet danger, if excited by its own 
 eagerness, and not the public good, deserves the name of audacity, 
 rather than that of fortitude. 
 
 There can be no greater injury to human society 
 than that good talents among the men should be held 
 honorable to those who are endowed with them with- 
 
126 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 172. 
 
 out any regard how they are applied. The gifts of 
 nature and accomplishments of art are valuable but 
 as they are exerted in the interest of virtue, or gov- 
 erned by the rules of honor. We ought to abstract 
 our minds from the observation of an excellence in 
 those we converse with, till we have taken some no- 
 tice, or received some good information of the dispo- 
 sition of their minds : otherwise the beauty of their 
 persons, or the charms of their wit, may make us fond 
 of those whom our reason and judgment will tell us 
 we ought to abhor. 
 
 When we suffer ourselves to be thus carried away 
 by mere beauty or mere wit, Omniamante, with all 
 her vice, will bear away as much of our good will as 
 the most innocent virgin, or discreetest matron ; and 
 there cannot be a more abject slavery in this world, 
 than to dote upon what we think we ought to con- 
 demn. Yet this must be our condition in all the 
 parts of life, if we suffer ourselves to approve anything 
 but what tends to the promotion of what is good and 
 honorable. If we would take true pains with our- 
 selves to consider all things by the light of reason and 
 justice, though a man were in the height of youth and 
 amorous inclinations, he would look upon a coquette 
 with the same contempt, or indifference, as he would 
 upon a coxcomb. The wanton carriage in a woman 
 would disappoint her of the admiration she aims at ; 
 and the vain dress or discourse of a man would de- 
 stroy the comeHness of his shape, or goodness of his 
 understanding. I say the goodness of his understand- 
 ing ; for it is no less common to see men of sense 
 commence coxcombs, than beautiful women become 
 immodest. When this happens in either, the favor 
 we are naturally inclined to give to the good qualities 
 they have from nature should abate in proportion. 
 But however just it is to measure the value of men by 
 
No. 172.] THE SPECTATOR. 127 
 
 the application of their talents, and not by the emi- 
 nence of those qualities abstracted from their use : I 
 say, however just such a way of judging is, in all 
 ages as well as this, the contrary has prevailed upon 
 the generality of mankind. How many lewd devices 
 have been preserved from one age to another, which 
 had perished as soon as they were made, if painters 
 and sculptors had been esteemed as much for the 
 purpose as the execution of their designs? Modest 
 and well-governed imaginations have by this means 
 lost the representation of ten thousand charming por- 
 traitures, filled with images of innate truth, generous 
 zeal, courageous faith, and tender humanity ; instead 
 of which satyrs, furies, and monsters are recommended 
 by those arts to a shameful eternity. 
 
 The unjust application of laudable talents is toler- 
 ated in the general opinion of men, not only in such 
 cases as are here mentioned, but also in matters which 
 concern ordinary life. If a lawyer were to be es- 
 teemed only as he uses his parts in contending for 
 justice, and were immediately despicable when he ap- 
 peared in a cause which he could not but know was 
 an unjust one, how honorable would his character 
 be? And how honorable is it in such among us, 
 who follow the profession no otherwise, than as la- 
 boring to protect the injured, to subdue the oppressor, 
 to imprison the careless debtor, and do right to the 
 painful artificer? But many of this excellent charac- 
 ter are overlooked by the greater number ; who affect 
 covering a weak place in a client's title, diverting the 
 course of an inquiry, or finding a skillful refuge to pal- 
 liate a falsehood : yet it is still called eloquence in 
 the latter, though thus unjustly employed : but reso- 
 lution in an assassin is according to reason quite as 
 laudable, as knowledge and wisdom exercised in the 
 defense of an ill cause. 
 
128 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 172. 
 
 Were the intention steadfastly considered as the 
 measure of approbation, all falsehood would soon be 
 out of countenance ; and an address in imposing upon 
 mankind, would be as contemptible in one state of 
 life as another. A couple of coiu-tiers making pro- 
 fessions of esteem, would make the same figure after 
 a breach of promise, as two knights of the post con- 
 victed of perjur\\ But conversation is fallen so low 
 in point of morality, that — as they say in a bargain, 
 " let the buyer look to it " — so in friendship, he is the 
 man in danger who is most apt to believe. He is the 
 more likely to suifer in the commerce, who begins 
 with the obligation of being the more ready to enter 
 into it. 
 
 But those men only are truly great, who place 
 their ambition rather in acquiring to themselves the 
 conscience of worthy enterprises, than in the prospect 
 of glory which attends them. These exalted spirits 
 would rather be secretly the authors of events which 
 are serv'iceable to mankind, than, without being such, 
 to have the public fame of it. Where therefore an em- 
 inent merit is robbed by artifice or detraction, it does 
 but increase by such endeavors of its enemies. The 
 impotent pains which are taken to sully it, or diffuse 
 it among a crowd to the injur\^ of a single person, 
 will naturally produce the contrary effect ; the fire 
 will blaze out, and bum up all that attempt to smother 
 what they cannot extinguish. 
 
 There is but one thing necessary to keep the pos- 
 session of true glory, which is, to hear the opposers 
 of it ^vath patience, and preser\'e the virtue by which 
 it was acquired. When a man is thoroughly per- 
 suaded that he ought neither to admire, wish for, or 
 pursue anything but what is exactly his duty, it is not 
 in the power of seasons, persons, or accidents, to di- 
 minish his value. He only is a great man who can 
 
No. 177.] THE SPECTATOR, 129 
 
 neglect the applause of the multitude, and enjoy him- 
 self independent of its favor. This is indeed an ar- 
 duous task ; but it should comfort a glorious spirit, 
 that it is the highest step to which human nature can 
 arrive. Triumph, applause, acclamation, are dear to 
 the mind of man ; but it is still a more exquisite de- 
 light to say to yourself, ycu have done well, than to 
 hear the whole human race pronounce you glorious, 
 except you yourself can join with them in your own re- 
 flections. A mind thus equal and uniform may be 
 deserted by little fashionable admirers and followers, 
 but will ever be had in reverence by souls like itself. 
 The branches of the oak endure all the seasons of 
 the year, though its leaves fall off in autumn ; and 
 these too will be restored with the returning spring. 
 — L. 
 
 No. 177.] Saturday, September 22, 171 1. 
 
 Quis enim bonus, aut face dignus 
 
 Arcana, qualem Cereris vult esse sacerdos, 
 
 Ulla aliena sibi credat mala? Juv., Sat. xv, 140. 
 
 Who can all sense of others' ills escape, 
 
 Is but a brute, at best, in human shape. — Tate. 
 
 In one of my last week's papers I treated of good- 
 nature, as it is the effect of constitution ; I shall now 
 speak of it as a moral virtue. The first may make a 
 man easy in himself and agreeable to others, but im- 
 plies no merit in him that is possessed of it. A man 
 is no more to be praised upon this account, than be- 
 cause he has a regular pulse, or a good digestion. 
 This good-nature, however, in the constitution, which 
 Mr. Dryden somewhere calls a '' milkiness of blood," 
 is an admirable groundwork for the other. In order, 
 therefore, to try our good-nature, whether it arises 
 from the body or the mind, whether it be founded" in 
 
I30 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 177. 
 
 the animal or rational part of our nature : in a word, 
 whether it be such as is entitled to any other reward, 
 beside that secret satisfaction and cc^ntentment of 
 mind which is essential to it, a^nd the kind recep- 
 tion it procures us in the world, we must examine it 
 by the following rules : 
 
 First ; w^hether it acts with steadiness and uni- 
 formity in sickness and in health, in prosperity and 
 in adversity ; if otherwise, it is to be looked upon as 
 nothing else but an irradiation of the mind from some 
 new supply of spirits, or a more kindly circulation of 
 the blood. Sir Francis Bacon mentions a cunning 
 sohcitor, who would never ask a favor of a great man 
 before dinner ; but took care to prefer his petition at 
 a time when the party petitioned had his mind free 
 from care, and his appetites in good humor. Such a 
 transient, temporary good-nature as this, is not that 
 philanthropy, that love of mankind, which deserves 
 the title of a moral virtue. 
 
 The next way of a man^s bringing his good-nature 
 to the test, is to consider whether it operates accord- 
 ing to the rules of reason and duty : for if, notwith- 
 standing its general benevolence to mankind, it makes 
 no distinction between its objects, if it exerts itself 
 promiscuously toward the deserving and the unde- 
 serving, if it relieves alike the idle and the indigent, 
 if it gives itself up to the first petitioner and Hghts 
 upon any one rather by accident than choice, it 
 may pass for an amiable instinct, but must not as- 
 sume the name of a moral virtue. 
 
 The third trial of good-nature will be the examin- 
 ing ourselves, whether or no we are able to exert it 
 to our own disadvantage, and employ it on proper 
 objects, notwithstanding any little pain, want, or in- 
 convenience which may arise to ourselves from it. 
 In a word, whether we are willing to risk any part of 
 
No. 177.] THE SPECTATOR, 131 
 
 our fortune, our reputation, or health, or ease, for the 
 benefit of mankind. Among all these expressions of 
 good-nature I shall single out that which goes under 
 the general name of charity, as it consists in relieving 
 the indigent ; that being a trial of this kind which 
 offers itself to us almost at all times, and in every- 
 place. 
 
 I should propose it as a rule, to every one who is 
 provided with any competency of fortune more than 
 sufficient for the necessaries of life, to lay aside a cer- 
 tain portion of his income for the use of the poor. 
 This I would look upon as an offering to Him who 
 has a right to the whole, for the use of those whom, 
 in the passage hereafter mentioned, he has described 
 as his own representatives upon earth. At the same 
 time we should manage our charity with such pru- 
 dence and caution, that we may not hurt our own 
 friends or relations, while we are doing good to those 
 who are strangers to us. 
 
 This may possibly be explained better by an ex- 
 ample than by a rule. 
 
 Eugenius is a man of a universal good-nature ; and 
 generous beyond the extent of his fortune ; but withal 
 so prudent in the economy of his affairs, that what 
 goes out in charity is made up by good management. 
 Eugenius has what the world calls ;^2oo a year ; but 
 never values himself above nine score, as not thinking 
 he has a right to the tenth part, which he always ap- 
 propriates to charitable uses. To this sum he fre- 
 quently makes other voluntary additions, insomuch 
 that in a good year, for such he accounts those in 
 which he has been able to make greater bounties than 
 ordinary, he has given above twice that sum to the 
 sickly and indigent. Eugenius prescribes to himself 
 many particular days of fasting and abstinence, in or- 
 der to increase his private bank of charity, and sets 
 
132 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 177. 
 
 aside what would be the current expenses of those 
 times for the use of the poor. He often goes afoot 
 where his business calls him, and at the end of his 
 walk has given a shiUing, which in his ordinary- 
 methods of expense would have gone for coach-hire, 
 to the first necessitous person that has fallen in his 
 way. I have known him, when he has been going to 
 a play or an opera, divert the money, which was de- 
 signed for that purpose, upon an object of charity 
 whom he has met with in the street ; and afterward 
 pass his evening in a coffee-house, or at a friend's fire- 
 side, with much greater satisfaction to himself, than 
 he could have received from the most exquisite enter- 
 tainments of the theater. By these means he is gen- 
 erous without impoverishing himself, and enjoys his 
 estate by making it the property of others. 
 
 There are few^ men so cramped in their private af- 
 fairs, w^ho may not be charitable after this manner, 
 without any disadvantage to themselves, or prejudice 
 to their families. It is but sometimes sacrificing a di- 
 version or convenience to the poor, and turning the 
 usual course of our expenses into a better channel. 
 This is, I think, not only the most prudent and con- 
 venient, but the most meritorious piece of charity, 
 which we can put in practice. By this method, we 
 in some measure share the necessities of the poor at 
 the same time that we relieve them, and make our- 
 selves not only their patrons, but their fellow-sufferers. 
 
 Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his Religio 
 Medici, in which he describes his charity in several 
 heroic instances, and with a noble heat of sentiment, 
 mentions that verse in the Proverbs of Solomon, '' He 
 that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord:"* 
 There is more rhetoric in that one sentence, says he, 
 
 * Prov., xix, 17. 
 
No. 177.] THE SPECTATOR. 133 
 
 than in a library of sermons ; and, indeed, if those 
 sentences were understood by the reader, with the 
 same emphasis as they are dehvered by the author, 
 we needed not those volumes of instructions, but 
 might be honest by an epitome.* 
 
 This passage of Scripture is, indeed, wonderfully 
 persuasive ; but I think the same thought is carried 
 much farther in the New Testament, where our Sav- 
 ior tells us, in a most pathetic manner, that he shall 
 hereafter regard the clothing of the naked, the feed- 
 ing of the hungry, and the visiting of the imprisoned, 
 as offices done to himself, and reward them accord- 
 ingly, t Pm-suant to those passages in Holy Scripture, 
 I have somewhere met with the epitaph of a charita- 
 ble man, which has very much pleased me. I can- 
 not recollect the words, but the sense of it is to this 
 purpose : What I spent I lost ; what I possessed is 
 left to others ; what I gave away remains with me. J 
 
 Since I am thus insensibly engaged in sacred writ, 
 I cannot forbear making an extract of several pas- 
 sages which I have always read with great delight in 
 the Book of Job. It is the account which that holy 
 man gives of his behavior in the days of his pros- 
 perity^ and if considered only as a human composi- 
 tion, is a finer picture of a charitable and good-nat- 
 ured man than is to be met with in any other author. 
 
 * Brown's Rel. Medici, part II, sect. 13, f., 1659, p. 29. 
 t Matt., XXV, 31, et seq. 
 
 X The epitaph alluded to is (or was) in St. George's Church 
 at Doncaster in Yorkshire, and runs in old English thus : — 
 How now, who is heare? That I spent, that I had; 
 
 I, Robin of Doncastere, That I gave, that I have ; 
 
 And Margaret my feare That I left, that I lost. 
 
 A. D., 1579. 
 Quoth Robertus Byrks, who in this world did reign three- 
 score years and seven, and yet lived not one. 
 
134 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 177. 
 
 '' Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days 
 when God preserved me : when Piis candle shined 
 upon my head, and when by his Hght I walked 
 through darkness ; when the Almighty was yet with 
 me ; when my children were about me ; when I 
 washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured me 
 out rivers of oil. 
 
 '' When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and 
 when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me. Be- 
 cause I dehvered the poor that cried, and the father- 
 less, and him that had none to help him. The bless- 
 ing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, 
 and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. I 
 was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame ; I 
 was a father to the poor, and the cause which I knew 
 not I searched out. Did not I weep for him that 
 was in trouble? was not my soul grieved for the 
 poor? Let me be weighed in an even balance, that 
 God may know mine integrity. If I did despise the 
 cause of my man-servant or my maid-servant when 
 they contended with me ; what then shall I do when 
 God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall I 
 answer him? Did not he that made me in the womb, 
 make him ? and did not one fashion us in the womb ? 
 If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or 
 have caused the eyes of the widow to fail : Or have 
 eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath 
 not eaten thereof: If I have seen any perish for 
 want of clothing, or any poor without covering ; If 
 his loins have not blessed me, and if he were not 
 warmed with the fleece of my sheep ; If I have lifted 
 up my hand against the fatherless, when I saw my 
 help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from my 
 shoulder-blade, and mine arm be broken from the 
 bone. If I have rejoiced at the destruction of him 
 that hated me, or hfted up myself when evil found 
 
No. i88.] THE SPECTATOR, 135 
 
 him : (neither have I suffered my mouth to sin, by 
 wishing a curse to his soul). The stranger did not 
 lodge in the street ; but I opened my doors to the trav- 
 eler. If my land cry against me, or that the furrows 
 likewise therefore complain : If I have eaten the fruits 
 thereof without money, or have caused the owners 
 thereof to lose their life ; let thistles grow instead of 
 wheat, and cockle instead of barley." * L. 
 
 No. 188.] Friday, October 5, 171 1. 
 
 Lsetus sum laudari a te laudato viro. — Tull. 
 It gives me pleasure to be praised by you, whom all men praise. 
 
 He is a very unhappy man who sets his heart upon 
 being admired by the multitude, or affects a general 
 and undistinguishing applause among men. What 
 pious men call the testimony of a good conscience, 
 should be the measure of our ambition in this kind ; 
 that is to say, a man of spirit should contemn the 
 praise of the ignorant, and like being applauded for 
 nothing but what he knows in his own heart he de- 
 serves. Beside which, the character of the person 
 who commends you is to be considered, before you 
 set a value upon his esteem. The praise of an igno- 
 rant man is only good-will, and you should receive 
 his kindness as he is a good neighbor in society, and 
 not as a good judge of your actions in point of fame 
 and reputation. The satirist said very well of popular 
 praise and acclamations, ''Give the tinkers and cobblers 
 their presents again, and learn to live of yourself." t 
 
 * Job, xxix, 2, etc. ; xxx, 25, etc. ; xxxi, 6, etc., passim. 
 
 t Tollat sua munera cerdo : 
 
 Tecum habita. Pers., Sat. iv, 51. 
 
136 THE SPECTATOR. [No. i88. 
 
 It is an argument of a loose and ungoverned mind 
 to be affected with the promiscuous approbation 
 of the generality of mankind ; and a man of virtue 
 should be too delicate for so coarse an appetite of 
 fame. Men of honor should endeavor only to please 
 the worthy, and the man of merit should desire to be 
 tried only by his peers. I thought it a noble senti- 
 ment which I heard yesterday uttered in conversation : 
 ''I know," said a gentleman, *'a way to be greater 
 than any man. If he has worth in him, I can rejoice 
 in his superiority to me ; and that satisfaction is a 
 greater act of the soul in me, than any in him which 
 can possibly appear to me." This thought could pro- 
 ceed but from a candid and generous spirit ; and the 
 approbation of such minds is what may be esteemed 
 true praise : for with the common race of men there 
 is nothing commendable but what they themselves 
 may hope to be partakers of, and arrive at ; but the 
 motive truly glorious is, when the mind is set rather 
 to do things laudable, than to purchase reputation. 
 Where there is that sincerity as the foundation of a 
 good name, the kind opinion of virtuous men will be 
 an unsought, but a necessary consequence. The Lace- 
 daemonians, though a plain people, and no pretenders 
 to politeness, had a certain delicacy in their sense of 
 glory, and sacrificed to the Muses when they entered 
 upon any great enterprise. They would have the 
 commemoration of their actions transmitted by the 
 purest and most untainted memorialists. The din 
 which attends victories and public triumphs, is by 
 far less eligible than the recital of the actions of great 
 men by honest and wise historians. It is a frivolous 
 pleasure to be the admiration of gaping crowds ; but 
 to have the approbation of a good man in the cool 
 reflections of his closet, is a gratification worthy a 
 heroic spirit. The applause of the crowd makes the 
 
No. i88.] THE SPECTATOR. 137 
 
 head giddy, but the attestation of a reasonable man 
 makes the heart glad. 
 
 What makes the love of popular or general praise 
 still more ridiculous, is that it is usually given for cir- 
 cumstances which are foreign to the persons admired. 
 Thus they are the ordinary attendants on power and 
 riches, which may be taken out of one man's hands, 
 and put into another's. The application only, and 
 not the possession, makes those outward things honor- 
 able. The vulgar and men of sense agree in admir- 
 ing men for having what they themselves would rather 
 be possessed of ; the wise man applauds him whom 
 he thinks most virtuous, the rest of the world, him 
 who is most wealthy. 
 
 When a man is in this way of thinking, I do not 
 know what can occur to one more monstrous, than 
 to see persons of ingenuity address their services and 
 performances to men no way addicted to liberal arts. 
 In these cases, the praise on one hand, and the pat- 
 ronage on the other, are equally the objects of ridi- 
 cule. Dedications to ignorant men are as absurd as 
 any of the speeches of Bullfinch in the Droll. Such 
 an address one is apt to translate into other words ; 
 and when the different parties are thoroughly consid- 
 ered, the panegyric generally implies no more than if 
 the author should say to the patron ; '' My very good 
 lord, you and I can never understand one another ; 
 therefore I humbly desire we may be intimate friends 
 for the future." 
 
 The rich may as well ask to borrow of the poor, 
 as the man of virtue and merit hope for addition to 
 his character from any but such as himself. He that 
 commends another engages so much of his own repu- 
 tation as he gives to that person commended ; and 
 he that has nothing laudable in himself is not of 
 abihty to be such a surety. The wise Phocion was 
 
138 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 195. 
 
 SO sensible how dangerous it was to be touched with 
 what the multitude approved, that upon a general 
 acclamation made when he was making an oration, he 
 turned to an intelligent friend who stood near him, and 
 asked in a surprised manner, ''What slip have I made?'* 
 I shall conclude this paper with a billet which has 
 fallen into my hands, and w^as written to a lady from a 
 gentleman whom she had highly commended. The 
 author of it had formerly been her lover. When all 
 possibility of commerce between them on the sub- 
 ject of love was cut off, she spoke so handsomely of 
 him, as to give occasion to this letter. 
 
 *' Madam, 
 
 '' I should be insensible, to a stupidity, if I could 
 forbear making my acknowledgments for your late 
 mention of me with so much applause. It is, I think, 
 your fate to give me new sentiments : as you for- 
 merly inspired me with the true sense of love, so do 
 you now with the true sense of glory. As desire had 
 the least part in the passion I heretofore professed 
 toward you, so has vanity no share in the glory to 
 which you have now raised me. Innocence, knowl- 
 edge, beauty, virtue, sincerity, and discretion, are the 
 constant ornaments of her who has said this of me. 
 Fame is a babbler, but I have arrived at the highest 
 glory in this world, the commendation of the most 
 deserving person in it." — T. 
 
 No. 195.] Saturday, October 13, 171 1. 
 
 Fools not to know that half exceeds the whole. 
 How blest the sparing meal and temperate bowl ! 
 
 There is a story in the Arabian Nights Tales of 
 a king who had long languished under an ill habit of 
 
No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR. 139 
 
 body, and had taken abundance of remedies to no 
 purpose. At length, says the fable, a physician cured 
 him by the following method ; he took a hollow ball 
 of wood, and filled it with several drugs ; after which 
 he closed it up so artificially that nothing appeared. 
 He hkewise took a mall, and after having hollowed 
 the handle, and that part w^hich strikes the ball, he 
 inclosed in them several drugs after the same man- 
 ner as in the ball itself. He then ordered the Sultan, 
 who was his patient, to exercise himself early in the 
 morning with these rightly prepared instruments, till 
 such time as he should sweat ; when, as the story goes, 
 the virtue of the medicaments perspiring through the 
 wood had so good an influence on the Sultan's con- 
 stitution, that they cured him of an indisposition 
 which all the compositions he had taken inwardly had 
 not been able to remove. This eastern allegory is 
 finely contrived to show us how beneficial bodily la- 
 bor is to health, and that exercise is the most effectual 
 physic. I have described in my hundred and fif- 
 teenth paper, from the general structure and mech- 
 anism of a human body, how absolutely necessary 
 exercise is for its preservation. I shall in this place 
 recommend another great preservative of health, 
 which in many cases produces the same effects as 
 exercise, and may, in some measure, supply its place, 
 where opportunities of exercise are wanting. The 
 preservative I am speaking of is temperance, which 
 has those particular advantages above all other means 
 of health, that it may be practiced by all ranks and 
 conditions, at any season, or in any place. It is a kind 
 of regimen into which every man may put himself, 
 without interruption to business, expense of money, 
 or loss of time. If exercise throws off all superfluities, 
 temperance prevents them ; if exercise clears the ves- 
 sels, temperance neither satiates nor overstrains them ; 
 
I40 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 195. 
 
 if exercise raises proper ferments in the humors, and 
 promotes the circulation of the blood, temperance gives 
 nature her full play, and enables her to exert herself 
 in all her force and vigor ; if exercise dissipates a 
 growing distemper, temperance star\'es it. 
 
 Physic for the most part is nothing else but the 
 substitute of exercise or temperance. ^ledicines are 
 indeed absolutely necessar}- in acute distempers, that 
 cannot wait the slow operations of these two great 
 instruments of health ; but did men live in an habit- 
 ual coiuse of exercise and temperance, there could 
 be but little occasion for them. Accordingly we find 
 that those parts of the world are the most healthy^ 
 where they subsist by the chase ; and that men Hved 
 longest when their lives were employed in hunting, 
 and when they had little food beside what they 
 caught. BHstering, cupping, bleeding, are seldom of 
 use but to the idle and intemperate ; as all those 
 inward applications which are so much in practice 
 among us, are for the most part nothing else but ex- 
 pedients to make luxiu*}- consistent with health. 
 The apothecary is perpetually employed in counter- 
 mining the cook and the vintner. It is said of 
 Diogenes, that meeting a young man who was going 
 to a feast, he took him up in the street and carried 
 him to his g^ti friends, as one who was running into 
 imminent danger, had not he prevented him.* What 
 would that philosopher have said, had he been pres- 
 ent at the gluttony of a modem meal? would not he 
 have thought the master of a family mad. and have 
 begged his ser\'ants to tie down his hands, had he 
 seen him devour a fowl, fish, and flesh ; swallow oil 
 and vinegar, wines and spices ; throw do\^Tl salads of 
 twenty different herbs, sauces of a hundred ingredi- 
 
 *Diog. Laert., Vitae Philosoph., lib. \\, cap. 2, n. 6. 
 
No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR, 141 
 
 ents, confections and fruits of numberless sweets and 
 flavors? What unnatural motions and counter-fer- 
 ments must such a medley of intemperance produce 
 in the body? For my part, when I behold a fash- 
 ionable table set out in all its magnificence, I fancy 
 that I see gouts and dropsies, fevers and lethargies, 
 with other innumerable distempers, lying in ambus- 
 cade among the dishes. 
 
 Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. 
 Every animal, but man, keeps to one dish. Herbs 
 are the food of this species, fish of that, and flesh of 
 a third. Man falls upon everything that comes in his 
 way ; not the smallest fruit or excrescence of the earth, 
 scarce a berry or a mushroom, can escape him. 
 
 It is impossible to lay down any determinate 
 rule for temperance, because what is luxury in one 
 may be temperance in another ; but there are few 
 that have lived any time in the world, who are not 
 judges of their own constitutions, so far as to know 
 what kinds and what proportions of food do best 
 agree with them. Were I to consider my readers 
 as my patients, and to prescribe such a kind of tem- 
 perance as is accommodated to all persons, and such 
 as is particularly suitable to our climate and way of liv- 
 ing, I would copy the following rules of a very emi- 
 nent physician. '' Make your whole repast out of 
 one dish. If you indulge in a second, avoid drinking 
 anything strong until you have finished your meal ; 
 at the same time abstain from all sauces, or at least 
 such as are not the most plain and simple." A man 
 could not be well guilty of gluttony, if he stuck 
 to these few obvious and easy rules. In the first 
 case there would be no variety of tastes to solicit his 
 palate, and occasion excess ; nor in the second any 
 artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, and create a 
 false appetite. Were I to prescribe a rule for drink- 
 
142 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 195. 
 
 ing, it should be formed upon a saying quoted by Sir 
 William Temple : '' The first glass for myself, the 
 second for my friends, the third for good-humor, and 
 the fourth for mine enemies." But because it is im- 
 possible for one who lives in the world to diet himself 
 always in so philosophical a manner, I think every 
 man should have his days of abstinence according as 
 his constitution will permit. These are great reliefs 
 to nature, as they quahfy her for struggling with hun- 
 ger and thirst whenever any distemper or duty of life 
 may put her upon such difficulties ; and at the same 
 time g\N^ her an opportunity of extricating herself from 
 her oppressions, and recovering the several tones and 
 springs of her distended vessels. Beside that, absti- 
 nence well-timed often kills a sickness in embryo, 
 and destroys the first seeds of an indisposition. It is 
 observed by two or three ancient authors,* that Soc- 
 rates, notwithstanding he lived in Athens during that 
 great plague which has made so much noise through 
 all ages, and has been celebrated at different times by 
 such eminent hands ; I say, notwithstanding that he 
 lived in the times of this devouring pestilence, he 
 never caught the least infection, which those writers 
 unanimously ascribe to that uninterrupted temperance 
 which he always observed. 
 
 And here I cannot but mention an observation 
 which I have often made, upon reading the lives of 
 the philosophers, and comparing them with any series 
 of kings or great men of the same number. If we 
 consider these ancient sages, a great part of whose 
 philosophy consisted in a temperate and abstemious 
 course of life, one would think the life of a philoso- 
 pher and the life of a man were of two different dates. 
 
 * Diogenes Laertius, in Vit. Socratis. — Eliam in Var. Hist, 
 lib. xiii, cap. 27, etc. 
 
No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR, 143 
 
 For we find that the generahty of these wise men 
 were nearer a hundred than sixty years of age, at 
 the time of their respective deaths. But the most 
 remarkable instance of the efficacy of temperance to- 
 ward the procuring of long life, is what we meet 
 with in a little book published by Lewis Cornaro the 
 Venetian ; which I the rather mention, because it is 
 of undoubted credit, as the late Venetian ambassa- 
 dor, who was of the same family, attested more than 
 once in conversation, when he resided in England. 
 Cornaro, who was the author of the little treatise I 
 am mentioning, was of an infirm constitution, until 
 about forty, when by obstinately persisting in an ex- 
 act course of temperance, he recovered a perfect state 
 of health ; insomuch that at fourscore he published 
 his book, which has been translated into Enghsh un- 
 der the title of Sure and Certain Methods of Attaining 
 a Long and Healthy Life. He lived to give a third 
 or fourth edition of it ; and after having passed his 
 hundredth year, died without pain or agony, and like 
 one who falls asleep. The treatise I mention has 
 been taken notice of by several eminent authors, and 
 is written with such a spirit of cheerfulness, religion, 
 and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of 
 temperance and sobriety. The mixture of the old 
 man in it is rather a recommendation than a dis- 
 credit to it. 
 
 Having designed this paper as the sequel to that 
 upon exercise, I have not here considered temperance 
 as it is a moral virtue, which I shall make the subject 
 of a future speculation, but only as it is the means of 
 health. — L. 
 
144 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 197. 
 
 No. 197.] Tuesday, October- 16, 1711. 
 
 Alter rixatur de lana soepe caprina, 
 
 Propugnat nugis armatus ; scilicet, ut non 
 
 Sic mihi prima fides ; et, vere quod placet, ut non 
 
 Acriter elatrem ? Pretium setas altera sordet. 
 
 Ambigitur quid enim ! Castor sciat, an Docilisplus, 
 
 Brundusium Numici melius via ducat, an Appi. 
 
 HoR. I, Ep. xviii, 15. 
 
 On trifles some are earnestly absurd ; 
 
 You'll think the world depends on every word. 
 
 What ! is not every mortal free to speak ? 
 
 I'll give my reasons, though I break my neck ! 
 
 And what's the question 'i If it shines or rains ; 
 
 Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.— Pitt. 
 
 Every age a man passes through, and way of life 
 he engages in, has some particular vice or imperfec- 
 tion naturally cleaving to it, which will require his 
 nicest care to avoid. The several weaknesses to which 
 youth, old age, and manhood are exposed, have long 
 since been set down by many both of the poets and 
 philosophers ; but I do not remember to have met 
 with any author who has treated of those ill habits 
 men are subject to, not so much by reason of their 
 different ages and tempers, as the particular profes- 
 sions or business in which they were educated and 
 brought up. 
 
 I am the more surprised to find this subject so little 
 touched on, since what I am here speaking of is so 
 apparent, as not to escape the most vulgar observa- 
 tion. The business men are chiefly conversant in 
 does not only give a certain cast or turn to their 
 minds, but it is very often apparent in their outward 
 behavior, and some of the most indifferent actions of 
 their Hves. It is this air diffusing itself over the 
 whole man, which helps us to find out a person at his 
 first appearance ; so that the most careless observer 
 fancies he can scarce be mistaken in the carriage of 
 a seaman, or the gait of a tailor. 
 
No. 197.] THE SPECTATOR. 145 
 
 The liberal arts, though they may possibly have 
 less effect on our external mien and behavior, make 
 so deep an impression on the mind, as is very apt to 
 bend it wholly one way. 
 
 The mathematician will take little else than demon- 
 stration in the most common discourse, and the school- 
 man is as great a friend to definition and syllogisms. 
 The physician and divine are often heard to dictate 
 in private companies with the same authority which 
 they exercise over their patients and disciples : while 
 the lawyer is putting cases, and raising matter for dis- 
 putation, out of everything that occurs. 
 
 I may possibly some time or other animadvert 
 more at large on the particular fault each profes- 
 sion is most infected with ; but shall at present 
 wholly apply myself to the cure of what I last men- 
 tioned, namely, that spirit of strife and contention in 
 the conversations of gentlemen of the long robe. 
 
 This is the more ordinary, because these gentlemen 
 regarding argument as their own proper province, 
 and very often making ready money of it, think it 
 unsafe to yield before company. They are showing 
 in common talk how zealously they could defend a 
 cause in court, and therefore frequently forget to keep 
 their temper, which is absolutely requisite to render 
 conversation pleasant and instructive. 
 
 Captain Sentry pushes this matter so far, that I 
 have heard him say, '' he has known but few pleaders 
 that were tolerable company." 
 
 The captain, who is a man of good sense, but dry 
 conversation, was last night giving me an account of 
 a discourse, in which he had lately been engaged 
 with a young wrangler in the law. '' I was gv^'vcig my 
 opinion," says the captain, ''without apprehending 
 any debate that might arise from it, of a general's be- 
 havior in a battle that was fought some years before 
 
146 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 197. 
 
 either the templar or myself were born. The young 
 lawyer immediately took me up, and by reasoning 
 above a quarter of an hour upon a subject which I 
 saw he understood nothing of, endeavored to show 
 me that my opinions were ill-grounded. Upon 
 which,'' says the captain, " to avoid any further con- 
 tests, I told him, that truly I had not considered those 
 several arguments which he had brought against me, 
 and that there might be a great deal in them." '' Ay, 
 but," says my antagonist, who would not let me es- 
 cape so, ''there are several things to be urged in 
 favor of your opinion which you have omitted ; " and 
 thereupon began to shine on the other side of the 
 question. '' Upon this," says the captain, *' I came 
 over to my first sentiments, and entirely acquiesced in 
 his reasons for my so doing. Upon which the tem- 
 plar again covered his former posture, and confuted 
 both himself and me a third time. In short," says 
 my friend, '' I found he was resolved to keep me at 
 sword's length, and never let me close with him ; so 
 that I had nothing left but to hold my tongue, and 
 give my antagonist free leave to smile at his victory, 
 who I found, like Hudibras, could still change sides, 
 and still confute." * 
 
 For my own part, I have ever regarded our inns 
 of court as nurseries of statesmen and lawgivers, 
 which makes me often frequent that part of the town 
 with great pleasure. 
 
 Upon my calling in lately at one of the most noted 
 Temple coffee-houses, I found the whole room, 
 which was full of young students, divided into several 
 parties, each of which was deeply engaged in some 
 controversy. The management of the late ministry 
 was attacked and defended with great vigor; and 
 
 * Part i, cant, i, ver. 69, 70. 
 
No. 197.] THE SPECTATOR, 147 
 
 several preliminaries to the peace were proposed by 
 some, and rejected by others ; the demolishing of 
 Dunkirk was so eagerly insisted on, and so warmly 
 controverted, as had like to have produced a chal- 
 lenge. In short, I observed that the desire of victory, 
 whetted with the little prejudices of party and inter- 
 est, generally carried the argument to such a height, 
 as made the disputants insensibly conceive an aver- 
 sion toward each other, and part with the highest dis- 
 satisfaction on both sides. 
 
 The managing an argument handsomely being so 
 nice a point, and what I have seen so very few excel 
 in, I shall here set down a few rules on that head, 
 which, among other things, I gave in writing to a 
 young kinsman of mine, who had made so great a 
 proficiency in the law, that he began to plead in 
 company, upon every subject that was started. 
 
 Having the entire manuscript by me, I may, per- 
 haps, from time to time, publish such parts of it as I 
 shall think requisite for the instruction of the British 
 youth. What regards my present purpose is as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Avoid disputes as much as possible. In order to 
 appear easy and well-bred in conversation, you may 
 assure yourself that it requires more wit, as well as 
 more good humor, to improve than to contradict the 
 notions of another : but if you are at any time obliged 
 to enter on an argument, give your reasons with the 
 utmost coolness and modesty, two things which 
 scarce ever fail of making an impression on the hear- 
 ers. Beside, if you are neither dogmatical, nor show 
 either by your actions or words that you are full of 
 yourself, all will the more heartily rejoice at your vic- 
 tory. Nay, should you be pinched in your argument, 
 you may make your retreat with a very good grace. 
 You were never positive, and are now glad to be 
 
148 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 197. 
 
 better informed. This has made some approve the 
 Socratical way of reasoning, where, while you scarce 
 affirm anything, you can hardly be caught in an ab- 
 surdity ; and though possibly you are endeavoring to 
 bring over another to your opinion, which is firmly 
 fixed, you seem only to desire information from him. 
 
 In order to keep that temper which is so difficult, 
 and yet so necessary to preserve, you may please to 
 consider, that nothing can be more unjust or ridicu- 
 lous, than to be angry with another because he is 
 not of your opinion. The interests, education, and 
 means by which men attain their knowledge, are so 
 very different, that it is impossible that they should 
 all think ahke ; and he has at least as much reason 
 to be angry with you, as you with him. Sometimes, 
 to keep yourself cool, it may be of service to ask 
 yourself fairly, what might have been your opinion, 
 had you all the biases of education and interest your 
 adversary may possibly have? But if you contend 
 for the honor of victory alone, you may lay down 
 this as an infallible maxim, that you cannot make a 
 more false step, or give your antagonists a greater 
 advantage over you, than by falling into a passion. 
 
 When an argument is over, how many weighty 
 reasons does a man recollect, which his heat and 
 violence made him utterly forget ! 
 
 It is yet more absurd to be angry with a man be- 
 cause he does not apprehend the force of your rea- 
 sons, or gives weak ones of his own. If you argue 
 for reputation, this makes your victory easier ; he is 
 certainly in all respects an object of your pity, rather 
 than anger ; and if he cannot comprehend what you 
 do, you ought to thank nature for her favors, who 
 has given you so much the clearer understanding. 
 
 You may please to add this consideration, that 
 among your equals no one values your anger, which 
 
No. 206.] THE SPECTATOR. 149 
 
 only preys upon its master ; and perhaps you may 
 find it not very consistent either with prudence or your 
 ease, to punish yourself whenever you meet with a 
 fool or a knave. 
 
 Lastly, if you propose to yourself the true end of 
 argument, which is information, it may be a season- 
 able check to your passion ; for if you search purely 
 after truth, it will be almost indifferent to you where 
 you find it. I cannot in this place omit an observa- 
 tion which I have often made, namely. That nothing 
 procures a man more esteem and less envy from the 
 whole company, than if he chooses the part of mod- 
 erator, without engaging directly on either side in a 
 dispute. This gives him the character of impartial, 
 furnishes him with an opportunity of sifting things to 
 the bottom, showing his judgment, and of sometimes 
 making handsome compliments to each of the con- 
 tending parties. 
 
 I shall close this subject with giving you one cau- 
 tion. When you have gained a victory do not push 
 it too far ; it is sufficient to let the company and your 
 adversary see it is in your power, but that you are too 
 generous to make use of it. — X. 
 
 No. 206.] Friday, October 26, 1711. 
 
 Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit, 
 
 A diis plura feret Hor. 3 Od. xvi, 21. 
 
 They that do much themselves deny, 
 
 Receive more blessings from the sky. — Creech. 
 
 There is a call upon mankind to value and esteem 
 those who set a moderate price upon their own merit ; 
 and self-denial is frequently attended with unexpected 
 blessings, which in the end abundantly recompense 
 
ISO THE SPECTATOR. [No. 206. 
 
 such losses as the modest seem to suffer in the ordi- 
 nary occurrences of Hfe. Then the curious tell us, a 
 determination in our favor or to our disadvantage is 
 made upon our first appearance, even before they 
 know anything of our characters, but from the inti- 
 mations men gather from our aspect. A man, they 
 say, wears the picture of his mind in his counte- 
 nance ; and one man's eyes are spectacles to his, who 
 looks at him to read his heart. But though that way 
 of raising an opinion of those we behold in pubhc 
 is very fallacious, certain it is that those, who by 
 their words and actions take as much upon them- 
 selves, as they can but barely demand in the strict 
 scrutiny of their deserts, will find their account lessen 
 every day. A modest man preserves his character, 
 as a frugal man does his fortune ; if either of them 
 live to the height of either, one will find losses, the 
 other errors, which he has not stock by him to make 
 up. It were therefore a just rule, to keep your de- 
 sires, your words, and actions, within the regard you 
 observe yoiu: friends have for you ; and never, if it 
 were in a man's power, to take as much as he possi- 
 bly might, either in preferment or reputation. My 
 walks have lately been among the mercantile part of 
 the world ; and one gets phrases naturally from those 
 with whom one converses. I say then, he that in his 
 air, his treatment of others, or an habitual arrogance 
 to himself, gives himself credit for the least article of 
 more wit, wisdom, goodness, or valor, than he can 
 possibly produce if he is called upon, will find the 
 world break in upon him, and consider him as one 
 who has cheated them of all the esteem they had be- 
 fore allowed him. This brings a commission of bank- 
 ruptcy upon him ; and he that might have gone on to 
 his life's end in a prosperous way, by aiming at more 
 than he should is no longer proprietor of what he 
 
No. 206.] THE SPECTATOR. 151 
 
 really had before, but his pretensions fare as all things 
 do which are torn instead of being divided. 
 
 There is no one living would deny Cinna the ap- 
 plause of an agreeable and facetious wit ; or could 
 possibly pretend that there is not something inimita- 
 bly unforced and diverting in his manner of deliver- 
 ing all his sentiments in conversation, if he were able 
 to conceal the strong desire of applause which he be- 
 trays in every syllable he utters. But they who con- 
 verse with him see that all the civihties they could do 
 to him, or the kind things they could say to him, 
 would fall short of what he expects ; and therefore, 
 instead of showing him the esteem they have for his 
 merit, their reflections turn only upon that they ob- 
 serve he has of it himself. 
 
 If you go among the women, and behold Gloriana 
 trip into a room with that theatrical ostentation of 
 her charms, Mirtilla with that soft regularity in her 
 motion, Chloe with such an indifferent famiharity, 
 Corinna with such a fond approach, and Roxana 
 with such a demand of respect in the great gravity of 
 her entrance ; you find all the sex, who understand 
 themselves and act naturally, wait only for their ab- 
 sence, to tell you that all these ladies would impose 
 themselves upon you ; and each of them carry in their 
 behavior a consciousness of so much more than they 
 should pretend to, that they lose what would other- 
 wise be given them. 
 
 I remember the last time I saw Macbeth, I was 
 wonderfully taken with the skill of the poet, in mak- 
 ing the murderer form fears to himself from the 
 moderation of the prince whose life he was going to 
 take away. He says of the king : '' He bore his fac- 
 ulties so meekly ; " and justly inferred from thence, 
 that all divine and human power would join to avenge 
 his death, who had made such an abstinent use of 
 
152 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 206. 
 
 dominion. All that is in a man's power to do to ad- 
 vance his own pomp and glory, and forbears, is so 
 much laid up against the day of distress ; and pity 
 will always be his portion in adversity, who acted with 
 gentleness in prosperity. 
 
 The great officer who foregoes the advantages he 
 might take to himself, and renounces all prudential 
 regards to his own person in danger, has so far the 
 merit of a volunteer ; and all his honors and glories 
 are unenvied, for sharing the common fate with the 
 same frankness as they do who have no such endear- 
 ing circumstances to part with. But if there were no 
 such considerations as the good effect which self-de- 
 nial has upon the sense of other m_en toward us, it is 
 of all qualities the most desirable for the agreeable 
 disposition in which it places oiu: own minds. I 
 cannot tell what better to say of it, than that it is the 
 very contrary of ambition ; and that modesty allays 
 all those passions and inquietudes to which that vice 
 exposes us. He that is moderate in his wishes, from 
 reason and choice, and not resigned from sourness, 
 distaste, or disappointment, doubles all the pleasures 
 of his hfe. The air, the season, a sunshiny day, or 
 a fair prospect, are instances of happiness ; and that 
 which he enjoys in common with all the world (by 
 his exemption from the enchantments by which ail 
 the world are bewitched), are to him uncommon 
 benefits and new acquisitions. Health is not eaten 
 up with care, nor pleasure interrupted by envy. It 
 is not to him of any consequence what this man is 
 famed for, or for what the other is preferred. He 
 knows there is in such a place an uninterrupted walk ; 
 he can meet in such a company an agreeable conver- 
 sation. He has no emulation, he is no man's rival, 
 but every man's well-wisher ; can look at a prosper- 
 ous man, with a pleasure in reflecting that he hopes 
 
No. 213.] THE SPECTATOR, 153 
 
 he is as happy as himself ; and has his mind and his 
 fortune (as far as prudence will allow) open to the 
 unhappy and to the stranger. 
 
 Lucceius has learning, wit, humor, eloquence, but 
 no ambitious prospects to pursue with these advan- 
 tages ; therefore to the ordinary world he is perhaps 
 thought to want spirit, but known among his friends 
 to have a mind of the most consummate greatness. 
 He wants no man's admiration, is in no need of pomp. 
 His clothes please him if they are fashionable and 
 warm ; his companions are agreeable if they are civil 
 and well-natured. There is with him no occasion for 
 superfluity at meals, or jolhty in company ; in a word, 
 for anything extraordinary to administer delight to 
 him. Want of prejudice, and command of appetite, 
 are the companions which make his journey of hfe 
 so easy, that he in all places meets with more wit, 
 more good cheer and more good humor, than is neces- 
 sary to make him enjoy himself with pleasure and 
 satisfaction. — T. 
 
 No. 213.] Saturday, November 3, 171 1. 
 
 Mens sibi conscia recti. — Virg., ^n. i, 608. 
 
 A good intention. 
 
 It is the great art and secret of Christianity, if I 
 may use that phrase, to manage our actions to the 
 best advantage, and to direct them in such a manner 
 that everything we do may turn to account at that 
 great day, when everything we have done will be set 
 before us. 
 
 In order to give this consideration its full weight, 
 we may cast all our actions under the division of 
 such as are in themselves either good, evil, or indif- 
 ferent. If we divide our intentions after the same 
 
154 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 213. 
 
 manner and consider them with regard to our actions, 
 we may discover that great art and secret of religion 
 which I have here mentioned. 
 
 A good intention, joined to a good action, gives 
 it its proper force and efficacy; joined to an evil 
 action, extenuates its mahgnity, and in some cases 
 takes it wholly away ; and joined to an indifferent 
 action, turns it to a virtue, and makes it meritorious 
 as far as human actions can be so. 
 
 In the next place, to consider in the same manner 
 the influence of an evil intention upon our actions. 
 An evil intention perverts the best of actions, and 
 makes them, in reality, what the fathers with a witty 
 kind of zeal have termed the virtues of the heathen 
 world, so many shining sins.* It destroys the inno- 
 cence of an indifferent action, and gives an evil action 
 all possible blackness and horror, or, in the emphat- 
 ical language of sacred writ, makes '' sin exceeding 
 sinful." t 
 
 If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an 
 indifferent intention, we shall find that it destroys the 
 merit of a good action ; abates, but never takes away, 
 the mahgnity of an evil action ; and leaves an indif- 
 ferent action in its natural state of indifference. 
 
 It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess 
 our minds with an habitual good intention, and to 
 aim all our thoughts, words, and actions at some 
 laudable end, whether it be the glory of our Maker, 
 the good of mankind, or the benefit of our own souls. 
 
 This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral 
 life, which does not throw away any single action, 
 but makes every one go as far as it can. It multi- 
 plies the means of salvation, increases the number of 
 our virtues and diminishes that of our vices. 
 
 * Splendida peccata. t Rom., vii, 13. 
 
No. 2130 THE SPECTATOR, 155 
 
 There is something very devout, though not so 
 sohd, in Acosta's answer to Limborch, who objects 
 to him, the multipHcity of ceremonies in the Jewish 
 rehgion, as washings, dresses, meats, purgations, and 
 the hke. The reply which the Jew makes upon this 
 occasion, is, to the best of my remembrance, as fol- 
 lows : " There are not duties enough," says he, '' in 
 the essential parts of the law, for a zealous and active 
 obedience. Time, place, and person are requisite, 
 before you have an opportunity of putting a moral 
 virtue into practice. We have therefore," says he, 
 *' enlarged the sphere of our duty, and made many 
 things, which are in themselves indifferent, a part of 
 our religion, that we may have more occasions of 
 showing our love to God, and in all the circumstances 
 of life, by doing something to please him." 
 
 Monsieur St. Evremond has endeavored to palliate 
 the superstitions of the Roman Catholic rehgion with 
 the same kind of apology, where he pretends to con- 
 sider the different spirits of the Papists and the Cal- 
 vinists, as to the great points wherein they disagree. 
 He tells us, that the former are actuated by love, and 
 the other by fear ; and that in their expressions of 
 duty and devotion toward the Supreme Being, the 
 former seems particularly careful to do everything 
 which may possibly please him, and the other to ab- 
 stain from everything which may possibly displease 
 him. 
 
 But notwithstanding this plausible reason with which 
 both the Jew and Roman Catholic would excuse 
 their respective superstitions, it is certain there is 
 something in them very pernicious to mankind, and 
 destructive to religion ; because the injunction of su- 
 perfluous ceremonies makes such actions duties, as 
 were before indifferent, and by that means renders re- 
 hgion more burdensome and difficult than it is in its 
 
156 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 213. 
 
 own nature, betrays many into sins of omission which 
 they could not otherwise be guilty of, and fixes the 
 mind of the vulgar to the shadowy, unessential points, 
 instead of the more weighty and more important mat- 
 ters of the law. 
 
 This zealous and active obedience, however, takes 
 place in the great point we are recommending ; for 
 if, instead of prescribing to ourselves indifferent ac- 
 tions as duties, we apply a good intention to all our 
 most indifferent actions, we make our very existence 
 one continued act of obedience, we turn our diver- 
 sions and amusements to our eternal advantage, and 
 are pleasing Him (whom w^e are made to please) in 
 all the circumstances and occurrences of life. 
 
 It is this excellent frame of mind, this holy offi- 
 ciousness (if I may be allowed to call it such), which 
 is recommended to us by the apostle in that uncom- 
 mon precept wherein he directs us to propose to our- 
 selves the glory of our Creator in all our most indif- 
 ferent actions, '' whether we eat or drink^ or whatso- 
 ever we do." * 
 
 A person, therefore, who is possessed with such an 
 habitual good intention as that which I have been 
 here speaking of, enters upon no single circumstance 
 of life, without considering it as well-pleasing to the 
 great Author of his being, conformable to the dictates 
 of reason, suitable to human nature in general, or to 
 that particular station in which Providence has placed 
 him. He lives in a perpetual sense of the Divine 
 Presence, regards himself as acting, in the whole 
 course of his existence, under the observation and in- 
 spection of that Being, who is privy to all his motions 
 and all his thoughts, who knows his '* down-sitting 
 and his uprising, who is about his path, and about 
 
 * I Cor., X, 31. 
 
No. 213.] THE SPECTATOR, 157 
 
 his bed, and spieth out all his ways." * In a word, 
 he remembers that the eye of his Judge is always 
 upon him, and in every action he reflects that he is 
 doing what is commanded or allowed by him who 
 will hereafter either reward or punish it. This was 
 the character of those holy men of old, who, in that 
 beautiful phrase of Scripture, are said to have '' walked 
 with God." t 
 
 When I employ myself upon a paper of morality, 
 I generally consider how I may recommend the par- 
 ticular virtue which 1 treat of, by the precepts or 
 examples of the ancient heathens ; by that means, if 
 possible, to shame those who have greater advantages 
 of knowing their duty, and therefore greater obliga- 
 tions to perform it, into a better course of life ; be- 
 side, that many among us are unreasonably disposed 
 to give a fairer hearing to a Pagan philosopher than 
 to a Christian writer. 
 
 I shall, therefore, produce an instance of this ex- 
 cellent frame of mind in a speech of Socrates, which 
 is quoted by Erasmus. This great philosopher on 
 the day of his execution, a httle before the draught 
 of poison was brought to him, entertaining his friends 
 with a discourse on the immortality of the soul, has 
 these words : '' Whether or no God will approve of 
 my actions, I know not ; but this I am sure of, that 
 I have at all times made it my endeavor to please 
 him, and I have a good hope that this my endeavor 
 will be accepted by him." We find in these words 
 of that great man the habitual good intention which 
 I would here inculcate, and with which that divine 
 philosopher always acted. I shall only add, that 
 Erasmus, who was an unbigoted Roman Cathohc, 
 was so much transported with this passage of Socra- 
 
 * Psalm, cxxxix, 2, 3. t Gen. v, 22 ; vi, 9. 
 
158 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 215. 
 
 tes, that he could scarce forbear looking upon him as 
 a saint, and desiring him to pray for him ; or as that 
 ingenious and learned writer has expressed himself in 
 a much more lively manner : '' When I reflect on such 
 a speech, pronounced by such a person, I can scarce 
 forbear crying out, ' Sancte Socrates^ ora pro nobis' 
 O holy Socrates, pray for us." — L. 
 
 No. 215.] Tuesday, November 6, 1711. 
 
 Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 
 EmoUit mores, nee sinit esse feros. 
 
 Ovid, de Ponto, JI, ix, 47. 
 
 Ingenuous arts, where they an entrance find, 
 Soften the manners, and subdue the mind. 
 
 I CONSIDER a human soul without education like 
 marble in the quarry, which shows none of its inher- 
 ent beauties, until the skill of the pohsher fetches out 
 the colors, makes the surface shine, and discovers 
 every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein that runs 
 through the body of it. Education, after the same 
 manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out 
 to view every latent virtue and perfection, which 
 without such helps are never able to make their ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 If my reader will give me leave to change the 
 allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the 
 same instance to illustrate the force of education, 
 which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of 
 substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies 
 hid in a block of marble ; and that the art of the 
 statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and 
 removes the rubbish. The figure is in stone, the 
 sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block 
 of marble, education is to a human soul. The phi. 
 
No. 215.] THE SPECTATOR, 159 
 
 losopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or 
 the great man, very often lie hid and concealed in a 
 plebeian, which a proper education might have disin- 
 terred, and have brought to hght. I am therefore, 
 much delighted with reading the accounts of savage 
 nations, and with contemplating those virtues which 
 are wild and uncultivated ; to see courage exerting 
 itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in 
 cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. 
 
 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in 
 different kinds of actions, according as they are more 
 or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one 
 hears of negroes, who upon the death of their mas- 
 ters, or upon changing their service, hang themselves 
 upon the next tree, as it frequently happens in our 
 American plantations, who can forbear admiring their 
 fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful a 
 manner? What might not that savage greatness of 
 soul which appears in these poor wretches on many 
 occasions be raised to were it rightly cultivated? 
 And what color of excuse can there be for the con- 
 tempt with which we treat this part of our species? 
 that we should not put them upon the common foot 
 of humanity ; that we should only set an insignificant 
 fine upon the man who murders them ; nay, that we 
 should, as much as in us Hes, cut them off from the 
 prospect of happiness in another world as well as in 
 this, and deny them that which we look upon as the 
 proper means for attaining it? 
 
 Since I am engaged on this subject, I cannot for- 
 bear mentioning a story which I have lately heard, 
 and which is so well attested, that I have no manner 
 of reason to suspect the truth of it. I may call it a 
 kind of wild tragedy that passed about twelve years 
 ago at St. Christopher's, one of our British Leeward 
 islands. The negroes, who were the persons con- 
 
i6o THE SPECTATOR. [No. 215. 
 
 cerned in it, were all of them the slaves of a gentle- 
 man, who is now in England. 
 
 This gentleman, among his negroes, had a young 
 woman, who was looked upon as a most extraor- 
 dinary beauty by those of her own complexion. He 
 had at the same time two young fellows, who were 
 likewise negroes and slaves, remarkable for the come- 
 liness of their persons, and for the friendship which 
 they bore to one another. It unfortunately happened 
 that both of them fell in love with the female negro 
 above mentioned, who would have been very glad to 
 have taken either of them for her husband, provided 
 they would agree between themselves which should 
 be the man. But they were both so passionately in 
 love with her, that neither of them would think of 
 giving her up to his rival ; and at the same time were 
 so true to one another, that neither of them would 
 think of gaining her without his friend's consent. 
 The torments of these two lovers were the discourse 
 of the family to which they belonged, who could not 
 forbear observing the strange complication of passions 
 which perplexed the hearts of the poor negroes, that 
 often dropped expressions of the uneasiness they un- 
 derwent, and how impossible it was for either of them 
 ever to be happy. 
 
 After a long struggle between love and friendship, 
 truth and jealousy, they one day took a walk together 
 into a wood, carrying their mistress along with them : 
 where, after abundance of lamentations, they stabbed 
 her to the heart, of which she immediately died. A 
 slave who was at his work not far from the place 
 where this astonishing piece of cruelty was commit- 
 ted, hearing the shrieks of the dying person, ran to 
 see what was the occasion of them. He there dis- 
 covered the woman lying dead upon the ground, with 
 the two negroes on each side of her, kissing the dead 
 
No. 215.] THE SPECTATOR. 161 
 
 corpse, weeping over it, and beating their breasts in 
 the utmost agonies of grief and despair. He im- 
 mediately ran to the English family with the news 
 of what he had seen ; who, upon coming to the 
 place, saw the woman dead, and the two negroes 
 expiring by her with wounds they had given them- 
 selves. 
 
 We see in this amazing instance of barbarity, what 
 strange disorders are bred in the minds of those men 
 whose passions are not regulated by virtue, and dis- 
 ciplined by reason. Though the action which I have 
 recited is in itself full of guilt and horror, it proceeded 
 from a temper of mind which might have produced 
 very noble fruits, had it been informed and guided by 
 a suitable education. 
 
 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing to be born 
 in those parts of the world where wisdom and knowl- 
 edge flourish; though it must be confessed, there 
 are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed 
 persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of 
 those nations of which I have been here speaking ; 
 as those who have had the advantage of a more 
 liberal education rise above one another by several 
 different degrees of perfection. For, to return to our 
 statue in the block of marble, we see it sometimes 
 only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough-hewn, 
 and but just sketched into a human figure ; some- 
 times we see the man appearing distinctly in all his 
 limbs and features, sometimes we find the figure 
 wrought up to a great elegancy, but seldom meet 
 with any to which the hand of a Phidias or Praxiteles 
 could not give several nice touches and finishings. 
 
 Discourses of morality, and reflections upon human 
 nature, are the best means we can make use of to 
 improve our minds, and gain a true knowledge of 
 ourselves, and consequently to recover our souls out 
 
i62 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 219. 
 
 of the vice, ignorance, and prejudice, which naturally 
 cleave to them. I have all along professed myself in 
 this paper a promoter of these great ends; and I 
 flatter myself that I do from day to day contribute 
 something to the polishing of men's minds : at least 
 my design is laudable, whatever the execution may 
 be. I must confess I am not a Httle encoui'aged in 
 it by many letters which I receive from unknown 
 hands, in approbation of my endeavors ; and must 
 take this opportunity of returning my thanks to those 
 who write them, and excusing myself for not inserting 
 several of them in my papers, which I am sensible 
 would be a very great ornament to them. Should I 
 publish the praises which are so well penned, they 
 would do honor to the persons who write them, but 
 my pubhshing of them would, I fear, be a sufficient 
 instance to the world that I did not deserve them. — C. 
 
 No. 219.] Saturday, November id, 171 i. 
 
 Vix ea nostra voco. Ovid, Met., xiii, 141. 
 
 These I scarce call our own. 
 
 There are but few men who are not ambitious of 
 distinguishing themselves in the nation or country 
 where they live, and of growing considerable among 
 those with whom they converse. There is a kind of 
 grandeur and respect, which the meanest and most 
 insignificant part of mankind endeavor to procure in 
 the little circle of their friends and acquaintance. 
 The poorest mechanic, nay, the man who Hves upon 
 common alms, gets him his set of admirers, and 
 delights in that superiority which he enjoys over those 
 who are in some respects beneath him. This ambi- 
 tion, which is natural to the soul of man, might, 
 
No. 219.] THE SPECTATOR, 163 
 
 methinks, receive a very happy turn ; and, if it were 
 rightly directed, contribute as much to a person's 
 advantage, as it generally does to his uneasiness and 
 disquiet. 
 
 I shall therefore put together some thoughts on this 
 subject, which I have not met with in other writers ; 
 and shall set them down as they have occurred to 
 me, without being at the pains to connect or meth- 
 odize them. 
 
 All superiority and pre-eminence that one man can 
 have over another, may be reduced to the notion of 
 quality, which, considered at large, is either, that of 
 fortune, body, or mind. The first is that which con- 
 sists in birth, title, or riches : it is the most foreign 
 to our natures, and what we can the least call our 
 own of any of the three kinds of quality. In relation 
 to the body, quality arises from health, strength, or 
 beauty ; which are nearer to us, and more a part of 
 ourselves than the former. Quality, as it regards the 
 mind, has its rise from knowledge or virtue ; and is 
 that which is more essential to us, and more inti- 
 mately united with us than either of the other two. 
 
 The quality of fortune, though a man has less 
 reason to value himself upon it than on that of the 
 body or mind, is however the kind of quality which 
 makes the most shining figure in the eye of the world. 
 
 As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine 
 source of honor, we generally find in titles an intima- 
 tion of some particular merit that should recommend 
 men to the high stations which they possess. Holi- 
 ness is ascribed to the pope ; majesty to kings ; 
 serenity or mildness of temper to princes ; excellence 
 or perfection to ambassadors ; grace to archbishops ; 
 honor to peers ; worship or venerable behavior to 
 magistrates ; and reverence, which is of the same 
 import as the former, to the inferior clergy. 
 
i64 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 219. 
 
 In the founders of great families, such attributes 
 of honor are generally correspondent with the virtues 
 of the person to whom they are applied ; but in the 
 descendants, they are too often the marks rather of 
 grandeur than of merit. The stamp and denomina- 
 tion still continues, but the intrinsic value is fre- 
 quently lost. 
 
 The death-bed shows the emptiness of titles in a 
 true light. A poor dispirited sinner lies trembling 
 under the apprehensions of the state he is entering 
 on : and is asked by a grave attendant how his holi- 
 ness does? Another hears himself addressed to 
 under the title of highness or excellency, who lies 
 under such mean circumstances of mortality as are 
 the disgrace of human nature. Titles at such a time 
 look rather like insults and mockery than respect. 
 
 The truth of it is, honors are in this world under 
 no regulation ; true quality is neglected, virtue is 
 oppressed, and vice triumphant. The last day will 
 rectify this disorder, and assign to every one a station 
 suitable to the dignity of his character. Ranks will 
 be then adjusted, and precedency set right. 
 
 Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to 
 advance ourselves in another world, at least to pre- 
 serve our post in it, and outshine our inferiors in 
 virtue here, that they may not be put above us in a 
 state which is to settle the distinction for eternity. 
 
 Men in Scripture are called strangers and sojourn- 
 ers upon earth, and life a pilgrimage. Several hea- 
 then, as well as Christian authors, under the same 
 kind of metaphor, have represented the world as an 
 inn, which was only designed to furnish us with 
 accommodations in this our passage. It is therefore 
 very absurd to think of setting up our rest before we 
 come to our journey's end, and not rather to take 
 care of the reception we shall there meet with, than 
 
No. 219.] THE SPECTATOR, 165 
 
 to fix our thoughts on the Httle conveniences and 
 advantages which we enjoy one above another in the 
 way to it. 
 
 Epictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, 
 which is very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to 
 incline us to be satisfied with the post in which Prov- 
 idence has placed us. We are here, says he, as in 
 a theater, where every one has a part allotted to him. 
 The great duty which lies upon a man is to act his 
 part in perfection. We may indeed say, that our 
 part does not suit us, and that we could act another 
 better. But this, says the philosopher, is not our 
 business. All that we are concerned in is to excel in 
 the part which is given us. If it be an improper 
 one, the fault is not in us, but in Him who has cast 
 our several parts, and is the great disposer of the 
 drama.* 
 
 The part that was acted by this philosopher him- 
 self was but a very indifferent one, for he lived and 
 died a slave. His motive to contentment in this 
 particular, receives a very great enforcement from the 
 above-mentioned consideration, if we remember that 
 our parts in the other world will be new cast, and 
 that mankind will be there ranged in different sta- 
 tions of superiority and pre-eminence, in proportion 
 as they have here excelled one another in virtue, and 
 performed in their several posts of life the duties 
 which belong to them. 
 
 There are many beautiful passages in the little 
 apocryphal book, entitled. The Wisdom of Solomon, 
 to set forth the vanity of honor, and the like temporal 
 blessings which are in so great repute among men, 
 and to comfort those who have not the possession of 
 them. It represents in very warm and noble terms 
 
 *Vid. Epicteti Enchirid., cap. 23. 
 
1 66 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 219. 
 
 this advancement of a good man in the other world, 
 and the great surprise which it will produce among 
 those who are his superiors in this. " Then shall the 
 righteous man stand in great boldness before the face 
 of such as have afflicted him, and made no account 
 of his labors. When they see it they shall be troubled 
 with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strange- 
 ness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they 
 looked for. And they repenting and groaning for 
 anguish of spirit, shall say within themselves, This 
 was he whom we had some time in derision, and a 
 proverb of reproach. We fools accounted his life 
 madness, and his end to be without honor. How is 
 he numbered among the children of God. and his lot 
 among the saints I " * 
 
 If the reader would see the description of a life 
 that is passed away in vanity and among the shadows 
 of pomp and greatness, he may see it ver}' finely 
 drav/n in the same place. t In the meantime, since 
 it is necessan', in the present constitution of things, 
 that order and distinction should be kept up in the 
 world, we should be happy if those who enjoy the 
 upper stations in it. would endeavor to surpass others 
 in virtue as much as in rank, and by their humanity' 
 and condescension make their superiority easy and 
 acceptable to those who are beneath them, and \L on 
 the contrar}', those who are in meaner posts of Hfe, 
 would consider how they may better their condition 
 hereafter, and by a just deference and submission to 
 their superiors, make them happy in those blessings 
 with which Providence has thought fit to distinguish 
 them. — C. 
 
 Wisd. V, 1—5. t Ibid. S— 14. 
 
No. 224.] THE SPECTATOR. 167 
 
 No. 224.] Friday, November 16, 171 1. 
 
 Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru 
 
 Non minus ignotos generosis Hor. i Sat. vi, 23. 
 
 ChaiiiM to her shining car, Fame draws along 
 With equal whirl the great and vulgar throng. 
 
 If we look abroad upon the great multitude of 
 mankind, and endeavor to trace out the principles 
 of action in every individual, it will, I think, seem 
 highly probable, that ambition runs through the whole 
 species, and that every man, in proportion to the 
 vigor of his complexion, is more or less actuated by 
 it. It is, indeed, no uncommon thing to meet with 
 men, who by the natural bent of their inclinations, 
 and without the discipline of philosophy, aspire not 
 to the heights of power and grandeur; who never 
 set their hearts upon a numerous train of clients and 
 dependencies, nor other gay appendages of great- 
 ness ; who are contented with a competency, and 
 will not molest their tranquillity to gain an abun- 
 dance. But it is not therefore to be concluded that 
 such a man is not ambitious ; his desires may have 
 cut out another channel, and determined him to 
 other pursuits ; the motive, however, may be still the 
 same ; and in these cases likewise the man may be 
 equally pushed on with the desire of distinction. 
 
 Though the pure consciousness of worthy actions, 
 abstracted from the views of popular applause, be to 
 a generous mind an ample reward, yet the desire of 
 distinction was doubtless implanted in our natures as 
 an additional incentive to exert ourselves in virtuous 
 excellence. 
 
 This passion, indeed, like all others, is frequently 
 perverted to evil and ignoble purposes : so that we 
 may account for many of the excellencies and follies 
 
i68 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 224. 
 
 of life upon the same innate principle, to wit, the 
 desire of being remarkable: for this, as it has been 
 differently cultivated by education, study, and con- 
 verse, will bring forth suitable effects as it falls in 
 with an ingenuous disposition, or a corrupt mind. 
 It does accordingly express itself in acts of mag- 
 nanimity or selfish cunning, as it meets with a good 
 or a weak understanding. As it has been employed 
 in embellishing the mind, or adorning the outside, it 
 renders the man eminently praiseworthy or ridiculous. 
 Ambition therefore is not to be confined only to one 
 passion or piu-suit ; for as the same humors in con- 
 stitutions, otherwise different, affect the body after 
 different manners, so the same aspiring principle 
 within us sometimes breaks forth upon one object, 
 sometimes upon another. 
 
 It cannot be doubted, but that there is as great a 
 desire of glory in a ring of \\Testlers or cudgel-players, 
 as in any other more refined competition for superi- 
 ority. No man that could avoid it, would ever suffer 
 his head to be broken but out of a principle of honor. 
 This is the secret spring that pushes them forward ; 
 and the superiority which they gain above the undis- 
 tinguished many, does rriore than repair those wounds 
 they have received in the combat. It is Mr. Waller's 
 opinion, that Julius Caesar, had he not been master 
 of the Roman empire, would, in all probabihty, have 
 made an excellent wrestler : 
 
 Great Julius, on the mountains bred, 
 A flock perhaps or herd had led ; 
 He that the world subdu'd, had been 
 But the best wrestler on the green. 
 
 That he subdued the world, was owing to the acci- 
 dents of art and knowledge ; had he not met with 
 those advantages, the same sparks of emulation 
 
No. 224.] - THE SPECTATOR, 169 
 
 would have kindled within him, and prompted him 
 to distinguish himself in some enterprise of a lower 
 nature. Since therefore no man's lot is so unalterably 
 fixed in this life, but that a thousand accidents may 
 either forward or disappoint his advancement, it is, 
 methinks, a pleasant and inoffensive speculation, to 
 consider a great man as divested of all the adven- 
 titious circumstances of fortune, and to bring him 
 down in one's imagination to that low station of life, 
 the nature of which bears some distant resemblance 
 to that high one he is at present possessed of. Thus 
 one may viev\^ him exercising in miniature those 
 talents of nature, which being drawn out by educa- 
 tion to their full length, enable him for the discharge 
 of some important employment. On the other hand, 
 one may raise uneducated merit to such a pitch of 
 greatness, as may seem equal to the possible extent 
 of his improved capacity. 
 
 Thus nature furnishes man with a general appetite 
 of glory, education determines it to this or that par- 
 ticular object. The desire of distinction is not, I 
 think, in any instance more observable than in the 
 variety of outsides and new appearances, which the 
 modish part of the world are obhged to provide, in 
 order to make themselves remarkable ; for anything 
 glaring and particular, either in behavior or apparel, 
 is known to have this good effect, that it catches the 
 eye, and will not suffer you to pass over the person 
 so adorned without due notice and observation. It 
 has likewise, upon this account, been frequently re- 
 sented as a very great slight, to leave any gentleman 
 out of a lampoon or satire, who has as much right to 
 be there as his neighbor, because it supposes the per- 
 son not eminent enough to be taken notice of. To 
 this passionate fondness for distinction are owing 
 various frolicsome and irregular practices, as sallying 
 
170 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 224. 
 
 out into nocturnal exploits, breaking of windows, 
 singing of catches, beating the watch, getting drunk 
 twice a day, kilhng a great number of horses ; with 
 many other enterprises of the like fiery nature ; for 
 certainly many a man is more rakish and extravagant 
 than he w^ould willingly be, were there not others to 
 look on and give their approbation. 
 
 One very common, and at the same time the most 
 absurd ambition that ever showed itself in human 
 nature, is that which comes upon a man with expe- 
 rience and old age, the season when it might be 
 expected he should be wisest ; and therefore it can- 
 not receive any of those lessening circumstances 
 which do, in some measure, excuse the disorderly 
 ferments of youthful blood ; I mean the passion for 
 getting money, exclusive of the character of the 
 provident father, the affectionate husband, or the 
 generous friend. It may be remarked, for the com- 
 fort of honest poverty, that this desire reigns most in 
 those who have but few good qualities to recommend 
 them. This is a weed that will grow in a barren soil. 
 Humanity, good-nature, and the advantages of a 
 liberal education, are incompatible with avarice. It 
 is strange to see how suddenly this abject passion 
 kills all the noble sentiments and generous ambitions 
 that adorn human nature ; it renders the man who is 
 overrun with it a peevish and cruel master, a severe 
 parent, and unsociable husband, a distant and mis- 
 trustful friend. But it is more to the present purpose 
 to consider it as an absurd passion of the heart, 
 rather than as a vicious affection of the mind. As 
 there are frequent instances to be met with of a proud 
 humihty, so this passion, contrary to most others, 
 affects applause, by avoiding all show and appear- 
 ance : for this reason it will not sometimes endure 
 even the common decencies of apparel. " A covetous 
 
No. 224.] THE SPECTATOR, 171 
 
 man will call himself poor, that you may soothe his 
 vanity by contradicting him." Love and the desire 
 of glory, as they are the most natural, so they are 
 capable of being refined into the most dehcate and 
 rational passions. It is true, the wise man who strikes 
 out of the secret paths of a private life, for honor 
 and dignity, allured by the splendor of a court, and 
 the unfelt weight of public employment, whether he 
 succeeds in his attempts or no, usually comes near 
 enough to this painted greatness to discern the daub- 
 ing ; he is then desirous of extricating himself out of 
 the hurry of life, that he may pass away the remainder 
 of his days in tranquillity and retirement. 
 
 It may be thought then but common prudence in 
 a man not to change a better state for a worse, nor 
 ever to quit that which he knows he shall take up 
 again with pleasure ; and yet if human life be not a 
 little moved with the gentle gales of hopes and fears, 
 there may be some danger of its stagnating in an 
 unmanly indolence and security. It is a known story 
 of Domitian, that after he had possessed himself of 
 the Roman empire, his desires turned upon catching 
 flies. Active and mascuhne spirits in the vigor of 
 youth neither can nor ought to remain at rest. If 
 they debar themselves from aiming at a noble object, 
 their desires will move downward, and they will feel 
 themselves actuated by some low and abject passion. 
 Thus, if you cut off the top branches of a tree, and 
 will not suffer it to grow any higher, it will not there- 
 fore cease to grow, but will quickly shoot out at the 
 bottom. The man indeed who goes into the world 
 only with the narrow views of self-interest, who 
 catches at the applause of an idle multitude, as he 
 can find no solid contentment at the end of his jour- 
 ney, so he deserves to meet with disappointments in 
 his way ; but he who is actuated by a noble princi- 
 
172 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 224. 
 
 pie ; whose mind is so far enlarged as to take in the 
 prospect of his country's good; who is enamored 
 with that praise which is one of the fair attendants of 
 virtue, and values not those acclamations which are 
 not seconded by the impartial testimony of his own 
 mind ; who repines not at the low station which Prov- 
 idence has at present allotted him, but yet would 
 willingly advance himself by justifiable means to a 
 more rising and advantageous ground ; such a man 
 is warmed with a generous emulation ; it is a virtuous 
 movement in him to wish and to endeavor that his 
 power of doing good may be equal to his will. 
 
 The man who is fitted out by nature, and sent into 
 the world with great abilities, is capable of doing 
 great good or mischief in it. It ought therefore to 
 be the care of education to infuse into the untainted 
 youth early notions of justice and honor, that so the 
 possible advantages of good parts may not take an 
 evil turn, nor be perverted to base and unworthy 
 purposes. It is the business of religion and philoso- 
 phy not so much to extinguish our passions, as to 
 regulate and direct them to valuable well-chosen 
 objects. When these have pointed out to us which 
 course we may lawfully steer, it is no harm to set out 
 all our sail ; if the storms and tempests of adversity 
 should rise upon us, and not suffer us to make the 
 haven where we would be, it will however prove no 
 small consolation to us in these circumstances, that 
 we have neither mistaken our course, nor fallen into 
 calamities of our own procuring. 
 
 Rehgion therefore (were we to consider it no fur- 
 ther than as it interposes in the affairs of this life) is 
 highly valuable, and worthy of great veneration ; as 
 it settles the various pretensions, and otherwise inter- 
 fering interests of mortal men, and thereby consults 
 the harmony and order of the great community ; as 
 
No. 225-] THE SPECTATOR. 173 
 
 it gives a man room to play his part and exert his 
 abilities ; as it animates to actions truly laudable in 
 themselves, in their effects beneficial to society ; as 
 it inspires rational ambition, correct love and elegant 
 desire. — Z. 
 
 No. 225.] Saturday, November 17, 1711. 
 
 Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia. 
 
 Juv., Sat. X, 365. 
 
 Prudence supplies the want of every good. 
 
 I HAVE often thought if the minds of men were 
 laid open, we should see but little difference between 
 that of the wise man, and that of the fool. There 
 are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a 
 perpetual train of vanities which pass through both. 
 The great difference is, that the first knows how to 
 pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by sup- 
 pressing some, and communicating others ; whereas 
 the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. 
 This sort of discretion, however, has no place in 
 private conversation between intimate friends. On 
 such occasions the wisest men very often talk like the 
 weakest ; for indeed the talking with a friend is noth- 
 ing else but thinking aloud. 
 
 Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept 
 delivered by some ancient writers, that a man should 
 live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave 
 him room to become his friend ; and with his friend 
 in such a manner, that if he became his enemy, it 
 should not be in his power to hurt him. The first 
 part of this rule, which regards our behavior toward 
 an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very 
 prudential ; but the latter part of it, which regards 
 our behavior toward a friend, savors more of cunning 
 
174 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 225. 
 
 than of discretion, and would cut a man off from the 
 greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of 
 conversation with a bosom friend. Beside that, when 
 a friend is turned into an enem_y, and, as the son of 
 Sirach calls him,* '' a bewrayer of secrets," the world 
 is just enough to accuse the periidiousness of the 
 friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who 
 confided in him. 
 
 Discretion does not only show itself in words, but 
 in all the circumstances of action, and is hke an un- 
 der-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the 
 ordinary concerns of life. 
 
 There are many more shining qualities in the mind 
 of man, but there is none so useful as discretion ; it 
 is this indeed which gives a value to all the rest, 
 which sets them at work in their proper times and 
 places, and turns them to the advantage of the person 
 who is possessed of them. Without it, learning is 
 pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks 
 like weakness : the best parts only qualify a man to 
 be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own 
 prejudice. 
 
 Nor does discretion only make a man the master 
 of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet 
 man finds out the talents of those he converses with, 
 and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Ac- 
 cordingly, if we look into particular communities and 
 divisions of men, we may observe that it is the dis- 
 creet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the 
 brave, who guides the conversation, and gives meas- 
 ures to the society. A man with great talents, but 
 void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, 
 strong and blind, endued with an irresistible force, 
 which for want of sight is of no use to him. 
 
 *Eccles., vi, 9; xxvii, 17. 
 
No. 225.] THE SPECTATOR, 175 
 
 Though a man has all other perfections, and wants 
 discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the 
 world ; but if he has this single talent in perfection, 
 and but a common share of others, he may do what 
 he pleases in his particular station of life. 
 
 At the same time that I think discretion the most 
 useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon 
 cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, 
 ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest 
 ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable 
 methods of attaining them. Cunning has only pri- 
 vate selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may 
 make them succeed. Discretion has large and 
 extended views, and like a well-formed eye, com- 
 mands a whole horizon. Cunning is a kind of short- 
 sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which 
 are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a 
 distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives 
 a greater authority to the person who possesses it. 
 Cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, 
 and makes a man incapable of bringing about even 
 those events which he might have done, had he 
 passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the per- 
 fection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties 
 of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks 
 out after our immediate interests and welfare. Dis- 
 cretion is only found in men of strong sense and 
 good understandings : cunning is often to be met 
 with in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but 
 the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is 
 only the mimic of discretion, and may pass upon 
 weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often 
 mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 
 
 The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet 
 man, makes him look forward into futurity, and con- 
 sider what will be his condition milHons of ages 
 
176 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 225. 
 
 hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows 
 that the misery or happiness which are reserved for 
 him in another world, lose nothing of their reality by 
 being at so great distance from him. The objects 
 do not appear little to him because they are remote. 
 He considers that those pleasures and pains which 
 lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every mo- 
 ment, and will be present with him in their full weight 
 and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures 
 which he feels at this very instant. For this reason 
 he i3 careful to secure to himself that which is the 
 proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate de- 
 sign of his being. He carries his thoughts to the 
 end of every action, and considers the most distant 
 as well as the most immediate effects of it. He 
 supersedes every httle prospect of gain and advan- 
 tage which offers itself here, if he does not find it 
 consistent with his views of a hereafter. In a word, 
 his hopes are full of immortahty, his schemes are 
 large and glorious, and his conduct suitable to one 
 who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by 
 proper methods. 
 
 I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered it 
 both as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and have 
 therefore described it in its full extent ; not only as 
 it is conversant about worldly affairs, but as it regards 
 our whole existence ; not only as it is the guide of a 
 mortal creature, but as it is in general the director of 
 a reasonable being. It is in this hght, that discretion 
 is represented by the wise man, who sometimes men- 
 tions it under the name of discretion, and sometimes 
 under that of wisdom. It is indeed (as described in 
 the latter part of this paper) the greatest wisdom, but 
 at the same time in the power of every one to attain. 
 Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition easy ; 
 or to speak of her in the words of the apocrypha] 
 
No. 231.] THE SPECTATOR. 177 
 
 writer whom I quoted in my last Saturday's paper,* 
 '' Wisdom is glorious, and never fadeth away, yet she 
 is easily seen of them that love her, and found of 
 such as seek her. She preventeth them that desire 
 her, in making herself first known unto them. He 
 that seeketh her early, shall have no great travel ; for 
 he shall find her sitting at his doors. To think there- 
 fore upon her is the perfection of wisdom, and whoso 
 watcheth for her shall quickly be without care. For 
 she goeth about seeking such as are worthy of her, 
 showeth herself favorably unto them in the ways, and 
 meeteth them in every thought." — C. 
 
 No. 231.] Saturday, November 24, 171 1. 
 
 O pudor ! O pietas ! Mart,, viii, 78. 
 
 O modesty ! O piety ! 
 
 Looking over the letters which I have lately re- 
 ceived from my correspondents, I met with the fol- 
 lowing one, which is written with such a spirit of 
 politeness, that I could not but be very much pleased 
 with it myself, and question not but it will be as ac- 
 ceptable to the reader. 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, 
 
 '' You, who are no stranger to public assemblies, 
 cannot but have observed the awe they often strike 
 on such as are obliged to exert any talent before 
 them. This is a sort of elegant distress, to which in- 
 genuous minds are the most liable, and may therefore 
 deserve some remarks in your paper. Many a brave 
 
 * Wisdom of Solomon, chap, vi, ver. 12 — 16. 
 
lyS THE SPECTATOR, [No. 231. 
 
 fellow, who has put his enemy to flight in the field, 
 has been in the utmost disorder upon making a speech 
 before a body of his friends at home. One would 
 think there was some kind of fascination in the 
 eyes of a large circle of people, when darting all to- 
 gether upon one person. I have seen a new actor in 
 a tragedy so bound up by it as to be scarce able to 
 speak or move, and have expected he would have 
 died above three acts before the dagger or cup of 
 poison were brought in. It would not be amiss, if 
 such a one were first introduced as a ghost or statue, 
 until he recovered his spirits, and grew fit for some 
 living part. 
 
 " As this sudden desertion of one's self shows a 
 diffidence, which is not displeasing, it imphes at the 
 same time the greatest respect to an audience that 
 can be. It is a sort of mute eloquence, which pleads 
 for their favor much better than words could do ; 
 and we find their generosity naturally moved to sup- 
 port those who are in so much perplexity to entertain 
 them. I was extremely pleased with a late instance 
 of this kind at the opera of Almahide, in the encour- 
 agement given to a young singer,* whose more than 
 ordinary concern on her first appearance, recom- 
 mended her no less than her agreeable voice and just 
 performance. Mere bashfulness without merit is 
 awkward ; and merit without modesty insolent. But 
 modest merit has a double claim to acceptance, and 
 generally meets with as many patrons as beholders. 
 
 '' I am," etc. 
 
 It is impossible that a person should exert himself 
 to advantage in an assembly, whether it be his part 
 
 * Mrs. Barbier. See a curious account of this lady, in Sir 
 John Hawkins's History of Music, vol. v, p. 156. 
 
No. 231.] THE SPECTATOR. 179 
 
 either to sing or speak, who hes under too great op- 
 pressions of modesty. I remember, upon talking 
 with a friend of mine concerning the force of pronun- 
 ciation, our discourse led us into the enumeration of 
 the several organs of speech which an orator ought 
 to have in perfection, as the tongue, the teeth, the 
 lips, the nose, the palate, and the windpipe. Upon 
 which, says my friend, '' You have omitted the most 
 material organ of them all, and that is the fore- 
 head." 
 
 But notwithstanding an excess of modesty obstructs 
 the tongue and renders it unfit for its offices, a due 
 proportion of it is thought so requisite to an orator, 
 that rhetoricians have recommended it to their disci- 
 ples as a particular in their art. Cicero tells us that 
 he never liked an orator who did not appear in some 
 little confusion at the beginning of his speech, and 
 confesses that he himself never entered upon an ora- 
 tion without trembhng and concern. It is indeed a 
 kind of deference which is due to a great assembly, 
 and seldom fails to raise a benevolence in the audi- 
 ence toward the person who speaks. My correspond- 
 ent has taken notice that the bravest men often ap- 
 pear timorous on these occasions, as indeed we may 
 observe, that there is generally no creature more im- 
 pudent than a coward : 
 
 -Lingua melior, sed frigida bello 
 
 Dextera ViRG. ^^n., xi, -t^-i^^. 
 
 Bold at the council-board ; 
 
 But cautious in the field he shunn'd the sword. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 A bold tongue and a feeble arm are the quahfica- 
 tions of Drances in Virgil ; as Homer, to express a 
 man both timorous and saucy, makes use of a kind 
 of point, which is very rarely to be met with in his 
 
i8o THE SPECTATOR. [No. 231. 
 
 writings, namelvj that he had the eyes of a dog, but 
 the heart of a deer.* 
 
 A just and reasonable modesty does not only recom- 
 mend eloquence, but sets off every great talent which 
 a man can be possessed of. It heightens all the vir- 
 tues which it accompanies ; like the shades in paint- 
 ings, it raises and rounds every figure, and makes the 
 colors more beautiful, though not so glaring as they 
 would be without it. 
 
 Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a guard 
 to virtue. It is a kind of quick and delicate feehng 
 in the soul which makes her shrink and withdraw 
 herself from ever}'thing that has danger in it. It is 
 such an exquisite sensibility, as warns her to shun the 
 first appearance of everything which is hurtful. 
 
 I cannot at present recollect either the place or 
 time of what I am going to mention ; but I have 
 read somewhere in the history of ancient Greece, that 
 the women of the countr\' were seized with an unac- 
 countable melancholy, which disposed several of them 
 to make away with themselves. The senate, after 
 having tried many expedients to prevent this self- 
 murder, which was so frequent among them, pub- 
 lished an edict, that if any woman whatever should 
 lay violent hands upon herself, her corpse should be 
 exposed naked in the street, and dragged about the 
 city in the most public manner. This edict immer 
 diately put a stop to the practice which was before 
 so common. We may see in this instance the strength 
 of female modesty, which was able to overcome even 
 the violence of madness and despair. The fear of 
 shame in the fair sex was in those days more preva- 
 lent than that of death. 
 
 If modesty has so great an influence over our ac- 
 
 * Iliad, i, 225. 
 
No. 231.] THE SPECTATOR, i8i 
 
 tions, and is in many cases so impregnable a fence to 
 virtue : what can more undermine morality than that 
 politeness which reigns among the unthinking part of 
 mankind, and treats as unfashionable the most ingen- 
 uous part of our behavior ; which recommends impu- 
 dence as good-breeding, and keeps a man always in 
 countenance, not because he is innocent, but because 
 he is shameless? 
 
 Seneca thought modesty so great a check to vice, 
 that he prescribes to us the practice of it in secret, 
 and advises us to raise it in ourselves upon imaginary 
 occasions, when such as are real do not offer them- 
 selves ; for this is the meaning of his precept. That 
 when we are by ourselves, and in our greatest soli- 
 tudes, we should fancy that Cato stands before us 
 and sees everything we do. In short, if you banish 
 modesty out of the world, she carries away with her 
 half the virtue that is in it. 
 
 After these reflections on modesty, as it is a virtue ; 
 I must observe, that there is a vicious modesty which 
 justly deserves to be ridiculed, and which those per- 
 sons- very often discover who value themselves most 
 upon a well-bred confidence. This happens when a 
 man is ashamed to act up to his reason, and would 
 not upon any consideration be surprised at the prac- 
 tice of those duties, for the performance of which he 
 was sent into the world. Many an impudent hber- 
 tine would blush to be caught in a serious discourse, 
 and would scarce be able to show his head after hav- 
 ing disclosed a religious thought. Decency of be- 
 havior, all outward show of virtue, and abhorrence of 
 vice are carefully avoided by this set of shamefaced 
 people, as what would disparage their gayety of tem- 
 per, and infalHbly bring them to dishonor. This is 
 such a poorness of spirit, such a despicable cowardice, 
 such a degenerate, abject state of mind, as one would 
 
l82 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 237. 
 
 think human nature incapable of, did we not meet 
 with frequent instances of it in ordinary conversation. 
 There is another kind of vicious modesty which 
 makes a man ashamed of his person, his birth, his 
 profession, his poverty, or the Hke misfortunes, which 
 it was not in his choice to prevent, and is not in his 
 power to rectify. If a man appears ridiculous by any 
 of the afore-mentioned circumstances, he becomes 
 much more so by being out of countenance for them. 
 They should rather give him occasion to exert a no- 
 ble spirit, and to palliate those imperfections which 
 are not in his power, by those perfections which are ; 
 or to use a very witty allusion of an eminent author, 
 he should imitate Caesar, who, because his head was 
 bald, covered that defect with laurels. — C. 
 
 No. 237.] Saturday, December i, 171 i. 
 
 Visu carentem magna pars veri latet. 
 
 Seneca, in CEdip. 
 
 They that are dim of sight see truth by halves. 
 
 It is very reasonable to believe, that part of the 
 pleasure which happy minds shall enjoy in a future 
 state, will arise from an enlarged contemplation of 
 the Divine Wisdom in the government of the world, 
 and a discovering of the secret and amazing steps of 
 Providence, from the beginning to the end of time. 
 Nothing seems to be an entertainment more adapted 
 to the nature of man, if we consider that curiosity is 
 one of the strongest and most lasting appetites im- 
 planted in us, and that admiration is one of our most 
 pleasing passions ; and what a perpetual succession 
 of enjoyments will be afforded to both these, in a 
 scene so large and various as shall then be laid open 
 
No. 237.] THE SPECTATOR. 183 
 
 to our view in the society of superior spirits, who 
 perhaps will join with us in so delightful a prospect. 
 It is not impossible, on the contrary, that part of 
 the punishment of such as are excluded from bliss, 
 may consist not only in their being denied this privi- 
 lege, but in having their appetites at the same time 
 vastly increased without any satisfaction afforded to 
 them. In these, the vain pursuit of knowledge shall, 
 perhaps, add to their infehcity, and bewilder them 
 into labyrinths of error, darkness, distraction, and un- 
 certainty of everything but their own evil state. Mil- 
 ton has thus represented the fallen angels reasoning 
 together in a kind of respite from their torments, and 
 creating to themselves a new disquiet amidst their 
 very amusements: he could not properly have de- 
 scribed the sport of condemned spirits, without that 
 cast of horror and melancholy he has so judiciously 
 mingled with them! 
 
 Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, 
 In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high 
 Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, 
 Fix'd fate, freewill, foreknowledge absolute. 
 And found no end in wandering mazes lost.* 
 
 In our present condition, which is a middle state, 
 our minds are as it were checkered with truth and 
 falsehood : and as oiu* faculties are narrow, and our 
 views imperfect, it is impossible but our curiosity must 
 meet with many repulses. The business of mankind 
 in this life being rather to act than to know, their por- 
 tion of knowledge is dealt to them accordingly. 
 
 From hence it is, that the reason of the inquisitive 
 has so long been exercised with difficulties, in ac- 
 counting for the promiscuous distribution of good 
 
 * Parad. Lost, b. ii, v. 557. 
 
i84 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 237. 
 
 and evil to the virtuous and the wicked in this world. 
 From hence come all those pathetic complaints of so 
 many tragical events which happen to the w4se and 
 the good ; and of such smprising prosperity, which 
 is often the lot * of the guilty and the foolish ; that 
 reason is sometimes puzzled, and at a loss what to 
 pronounce upon so mysterious a dispensation. 
 
 Plato expresses his abhorrence of some fables of 
 the poets, which seem to reflect on the gods as the 
 authors of injustice ; and lays it down as a principle, 
 that whatever is permitted to befall a just man, whether 
 poverty, sickness, or any of those things which seem 
 to be evils, shall either in hfe or death conduce to his 
 good. My reader will observe how agreeable this 
 maxim is to what we find delivered by greater au- 
 thority. Seneca has ^ratten a discourse purposely 
 on this subject ;t in which he takes pains, after the 
 doctrine of the Stoics, to show that adversity is not 
 in itself an evil: and mentions a noble saying of 
 Demetrius, that ''nothing would be more unhappy 
 than a man who had never known affliction." He 
 compares prosperity to the indulgence of a fond 
 mother to a child, w^hich often proves his ruin : but 
 the affection of the Divine Being to that of a wise 
 father, who would have his sons exercised with labor, 
 disappointments, and pain, that they may gather 
 strength and improve their fortitude. On this occa- 
 sion^ the philosopher rises into that celebrated senti- 
 ment, that there is not on earth a spectacle more 
 worthy the regard of a Creator intent on his works, 
 than a brave man superior to his sufferings : to w^hich 
 he adds, that it must be a pleasure to Jupiter himself 
 
 *Spect., in folio, for reward, etc. 
 
 t Vid. Senec. " De constantia sapientis, sive quod in sapi- 
 entem non cadit injuria." 
 
No. 237.] THE SPECTATOR. 185 
 
 to look down from heaven, and see Cato amidst the 
 ruins of his country preserving his integrity. 
 
 This thought will appear yet more reasonable, if 
 we consider human hfe as a state of probation, and 
 adversity as the post of honor in it, assigned often to 
 the best and most select spirits. 
 
 But what I would chiefly insist on here is, that we 
 are not at present in a proper situation to judge 
 of the councils by which Providence acts, since but 
 httle arrives at our knowledge, and even that little 
 we discern imperfectly ; or according to the elegant 
 figure in holy writ, '' we see but in part, and as in 
 a glass darkly." * It is to be considered that Provi- 
 dence in its economy regards the whole system of 
 time and things together, so that we cannot discover 
 the beautiful connection between incidents which 
 lie widely separate in time ; and by losing so many 
 links of the chain, our reasonings become broken 
 and imperfect. Thus those parts of the moral world 
 which have not an absolute, may yet have a relative 
 beauty, in respect of some other parts concealed 
 from us, but open to his eye before whom ''past," 
 '* present," and ** to come," are set together in one 
 point of view : and those events, the permission of 
 which seems now to accuse his goodness, may in the 
 consummation of things both magnify his good- 
 ness, and exalt his wisdom. And this is enough to 
 check our presumption, since it is in vain to apply 
 our measures of regularity to matters of which we 
 know neither the antecedents nor the consequents, 
 the beginning nor the end. 
 
 I shall relieve my readers from this abstracted 
 thought, by relating here a Jewish tradition concern- 
 ing Moses, which seems to be a kind of parable, 
 
 * I Cor., xiii, 12. 
 
i86 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 237. 
 
 illustrating what I have last mentioned. That great 
 prophet, it is said, was called up by a voice from 
 heaven to the top of a mountain ; where, in a con- 
 ference with the Supreme Being, he was admitted to 
 propose to him some questions concerning his admin- 
 istration of the universe. In the midst of this divine 
 colloquy he was commanded to look down on the 
 plain below. At the foot of the mountain there issued 
 out a clear spring of water, at which a soldier alighted 
 from his horse to drink. He was no sooner gone than 
 a little boy came to the same place, and finding a 
 purse of gold which the soldier had dropped, took it 
 up and went away with it. Immediately after this 
 came an infirm old man, weary with age and traveling, 
 and having quenched his thirst sat down to rest him- 
 self by the side of the spring. The soldier, missing 
 his purse, returns to search for it, and demanded it 
 of the old man, who affirms he had not seen it, and 
 appeals to Heaven in witness of his innocence. The 
 soldier, not believing his protestations, kills him. 
 Moses fell on his face with horror and amazement, 
 when the Divine voice thus prevented his expostula- 
 tion : '' Be not surprised, Moses, nor ask why the 
 Judge of the whole earth has suffered this thing to 
 come to pass. The child is the occasion that the 
 blood of the old man is spilt ; but know that the old 
 man whom thou sawest was the murderer of that 
 child's father." 
 
No. 239-] THE SPECTATOR, 187 
 
 No. 239.] Tuesday, December 4, 1711, 
 
 ■Bella, horrida bella !— Virg. -^n., vi, 86. 
 -Wars, horrid wars ! — Dryden. 
 
 I HAVE sometimes amused myself with considering 
 the several methods of managing a debate which 
 have obtained in the world. 
 
 The first races of mankind used to dispute, as 
 our ordinary people do now-a-day, in a kind of wild 
 logic, uncultivated by rules of art. 
 
 Socrates introduced a catechetical method of ar- 
 guing. He would ask his adversary question upon 
 question, until he had convinced him out of his own 
 mouth, that his opinions were wrong. This way of 
 debating drives an enemy up into a comer, seizes all 
 the passes through which he can make an escape, 
 and forces him to surrender at discretion. 
 
 Aristotle changed this method of attack, and in- 
 vented a great variety of little weapons, called syllo- 
 gisms. As in the Socratic way of dispute you agree 
 to everything your opponent advances ; in the Aris- 
 totelic, you are still denying and contradicting some 
 part or other of what he says. Socrates conquers 
 you by stratagem, Aristotle by force. The one takes 
 the town by sap, the other sword in hand. 
 
 The universities of Europe, for many years, carried 
 on their debates by syllogism, insomuch that we see 
 the knowledge of several centuries laid out into ob- 
 jections and answers, and all the good sense of the 
 age cut and minced into almost an infinitude of dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
 When our universities found there was no end of 
 wrangling, this way, they invented a kind of argu- 
 ment, which is not reducible to any mood or figure 
 
i88 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 239. 
 
 in Aristotle. It was called the Argumentum Basilinum 
 (others write it Bacihnum or BacuUnum), which is 
 pretty well expressed in our Enghsh word club-law. 
 When they were not able to confute their antagonist, 
 they knocked him down. It was their method, in 
 these polemical debates, first to discharge their syllo- 
 gisms, and afterward to betake themselves to their 
 clubs, until such time as they had one way or other 
 confounded their gainsayers. There is in Oxford a 
 narrow defile (to make use of a military term) where 
 the partisans used to encounter ; for which reason it 
 still retains the name of Logic-lane. I have heard 
 an old gentleman, a physician, make his boasts, that 
 when he was a young fellow he marched several times 
 at the head of a troop of Scotists,* and cudgeled a 
 body of Smiglesians,! half the length of High-street, 
 until they had dispersed themselves for shelter into 
 their respective garrisons. 
 
 This humor, I find, went very far in Erasmus's 
 time. For that author tells us, that upon the revival 
 of Greek letters, most of the universities in Europe 
 were divided into Greeks and Trojans. The latter 
 were those who bore a mortal enmity to the language 
 of the Grecians, insomuch that if they met with any 
 who understood it, they did not fail to treat him as 
 a foe. Erasmus himself had, it seems, the misfortune 
 to fall into the hands of a party of Trojans, who laid 
 him on with so many blows and buffets that he never 
 forgot their hostilities to his dying day. 
 
 * The followers of Duns Scotus, a celebrated doctor of the 
 schools, who flourished about the year 1300, and from his op- 
 posing some favorite doctrines of Thomas Aquinas, gave rise 
 to a new party called Scotists, in opposition to the Thomists, 
 or followers of the other. 
 
 t The followers of Martin Smiglecius, a famous logician of 
 the 1 6th century. 
 
No. 239.] THE SPECTATOR. 189 
 
 There is a way of managing an argument not 
 much unHke the former, which is made use of by 
 states and communities, when they draw up a hun- 
 dred thousand disputants on each side, and convince 
 one another by dint of sword. A certain grand 
 monarch * was so sensible of his strength in this 
 way of reasoning, that he wrote upon his great 
 guns — Ratio ultima reguin^ '' The logic of kings ; " 
 but, God be thanked, he is now pretty well baffled 
 at his own weapons. When one has to do with a 
 philosopher of this kind, one should remember the 
 old gentleman's saying, who had been engaged in 
 an argument with one of the Roman emperors. t 
 Upon his friends telling him that he wondered he 
 would gV7Q up the question, when he had visibly 
 the better of the dispute ; '' I am never ashamed," 
 says he, '' to be confuted by one who is master of 
 fifty legions." 
 
 I shall but just mention another kind of reasoning, 
 which may be called arguing by poll ; and another, 
 which is of equal force, in which wagers are made use 
 of as arguments, according to the celebrated line in 
 Hudibras.f 
 
 But the most notable way of managing a contro- 
 versy, is that which we may call arguing by torture. 
 This is a method of reasoning which has been made 
 use of with the poor refugees, and which was so 
 fashionable in our country during the reign of Queen 
 Mary, that in a passage of an author quoted by Mon- 
 sieur Bayle, it is said the price of wood was raised in 
 England, by reason of the executions that were made 
 in Smithfield.§ These disputants convince their ad- 
 
 * Louis XIV, of France. t The Emperor Adrian. 
 
 X Part 2, c. 1, V. 297. 
 
 § The author quoted is And. Ammonius. See his life in 
 
I90 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 239. 
 
 versaries with a sorites,* commonly called a pile of 
 fagots. The rack is also a kind of syllogism which 
 has been used with good effect, and has made multi- 
 tudes of converts. Men were formerly disputed out 
 of their doubts, reconciled to truth by force of reason, 
 and won over to opinions by the candor, sense, and 
 ingenuity of those who had the right on their side ; 
 but this method of conviction operated too slowly. 
 Pain was found to be much more enhghtening than 
 reason. Every scruple was looked upon as obstinacy, 
 and not to be removed but by engines invented for 
 that purpose. In a word, the appHcation of whips, 
 racks, gibbets, galleys, dungeons, fire and fagot, in a 
 dispute, may be looked upon as popish refinements 
 upon the old heathen logic. 
 
 There is another way of reasoning which seldom 
 fails, though it be of a quite different nature to that 
 I have last mentioned. I mean, convincing a man 
 by ready money, or, as is ordinarily called, bribing 
 a man to an opinion. This method has often proved 
 successful, when all the others have been made use 
 of to no purpose. A man who is furnished with ar- 
 guments from the mint, will convince his antagonist 
 much sooner than one who draws them from reason 
 and philosophy. Gold is a wonderful clearer of the 
 understanding ; it dissipates every doubt and scruple 
 in an instant ; accommodates itself to the meanest 
 capacities ; silences the loud and clamorous, and 
 brings over the most obstinate and inflexible. Philip 
 of Macedon was a man of most invincible reason this 
 
 Bayle's Diet. — The Spectator's memory deceived him in ap- 
 plying the remark, which was made in the reign of Henry 
 VIII. It was, however, much more applicable to that of 
 Queen Mary. 
 
 * A sorites is a heap of propositions thrown together. 
 
No. 243.] THE SPECTATOR. 191 
 
 way. He refuted by it all the wisdom of Athens, 
 confounded their statesmen, struck their orators dumb, 
 and at length argued them out of all their Hberties. 
 
 Having here touched upon the several methods of 
 disputing, as they have prevailed in different ages of 
 the world, I shall very suddenly give my reader an 
 account of the whole art of caviling ; which shall be 
 a full and satisfactory answer to all such papers and 
 pamphlets as have yet appeared against the Specta- 
 tor.— C. 
 
 No. 243.] Saturday, December 8, 171 1. 
 
 Formam quidem ipsam, Marce fili, et tanquam faciem honesti vides : 
 quae si oculis cemeretur, mirabiles amores (ut ait I^lato) excitaret sa- 
 pientiae. — Tull. OfiBc. 
 
 You see, my son Marcus, virtue as if it were embodied, wtiich if it 
 could be made the object of sight, would (as Plato says) excite in us a 
 wonderful love of wisdom. 
 
 I DO not remember to have read any discourse 
 written expressly upon the beauty and loveliness of 
 virtue, without considering it as a duty, and as the 
 means of making us happy both now and hereafter. 
 I design therefore this speculation as an essay upon 
 that subject, in which I shall consider virtue no fur- 
 ther than as it is in itself of an amiable nature, after I 
 have premised, that I understand by the word virtue 
 such a general notion as is affixed to it by the writers 
 of morality, and which by devout men generally goes 
 under the name of religion, and by men of the world 
 under the name of honor. 
 
 Hypocrisy itself does great honor, or rather justice, 
 to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an orna- 
 ment to human nature. The hypocrite would not be 
 at so much pains to put on the appearance of virtue, 
 if he did not know it was the most proper and 
 
192 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 243. 
 
 effectual means to gain the love and esteem of man- 
 kind. 
 
 We learn from Hierocles, it was a common saying 
 among the heathens, that the wise man hates nobody, 
 but only loves the virtuous. 
 
 Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to 
 show how amiable viitue is. '' We love a virtuous 
 man," says he, ''who lives in the remotest parts of 
 the earthy though we are altogether out of the reach 
 of his virtue, and can receive from it no manner of 
 benefit." Nay, one who died several ages ago, raises 
 a secret fondness and benevolence for him in our 
 minds, when we read his story. Nay, what is still 
 more, one who has been the enemy of our country, 
 provided his wars were regulated by justice and hu- 
 manity, as in the instance of Pyrrhus, whom Tully 
 mentions on this occasion in opposition to Hannibal. 
 Such is the natural beauty and loveliness of virtue. 
 
 Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, ascribes 
 all good qualifications of w^hat kind soever to the 
 virtuous man. Accordingly, Cato, in the character 
 Tully has left of him, carried matters so far, that he 
 would not allow any one but a virtuous man to be 
 handsome. This indeed looks more like a philosoph- 
 ical rant than the real opinion of a wise man ; yet 
 this was what Cato very seriously maintained. In 
 short, the stoics thought they could not sufficiently 
 represent the excellence of virtue, if they did not 
 comprehend in the notion of it all possible perfec- 
 tions ; and therefore did not only suppose, that it was 
 transcendently beautiful in itself, but that it made the 
 very body amiable, and banished every kind of de- 
 formity from the person in whom it resided. 
 
 It is a common observation, that the most aban- 
 doned to all sense of goodness, are apt to wish those 
 who are related to them of a different character : and 
 
No. 243.] THE SPECTATOR, 193 
 
 it is very observable, that none are more struck with 
 the charms of virtue in the fair sex, than those who 
 by their very admiration of it are carried to a desire 
 of ruining it. 
 
 A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine 
 picture in a good hght, and therefore it is no wonder 
 that it makes the beautiful sex all over charms. 
 
 As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely 
 nature, there are some particular kinds of it which 
 are more so than others, and these are such as dis- 
 pose us to do good to mankind. Temperance and 
 abstinence, faith and devotion, are in themselves 
 perhaps as laudable as any other virtues ; but those 
 which make a man popular and beloved, are justice, 
 charity, munificence, and, in short, all the good quali- 
 ties which render us beneficial to each other. For 
 this reason even an extravagant man, who has noth- 
 ing else to recommend him but a false generosity, 
 is often more beloved and esteemed than a person of 
 a much more finished character, who is defective in 
 this particular. 
 
 The two great ornaments of virtue, which show 
 her in the most advantageous views, and make her 
 altogether lovely, are cheerfulness and good-nature. 
 These generally go together, as a man cannot be 
 agreeable to others who is not easy within himself. 
 They are both very requisite in a virtuous mind, to 
 keep out melancholy from the many serious thoughts 
 it is engaged in, and to hinder its natiu*al hatred of 
 vice from souring into severity and censoriousness. 
 
 If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we 
 think of those who can look upon it with an eye of 
 hatred and ill-will, or can suffer their aversion for a 
 party to blot out all the merit of the person who is 
 engaged in it? A man must be excessively stupid, 
 as well as uncharitable, who beHeves that there is n6 
 
194 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 247. 
 
 virtue but on his own side, and that there are not men 
 as honest as himself who may differ from him in po- 
 htical principles. Men may oppose one another in 
 some particulars, but ought not to carry their hatred 
 to those qualities which are of so amiable a nature in 
 themselves, and have nothing to do with the points 
 in dispute. Men of virtue, though of different in- 
 terests, ought to consider themselves as more nearly 
 united with one another, than with the vicious part of 
 mankind, who embark with them in the same civil 
 concerns. We should bear the same love toward a 
 man of honor who is a living antagonist, which TuUy 
 tells us in the fore-mentioned passage, every one nat- 
 urally does to an enemy that is dead. In short, we 
 should esteem virtue though in a foe, and abhor vice 
 though in a friend. 
 
 I speak this with an eye to those cruel treatments 
 which men of all sides are apt to give the characters 
 of those who do not agree with them. How many 
 persons of undoubted probity and exemplary virtue, on 
 either side, are blackened and defamed? How many 
 men of honor exposed to public obloquy and re- 
 proach? Those therefore who are either the instru- 
 ments or abettors in such infernal dealings, ought to 
 be looked upon as persons who make use of rehgion 
 to promote their cause, not of their cause to promote 
 rehgion. — C. 
 
 No. 247.] Thursday, December 13, 171 1. 
 
 Their untir'd lips a wordy torrent pour.— Hesiod. 
 
 We are told by some ancient authors, that Socrates 
 was instructed in eloquence by a woman, whose name, 
 if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia. I have indeed 
 very often looked upon that art as the most proper 
 
No. 247.] THE SPECTATOR. 195 
 
 for the female sex, and I think the universities would 
 do well to consider whether they should not fill the 
 rhetoric chairs with she-professors. 
 
 It has been said in the praise of some men, that 
 they could talk whole hours together upon anything ; 
 but it must be owned to the honor of the other sex, 
 that there are many among them who can talk whole 
 hours together upon nothing. I have known a 
 woman branch out into a long extempore dissertation 
 upon the edging of a petticoat, and chide her servant 
 for breaking a china cup, in all the figures of rhetoric. 
 
 Were women permitted to plead in courts of judi- 
 cature, I am persuaded they would carry the elo- 
 quence of the bar to greater heights than it has yet 
 arrived at. If any one doubts this, let him but be 
 present at those debates which frequently arise among 
 the ladies of the British fishery. 
 
 The first kind, therefore, of female orators which 
 I shall take notice of, are those who are employed in 
 stirring up the passions ; a part of rhetoric in which 
 Socrates' wife had perhaps made a greater proficiency 
 than his above-mentioned teacher. 
 
 The second kind of female orators are those who 
 deal in invectives, and who are commonly known by 
 the name of the censorious. The imagination and 
 elocution of this sort of rhetoricians is wonderful. 
 With what a fluency of invention, and copiousness 
 of expression, will they enlarge upon every little slip 
 in the behavior of another ! With how many differ- 
 ent circumstances, and with what variety of phrases, 
 will they tell over the same story ! I have known an 
 old lady make an unhappy marriage the subject of a 
 month's conversation. She blamed the bride in one 
 place ; pitied her in another ; laughed at her in a 
 third ; wondered at her in a fourth ; was angry with her 
 in a fifth ; and, in short, wore out a pair of coach- 
 
196 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 247. 
 
 horses in expressing her concern for her. At length, 
 after having quite exhausted the subject on this side, 
 she made a \-isit to the new-married pair, praised the 
 wife for the prudent choice she had made, told her 
 the unreasonable reflections which some malicious 
 people had cast upon her, and desired that they 
 might be better acquainted. The censure and appro- 
 bation of this kind of women are therefore only to be 
 considered as helps to discourse. 
 
 A third kind of female orators may be compre- 
 hended under the word gossips. Mrs. Fiddle- Fad- 
 die is perfectly accomphshed in this sort of eloquence ; 
 she launches out into descriptions of christenings, 
 runs divisions upon a head-dress, knows every dish 
 of meat that is served up in our neighborhood, and 
 entertains her company a whole afternoon together 
 with the wit of her Httle boy, before he is able to 
 speak. 
 
 The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth kind 
 of female orator. To give herself the larger field for 
 discourse, she hates and loves in the same breath, 
 talks to her lap-dog or parrot, is uneasy in all kinds 
 of weather, and in ever}' part of the room. She has 
 false quarrels and feigned obhgations to all the men 
 of her acquaintance ; sighs when she is not sad, and 
 laughs when she is not merr\'. The coquette is in 
 particular a great mistress of that part of oratory 
 which is called action, and indeed seems to speak for 
 no other purpose, but as it gives her an opportunity 
 of stirring a limb, or varying a featiu-e, of glancing 
 her eyes, or playing with her fan. 
 
 As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story-tell- 
 ers, wnth other characters of that nature which give 
 birth to loquacity, they are as commonly found 
 among the men as the women : for which reason I 
 shall pass them over in silence. 
 
No. 247.] THE SPECTATOR, 197 
 
 I have often been puzzled to assign a cause why- 
 women should have this talent of a ready utterance in 
 so much greater perfection than men. I have some- 
 times fancied that they have not a retentive power, 
 or the faculty of suppressing their thoughts, as men 
 have, but that they are necessitated to speak every- 
 thing they think ; and if so, it would perhaps furnish 
 a very strong argument to the Cartesians for the sup- 
 porting of their doctrine that the soul always thinks. 
 But as several are of opinion that the fair sex are 
 not altogether strangers to the art of dissembling and 
 concealing their thoughts, I have been forced to re- 
 Hnquish that opinion, and have therefore endeavored 
 to seek after some better reason. In order to it, a 
 friend of mine, who is an excellent anatomist, has 
 promised me by the first opportunity to dissect a 
 woman's tongue, and to examine whether there may 
 not be in it certain juices which render it so wonder- 
 fully voluble or flippant, or whether the fibers of it 
 may not be made up of a finer or more pliant thread ; 
 or whether there are not in it some particular muscles 
 which dart it up and down by such sudden glances 
 and vibrations ; or whether, in the last place, there 
 may not be certain undiscovered channels running 
 from the head and the heart to this little instrument 
 of loquacity, and conveying into it a perpetual afflu- 
 ency of animal spirits. Nor must I omit the reason 
 which Hudibras has given, why those who can talk 
 on trifles speak with the greatest fluency; namely, 
 that the tongue is like a race-horse, which runs the 
 faster the lesser weight it carries. 
 
 Which of these reasons soever may be looked upon 
 as the most probable, I think the Irishman's thought 
 was very natural, who after some hours' conversation 
 with a female orator, told her, that he beheved her 
 tongue was very glad when she was asleep, for that 
 
198 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 247. 
 
 it had not a moment's rest all the while she was 
 awake. 
 
 That excellent old ballad of The Wanton Wife of 
 Bath has the following remarkable lines : 
 
 I think, quoth Thomas, women's tongues 
 Of aspen leaves are made. 
 
 And Ovid, though in the description of a very bar- 
 barous circumstance, tells us, that when the tongue 
 of a beautiful female was cut out, and thrown upon 
 the ground, it could not forbear muttering even in 
 that posture : 
 
 Comprensam forcipe lingnam 
 
 Abstulit ense fero, radix micat ultima linguae. 
 Ipsa jacet, terraquse tremens immurmurat atrae ; 
 Utque salire solet mutilatse cauda colubrse 
 Palpitat Met. %-i, 556. 
 
 The blade had cut 
 
 Her tongue sheer oif, close to the trembling root. 
 The mangled part still quiver'd on the ground, 
 Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound ; 
 And as a serpent writhes his wounded train, 
 Uneasy, panting, and possessed -v^^ith pain. — Crox.\ll. 
 
 If a tongue would be talking without a mouth, 
 what could it have done when it had all its organs 
 of speech, and accompHces of soimd about it? I 
 might here mention the stor\- of the Pippin Woman, 
 had I not some reason to look upon it as fabulous. I 
 must confess I am so wonderfully charmed with the 
 music of this Httle instrument, that I would by no 
 means discourage it. All that I aim at by tliis disser- 
 tation is, to cure it of several disagreeable notes, and 
 in particular of those Httle jarrings and dissonances 
 which arise from anger, censoriousness, gossipping, 
 and coquetr}'. In short, I would always have it 
 tuned by good-nature, truth, discretion, and sincer- 
 ity.— C. 
 
No. 248.] THE SPECTATOR, 199 
 
 No. 248.] Friday, December 14, 171 1. 
 
 Hoc maxime officii est, ut quisque maxime opis indigeat, ita ei potis- 
 simum opitulari. — Tull., Off. i, 16. 
 
 It is a principal point of dut}', to assist another most when he stands 
 most in need of assistance. 
 
 There are none who deserve superiority over 
 others in the esteem of mankind who do not make 
 it their endeavor to be beneficial to society ; and who 
 upon all occasions which their circumstances of life 
 can administer, do not take a certain unfeigned pleas- 
 ure in conferring benefits of one kind or other. Those 
 w^hose great talents and high birth have placed them 
 in conspicuous stations of life are indispensably 
 obliged to exert some noble inclinations for the serv- 
 ice of the world, or else such advantages become 
 misfortunes, and shade and privacy are a more eligi- 
 ble portion. Where opportunities and inclinations are 
 given to the same person, we sometimes see sublime 
 instances of virtue, which so dazzle om* imaginations, 
 that we look with scorn on all which in lower scenes 
 of life we may ourselves be able to practice. But 
 this is a vicious way of thinking ; and it bears some 
 spice of romantic madness, for a man to imagine that 
 he must grow ambitious, or seek adventures, to be 
 able to do great actions. It is in every man's power 
 in the world who is above mere poverty, not only to 
 do things worthy, but heroic. The great foundation 
 of civil virtue is self-denial ; and there is no one above 
 the necessities of hfe, but has opportunities of exercis- 
 ing that noble quality, and doing as much as his cir- 
 cumstances will bear for the ease and convenience of 
 other men ; and he who does more than ordinary men 
 practice upon such occasions as occur in his life, de- 
 serves the value of his friends, as if he had done en- 
 
200 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 248. 
 
 terprises which are usually attended with the highest 
 glory. Men of public spirit differ rather in their cir- 
 cumstances than their virtue ; and the man who does 
 all he can, in a low station, is more a hero than he who 
 omits any worthy action he is able to accomplish in a 
 great one. It is not many years ago since Lapirius, 
 in wrong of his elder brother, came to a great estate 
 by the gift of his father, by reason of the dissolute 
 behavior of the first-bom. Shame and contrition re- 
 formed the life of the disinherited youth, and he be- 
 came as remarkable for his good qualities as formerly 
 for his errors. Lapirius, who observed his brother's 
 amendment, sent him on a new-year's day in the 
 morning the following letter : 
 
 " Honored Brother, 
 
 '' I inclose to you the deeds whereby my father 
 gave me this house and land. Had he lived till now, 
 he would not have bestowed it in that manner ; he 
 took it from the man you were, and I restore it to 
 the man you are. 
 
 '^ I am, Sir, your affectionate brother, 
 
 ^' and humble servant, 
 
 As great and exalted spirits undertake the pursuit 
 of hazardous actions for the good of others, at the 
 same time gratifying their passion for glory ; so do 
 worthy minds in the domestic way of life deny them- 
 selves many advantages, to satisfy a generous benevo- 
 lence, which they bear to their friends oppressed with 
 distresses and calamities. Such natures one may call 
 stories of Providence, which are actuated by a se- 
 cret celestial influence to undervalue the ordinary 
 gratifications of wealth, to give comfort to a heart 
 loaded with affliction, to save a falhng family, to pre- 
 
No. 248.] THE SPECTATOR. 201 
 
 serve a branch of trade in their neighborhood, to 
 give work to the industrious, preserve the portion of 
 the helpless infant, and raise the head of the mourn- 
 ing father. People whose hearts are wholly bent 
 toward pleasure, or intent upon gain, never hear of 
 the noble occurrences among men of industry and 
 humanity. It would look like a city romance, to tell 
 them of the generous merchant, who the other day 
 sent his billet to an eminent trader, under difficulties 
 to support himself, in whose fall many hundreds be- 
 side himself had perished ; but because I think there 
 is more spirit and true gallantry in it than in any 
 letter I have ever read from Strephon to Phillis, I 
 shall insert it even in the mercantile honest style in 
 which it was sent : 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 '' I have heard of the casualties which have in- 
 volved you in extreme distress at this time ; and 
 knowing you to be a man of great good-nature, in- 
 dustry, and probity, have resolved to stand by you. 
 Be of good cheer ; the bearer brings with him five 
 thousand pounds, and has my order to answer your 
 drawing as much more on my account. I did this 
 in haste, for fear I should come too late for your 
 relief ; but you may value yourself with me to the 
 sum of fifty thousand pounds ; for I can very cheer- 
 fully run the hazard of being so much less rich than 
 I am now, to save an honest man whom I love. 
 '^ Your Friend and Servant, 
 
 "W. S."* 
 
 I think there is somewhere in Montaigne, mention 
 
 * The merchant involved in distress by casualties was one 
 Mr. Moreton, a linen-draper ; and the generous merchant, 
 here so justly celebrated, was Sir William Scawen. 
 
202 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 248. 
 
 made of a family-book, wherein all the occurrences 
 that happened from one generation of that house to 
 another were recorded. Were there such a method 
 in the famiHes which are concerned in this generosity, 
 it would be a hard task for the greatest in Europe to 
 ^\Q in their own, an instance of a benefit better 
 placed, or conferred with a more graceful air. It 
 has been heretofore urged how barbarous and inhu- 
 man is any unjust step made to the disadvantage of a 
 trader ; and by how much such an act toward him is 
 detestable, by so much an act of kindness toward 
 him is laudable. I remember to have heard a bencher 
 of the Temple tell a story of a tradition in their house, 
 where they had formerly a custom of choosing kings 
 for such a season, and allowing him his expenses at 
 the charge of the society. One of our kings,* said 
 my friend, carried his royal incHnation a little too far, 
 and there was a committee ordered to look into the 
 management of his treasur\^ Among other things it 
 appeared, that his majesty walking incog, in the clois- 
 ter, had overheard a poor man say to another, '' Such 
 a small sum would make me the happiest man in the 
 world." The king, out of his royal compassion, pri- 
 vately inquired into his character, and finding him a 
 proper object of charity, sent him the money. When 
 the committee read the report, the house passed his 
 accounts ^"ith a plaiuiite without fiurther examination, 
 upon the recital of this article in them : 
 
 For making a man happy £\o o o 
 
 T. 
 
 * This king, it is said, was beau Xash, director of the pub- 
 lic diversions at Bath, who was in King William's time a stu- 
 dent in the Temple. 
 
No. 249.] THE SPECTATOR. 203 
 
 No. 249.] Saturday, December 15, 171 1. 
 
 Mirth out of season is a grievous ill. — Frag. Vet. Poet. 
 
 When I make a choice of a subject that has not 
 been treated on by others, I throw together my re- 
 flections on it without any order or method, so that 
 they may appear rather in the looseness and freedom 
 of an essay, than in the regularity of a set discourse. 
 It is after this manner that I shall consider laughter 
 and ridicule in my present paper. 
 
 Man is the merriest species of the creation; all 
 above and below him are serious. He sees things in 
 a different light from other beings, and finds his mirth 
 arising from objects that perhaps cause something like 
 pity or displeasure in higher natures. Laughter is 
 indeed a very good counterpoise to the spleen ; and 
 it seems but reasonable that we should be capable 
 of receiving joy from what is no real good to us, 
 since we can receive grief from what is no real evil. 
 
 I have in my forty-seventh paper raised a specu- 
 lation on the notion of a modern philosopher,* who 
 describes the first motive of laughter to be a secret 
 comparison which we make between ourselves and 
 the persons we laugh at ; or, in other words, that 
 satisfaction which we receive from the opinion of some 
 pre-eminence in ourselves, when we see the absurdi- 
 ties of another, or when we reflect on any past ab- 
 surdities of our own. This seems to hold in most 
 cases, and we may observe that the vainest part of 
 mankind are the most addicted to this passion. 
 
 I have read a sermon of a conventual in the 
 church of Rome, on those words of the wise man, " I 
 said of Laughter, it is mad ; and of mirth, what 
 
 * Hobbes. 
 
204 THE SPECTA TOR. [Xo. 249. 
 
 does it? " Upon which he laid it down as a point of 
 doctrine, that laughter was the effect of original sin, 
 and that Adam could not laugh before the fall. 
 
 Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces the 
 mind, weakens the faculties, and causes a kind of 
 remissness and dissolution in all the powers of the soul ; 
 and thus far it may be looked upon as a weakness in 
 the composition of human nature. But if we con- 
 sider the frequent reHefs we receive from it, and how 
 often it breaks the gloom which is apt to depress the 
 mind and damp our spirits, with transient, unexpected 
 gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow too 
 wise for so great a pleasure of life. 
 
 The talent of turning men into ridicule, and ex- 
 posing to laughter those one converses with, is the 
 qualitication of httle ungenerous tempers. A young 
 man with this cast of mind cuts himself off from all 
 manner of improvement. Every one has his flaws 
 and weaknesses : nay. the greatest blemishes are often 
 found in the most shining characters ; but what an 
 absurd thing is it to pass over all the valuable parts 
 of a man, and fix our attention on his infirmities? to 
 obsen'e his imperfections more than his virtues? and 
 to make use of him for the sport of others, rather than 
 for our own improvement? 
 
 We therefore venr often find that persons the most 
 accomplished in ridicule are those that are ver}- shrewd 
 at hitting a blot, without exerting any thing masterly 
 in themselves. As there are many eminent critics 
 who never wrote a good hne, there are many admi- 
 rable buffoons that animadvert upon ever}- single de- 
 fect in another, without ever discovering the least 
 beauty of their own. By this means, these unlucky 
 httle wits often gain reputation in the esteem of vul- 
 gar minds, and raise themselves above persons of 
 much more laudable characters. 
 
No. 249.] THE SPECTATOR. 205 
 
 If the talent of ridicule were employed to laugh 
 men out of vice and folly, it might be of some use to 
 the world ; but instead of this, we find that it is gen- 
 erally made use of to laugh men out of virtue and 
 good sense, by attacking everything that is solemn 
 and serious, decent and praiseworthy in human life. 
 
 We may observe that in the first ages of the world, 
 when the great souls and master-pieces of human nat- 
 ure were produced, men shined by a noble simplicity 
 of behavior, and were strangers to those little embellish- 
 ments which are so fashionable in our present conver- 
 sation. And it is very remarkable, that notwithstand- 
 ing we fall short at present of the ancients in poetry, 
 painting, oratory, history, architecture, and all the 
 noble arts and sciences which depend more upon 
 genius than experience, we exceed them as much in 
 doggerel, humor, burlesque, and all the trivial arts 
 of ridicule. We meet with more raillery among the 
 moderns, but more good sense among the ancients. 
 
 The two great branches of ridicule in writing are 
 comedy and burlesque. The first ridicules persons 
 by drawing them in their proper characters, the other 
 by drawing them quite unlike themselves. Burlesque 
 is therefore of two kinds ; the first represents mean 
 persons in the accoutrements of heroes ; the other 
 describes great persons acting and speaking like the 
 basest among the people. Don Quixote is an in- 
 stance of the first, and Lucian's gods of the second. 
 It is a dispute among the critics, whether burlesque 
 poetry runs best in heroic verse, like that of the Dis- 
 pensary ; or in doggerel, hke that of Hudibras. I 
 think, where the low character is to be raised, the he- 
 roic is the proper measure ; but when a hero is to be 
 pulled down and degraded, it is done best in dog- 
 gerel. 
 
 If Hudibras had been set out with as much wit 
 
206 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 249. 
 
 and humor in heroic verse as he is in doggerel, he 
 would have made a much more agreeable figure than 
 he does ; though the generality of his readers are so 
 wonderfully pleased with the double rhymes, that I 
 do not expect many will be of my opinion in this 
 particular. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay upon laughter with observ- 
 ing that the metaphor of laughing, apphed to fields 
 and meadows when they are in flower, or to trees 
 when they are in blossom, runs through all languages ; 
 which I have not observed of any other metaphor, 
 excepting that of fire and burning when they are ap- 
 plied to love. This shows that we naturally regard 
 laughter, as what is in itself both amiable and beauti- 
 ful. For this reason likewise Venus has gained the 
 title of Philoinedes '^ the laughter-loving dame," as 
 Waller has translated it, and is represented by Horace 
 as the goddess who delights in laughter. Milton, in 
 a joyous assembly of imaginary persons, has given 
 us a very poetical figure of Laughter. His whole 
 band of mirth is so finely described, that I shall set 
 down the passage at length : 
 
 But come, thou goddess fair and free 
 
 In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, 
 
 And by men, heart-easing mirth, 
 
 Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
 
 With two sister Graces more, 
 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. 
 
 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
 
 Jest and youthful jollity, 
 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. 
 
 Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 
 
 Such as hung on Hebe's cheek. 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 
 Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides ; 
 
 Come, and trip it as you go, 
 
 On the light fantastic toe; 
 
No. 254.] THE SPECTATOR, 207 
 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
 And if I give thee honor due, 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
 To live with her, and live with thee. 
 In unreproved pleasures, free. 
 
 L' Allegro, v, ii, etc. 
 
 — c. 
 
 No. 254.] Friday, December 21, 171 1. 
 
 Virtuous love is honorable, but lust increaseth sorrow. 
 
 When I consider the false impressions which are 
 received by the generahty of the world, I am troubled 
 at none more than a certain levity of thought, which 
 many young women of quality have entertained, to 
 the hazard of their characters, and the certain misfor- 
 tune of their lives. The first of the following letters 
 may best represent the faults I would now point at ; 
 and the answer to it, the temper of mind in a con- 
 trary character. 
 
 '' My Dear Harriet, 
 
 '' If thou art she, but oh how fallen, how changed, 
 what an apostate ! how lost to all that is gay and 
 agreeable ! To be married I find is to be buried 
 alive ; I cannot conceive it more dismal to be shut up 
 in a vault to converse with the shades of my ances- 
 tors, than to be carried down to an old manorhouse 
 in the country, and confined to the conversation of 
 a sober husband, and an awkward chambermaid. 
 For variety I suppose you may entertain yourself with 
 madam in her grogram gown, the spouse of your 
 parish vicar, who has by this time, I am sure, well 
 furnished you with receipts for making salves and 
 possets, distilling cordial waters, making sirups, and 
 applying poultices. 
 
2o8 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 254. 
 
 *' Blest solitude ! I wish thee joy, my dear, of thy 
 loved retirement, which indeed you w^ould persuade 
 me is very agreeable, and different enough from 
 what I have here described : but, child, I am afraid 
 thy brains are a little disordered with romances and 
 novels. After six months' marriage to hear thee talk 
 of love, and paint the country scenes so softly, is a 
 little extravagant ; one would think you lived the lives 
 of sylvan deities, or roved among the walks of para- 
 dise, Uke the first happy pair. But pray thee leave 
 these whimsies, and come to town in order to live 
 and talk like other mortals. However, as I am ex- 
 tremely interested in your reputation, I would will- 
 ingly give you a little good advice at your first 
 appearance under the character of a married woman. 
 It is a little insolent in me, perhaps, to advise a 
 matron ; but I am so afraid you will make so silly a 
 figure as a fond w4fe, that I cannot help warning 
 you not to appear in any public places with yoiir 
 husband, and never to saunter about St. James's- 
 park together ; if you presume to enter the ring at 
 Hyde-park together, you are ruined forever: nor 
 must you take the least notice of one another, at the 
 playhouse, or opera, unless you would be laughed 
 at for a very loving couple, most happily paired in 
 the yoke of wedlock. I would recommend the ex- 
 ample of an acquaintance of ours to your imitation ; 
 she is the most negligent and fashionable wife in 
 the world ; she is hardly ever seen in the same place 
 with her husband, and if they happen to meet, you 
 would think them perfect strangers ; she was never 
 heard to name him in his absence, and takes care 
 he shall never be the subject of any discourse that 
 she has a share in. I hope you will propose this 
 lady as a pattern, though I am very much afraid 
 you will be so silly as to think Portia, etc., Sabine 
 
No. 254.] THE SPECTATOR. 209 
 
 and Roman wives, much brighter examples. I wish 
 it may never come into your head to imitate those 
 antiquated creatures so far as to come into pubhc in 
 the habit, as well as air, of a Roman matron. You 
 make already the entertainment at Mrs. Modish's 
 tea-table ; she says : she always thought you a dis- 
 creet person, and qualified to manage a family with 
 admirable prudence ; she dies to see what demure 
 and serious airs wedlock has given you, but she says, 
 she shall never forgive your choice of so gallant a 
 man as Bellamour, to transform him into a mere 
 sober husband ; it was unpardonable. You see, my 
 dear, we all envy your happiness, and no person 
 more than 
 
 '' Your humble Serv^ant 
 
 '' Lydia." 
 
 ^' Be not in pain, good madam, for my appearance 
 in town ; I shall frequent no public places, or make 
 any visits where the character of a modest wife is 
 ridiculous. As for your wild raillery on matrimony, 
 it is all hypocrisy ; you, and all the handsome young 
 women of your acquaintance, show yourselves to no 
 other purpose, than to gain a conquest over some 
 man of worth, in order to bestow your charms and 
 fortune on him. There is no indecency in the con- 
 fession ; the design is modest and honorable, and all 
 your affectation cannot disguise it. 
 
 " I am married and have no other concern but to 
 please the man I love ; he is the end of every care I 
 have ; If I dress, it is for him ; If I read a poem, or 
 a play, it is to qualify myself for a conversation 
 agreeable to his taste ; he is almost the end of my 
 devotions ; half my prayers are for his happiness. I 
 love to talk of him, and never hear him named but 
 with pleasure and emotion. I am your friend, and 
 
2IO THE SPECTATOR. [No. 
 
 DD- 
 
 wish you happiness, but am sorry to see, by the air 
 of your letter, that there are a set of women who are 
 got into the commonplace railleiy of even' thing that 
 is sober, decent, and proper; matrimony and the 
 clerg}' are the topics of people of httle wit and no un- 
 derstanding. I own to you, I have learned of the 
 vicar's wife all you tax me with. She is a discreet, 
 ingenious, pleasant, pious woman ; I wish she had 
 the handhng of you and Mrs. Modish ; you would find, 
 if you were too free with her, she would soon make 
 you as charming as ever you were ; she would make 
 you blush as much as if you never had been fine 
 ladies. The \'icar, madam, is so kind as to visit my 
 husband, and his agreeable conversation has brought 
 him to enjoy many sober happy hoiu-s when even I 
 am shut out, and my dear master is entertained only 
 with his own thoughts. These things, dear madam, 
 will be lasting satisfactions, when the fine ladies and 
 the coxcombs, by whom they form themselves, are 
 irreparably ridiculous, ridiculous in old age. 
 ** I am. Madam, 
 
 *' Your most humble Servant, 
 
 '' Mary Home.'* 
 
 No. 255.1 Saturday, December 22, 171 1. 
 
 Laudis amore tumes? sunt certa piacula^quae te 
 Ter pure lecto potenint recreare libello- 
 
 HoR. Ep. I, lib. r, ver. 36. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Know there are rhymes, which (fresh and fresh applied) 
 WiU cure the arrant' st puppy of his pride.— Pope. 
 
 The soul, considered abstractedly from its passions, 
 is of a remiss and sedentary' nature, slow in its re- 
 
No. 255.] THE SPECTATOR, 211 
 
 solves, and languishing in its executions. The use, 
 therefore, of the passions is to stir it up, and to put it 
 upon action, to awaken the understanding, to enforce 
 the will, and to make the whole man more vigorous 
 and attentive in the prosecution of his designs. As 
 this is the end of the passions in general, so it is par- 
 ticularly of ambition, which pushes the soul to such 
 actions as are apt to procure honor and reputation 
 to the actor. But if we carry our reflections higher, 
 we may discover further ends of Providence in im- 
 planting this passion in mankind. 
 
 It was necessary for the world, that arts should 
 be invented and improved, books written and trans- 
 mitted to posterity, nations conquered and civilized. 
 Now, since the proper and genuine motive to these, 
 and the like great actions, would only influence virt- 
 uous minds ; there would be but small improvements 
 in the w^orld, were there not some common principle 
 of action working equally with all men : and such a 
 principle is ambition, or a desire of fame, by which 
 great endowments are not suffered to lie idle and 
 useless to the public, and many vicious men are over- 
 reached, as it were, and engaged contrary to their 
 natural inclinations, in a glorious and laudable course 
 of action. For we may further observe, that men of 
 the greatest abilities are most fired wath ambition ; and 
 that, on the contrary, mean and narrow minds are the 
 least actuated by it : whether it be that a man's sense 
 of his own incapacities makes him despair of coming 
 at fame, or that he has not enough range of thought 
 to look out for any good which does not more im- 
 mediately relate to his interest or convenience ; or 
 that Providence, in the very frame of his soul, would 
 not subject him to such a passion as would be useless 
 to the world, and a torment to himself. 
 
 Were not this desire of fame very strong, the diffi- 
 
212 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 255. 
 
 culty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it 
 when obtained, would be sufficient to deter a man 
 from so vain a pursuit. 
 
 How few are there who are furnished with abilities 
 sufficient to recommend their actions to the admira- 
 tion of the world, and to distinguish themselves from 
 the rest of mankind! Providence for the most part 
 sets us upon a level, and observes a kind of propor- 
 tion in its dispensations toward us. If it renders us 
 perfect in one accomplishment, it generally leaves us 
 defective in another, and seems careful rather of pre- 
 serving every person from being mean and deficient 
 in his quahfications, than of making any single one 
 eminent or extraordinary. 
 
 Among those who are the most richly endowed by 
 nature, and accompHshed by their own industry, how 
 few are there whose virtues are not obscured by the 
 ignorance, prejudice, or envy of their beholders! 
 Some men cannot discern between a noble and a 
 mean action. Others are apt to attribute them to 
 some false end or intention ; and others purposely 
 misrepresent, or put a ^^Tong interpretation on them. 
 But the more to enforce this consideration, we may 
 observe, that those are generally most unsuccessful in 
 their pursuit after fame, who are most desirous of ob- 
 taining it. It is Sallust's remark upon Cato, that the 
 less he coveted glory, the more he acquired it.* 
 
 Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing our 
 inclinations, and disappointing us in what our hearts 
 are most set upon. AVhen therefore they have dis- 
 covered the passionate desire of fame in the ambi- 
 tious man (as no temper of mind is more apt to show 
 itself), they become sparing and reser^^ed in their 
 commendations, they envy him the satisfaction of an 
 
 *Sal. Bel. Catil., c. 49. 
 
No. 255.] THE SPECTATOR, 213 
 
 applause, and look on their praises rather as a kind- 
 ness done to his person, than as a tribute paid to his 
 merit. Others v/ho are free from this natural per- 
 verseness of temper, grow wary in their praises of 
 one who sets too great a value on them, lest they 
 should raise him too high in his own imagination, 
 and by consequence remove him to a greater distance 
 from themselves. 
 
 But, further, this desire of fame naturally betrays 
 the ambitious man into such indecencies as are lessen- 
 ing to his reputation. He is still afraid lest any of his 
 actions should be thrown away in private, lest his 
 deserts should be concealed from the notice of the 
 world, or receive any disadvantage from the reports 
 which others make of them. This often sets them 
 on empty boasts and ostentations of himself, and 
 betrays him into vain fantastical recitals of his 
 own performances. His discourse generally leans 
 one way, and, whatever is the subject of it, tends 
 obliquely either to the detracting from others, or to 
 the extolling of himself. Vanity is the natural weak- 
 ness of an ambitious man, which exposes him to the 
 secret scorn and derision of those he converses with, 
 and ruins the character he is so industrious to advance 
 by it. For though his actions are never so glorious, 
 they lose their luster when they are drawn at large, 
 and set to show by his own hand ; and as the world 
 is more apt to find fault than to commend, the boast 
 will probably be censured, when the great action that 
 occasioned it is forgotten. 
 
 Beside, this very desire of fame is looked on as a 
 meanness and imperfection in the greatest character. 
 A soHd and substantial greatness of soul looks 
 down with a generous neglect on the censures and 
 applauses of the multitude, and places a man be- 
 yond the little noise and strife of tongues. Accord- 
 
214 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 256. 
 
 ingly, we find in ourselves a secret awe and veneration 
 for the character of one who moves above us in a 
 regular and illustrious course of virtue, without any 
 regard to our good or ill opinions of him, to our re- 
 proaches or commendations. As, on the contrar}^ it is 
 usual for us, when we would take off from the fame 
 and reputation of an action, to ascribe it to vain 
 glory and a desire of fame in the actor. Nor is this 
 common judgment and opinion of mankind ill 
 founded : for certainly it denotes no great bravery of 
 mind, to be worked up to any noble action by so self- 
 ish a motive, and to do that out of a desire of fame, 
 which we could not be prompted to by a disinter- 
 ested love to mankind, or by a generous passion for 
 the glory of him who made us. 
 
 Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by 
 all, but particularly by those who thirst after it, since 
 most men have so much either of ill-nature, or of 
 wariness, as not to gratify or soothe the vanity of the 
 ambitious man ; and since this very thirst after fame 
 naturally betrays him into such indecencies as are a 
 lessening to his reputation, and is itself looked upon 
 as a weakness in the greatest characters. 
 
 In the next place, fame is easily lost, and as diffi- 
 cult to be preserved as it was at first to be acquired. 
 But this I shall make the subject of a following 
 paper. — C. 
 
 No. 256.] Monday, December 24, 171 1. 
 
 Fame is an ill you may with ease obtain, 
 
 A sad oppression, to be borne with pain. — Hesiod. 
 
 There are many passions and tempers of mind 
 which naturally dispose us to depress and villify the 
 merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. All 
 
No. 256.] THE SPECTATOR. 215 
 
 those who made their entrance into the world with 
 the same advantages, and were once looked on as his 
 equals, are apt to think the fame of his merits a re- 
 flection on their own indeserts ; and will therefore 
 take care to reproach him with the scandal of some 
 past action, or derogate from the worth of the pres- 
 ent, that they may still keep him on the same level 
 with themselves. The like kind of consideration often 
 stirs up the envy of such as were once his superiors, 
 who think it a detraction from their merit to see 
 another get ground upon them, and overtake them in 
 the pursuits of glory ; and will therefore endeavor to 
 sink his reputation, that they may the better preserve 
 their own. Those who were once his equals envy 
 and defame him, because they now see him their su- 
 perior ; and those who were once his superiors, be- 
 cause they look upon him as their equal. 
 
 But further, a man whose extraordinary reputation 
 thus lifts him up to the notice and observation of 
 mankind, draws a multitude of eyes upon him, that 
 will narrowly inspect every part of him, consider him 
 nicely in all views, and not be a little pleased when 
 they have taken him in the worst and most disadvan- 
 tageous light. There are many who find a pleasure 
 in contradicting the common reports of fame, and in 
 spreading abroad the weaknesses of an exalted char- 
 acter. They publish their ill-natured discoveries with 
 a secret pride, and applaud themselves for the singu- 
 larity of their judgment, which has searched deeper 
 than others, detected what the rest of the world have 
 overlooked, and found a flaw in what the generality 
 of mankind admire. Others there are who proclaim 
 the errors and infirmities of a great man with an in- 
 ward satisfaction and complacency, if they discover 
 none of the like errors and infirmities in themselves ; 
 for while they are exposing another's weaknesses. 
 
2i6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 256. 
 
 they are tacitly aiming at their own commendations, 
 who are not subject to the hke infirmities, and are apt 
 to be transported with a secret kind of vanity, to see 
 themselves superior, in some respects, to one of a 
 sublime and celebrated reputation. Nay, it very often 
 happens, that none are more industrious in pubHsh- 
 ing the blemishes of an extraordinary reputation, than 
 such as He open to the same censures in their own 
 characters, as either hoping to excuse their own de- 
 fects by the authority of so high an example, or to 
 raise an imaginary applause to themselves, for resem- 
 bling a person of an exalted reputation, though in the 
 blamable parts of his character. If all these secret 
 springs of detraction fail, yet very often a vain osten- 
 tation of wit sets a man on attacking an established 
 name, and sacrificing it to the mirth and laughter of 
 those about him. A satire or a libel on one of the 
 comrhon stamp, never meets with that reception and 
 approbation among its readers, as what is aimed at a 
 person w^hose merit places him upon an eminence, 
 and gives him a more conspicuous figm*e among men. 
 Whether it be, that we think it shows greater art to 
 expose and turn to ridicule a man whose character 
 seems so improper a subject for it, or that we are 
 pleased, by some implicit kind of revenge, to see him 
 taken down and humbled in his reputation, and in 
 some measure reduced to our own rank, who had so 
 far raised himself above us, in the reports and opin- 
 ions of mankind. 
 
 Thus we see how many dark and intricate motives 
 there are to detraction and defamation, and how 
 many malicious spies are searching into the actions 
 of a great man, who is not always the best prepared 
 for so narrow an inspection. For we may generally 
 observe, that our admiration of a famous man lessens 
 upon our nearer acquaintance with him : and that we 
 
No. 256.] THE SPECTATOR. 217 
 
 seldom hear the description of a celebrated person, 
 without a catalogue of some notorious weaknesses and 
 infirmities. The reason may be, because any little 
 slip is more conspicuous and observable in his con- 
 duct than in another's, as it is not of a piece with the 
 rest of his character ; or because it is impossible for 
 a man at the same time to be attentive to the more 
 important part of his life, and to keep a watchful eye 
 over all the inconsiderable circumstances of his be- 
 havior and conversation ; or because, as we have be- 
 fore observed, the same temper of mind which in- 
 clines us to a desire of fame, naturally betrays us into 
 such slips and unwarinesses, as are not incident to 
 men of a contrary disposition. 
 
 After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and 
 triumphant merit often breaks through and dissipates 
 these little spots and sullies in its reputation ; but if 
 by a mistaken pursuit after fame, or through human 
 infirmity, any false step be made in the more moment- 
 ous concerns of life, the whole scheme of ambitious 
 designs is broken and disappointed. The smaller 
 stains and blemishes may die away, and disappear 
 amidst the brightness that surrounds them : but 
 a blot of a deeper nature casts a shade on all the 
 other beauties, and darkens the whole character. 
 How difficult, therefore, is it to preserve a great name, 
 when he that has acquired it is so obnoxious to such 
 little weaknesses and infirmities as are no small dim- 
 inution to it when discovered ; especially when they 
 are so industriously proclaimed, and aggravated by 
 such as were once his superiors or equals ; by such as 
 would set to show their judgment, or their wit, and 
 by such as are guilty, or innocent of the same slips 
 or misconducts in their own behavior. 
 
 But were there none of these dispositions in others 
 to censure a famous man, nor any such miscarriages 
 
2i8 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 256. 
 
 in himself, yet would he meet with no small trouble 
 in keeping up his reputation, in all its height and 
 splendor. There must be always a noble train of 
 actions to preserve his fame in hfe and motion. For 
 when it is once at a stand, it naturally flags and lan- 
 guishes. Admiration is a very short-lived passion, 
 that immediately decays upon growing famihar with 
 its object, unless it be still fed with fresh discoveries, 
 and kept alive by a new perpetual succession of mir-^ 
 acles rising up to its view. And even the greatest 
 actions of a celebrated person labor under this disad- 
 vantage, that, however surprising and extraordinary 
 they may be, they are no more than what are expected 
 from him ; but, on the contrary, if they fall anything 
 below the opinion that is conceived of him, though 
 they might raise the reputation of another, they are a 
 diminution to his. 
 
 One would think there should be something won- 
 derfully pleasing in the possession of fame, that, not- 
 withstanding all these mortifying considerations, can 
 engage a man in so desperate a pursuit ; and yet if 
 we consider the little happiness that attends a great 
 character, and the multitude of disquietudes to which 
 the desire of it subjects an ambitious mind, one would 
 be still the more surprised to see so many restless can- 
 didates for glory. 
 
 Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul ; it in- 
 flames the mind, and puts it into a violent hurry of 
 thought. It is still reaching after an empty, imagi- 
 nary good, that has not in it the power to abate or 
 satisfy it. Most other things we long for, can allay 
 the cravings of their proper sense, and for a while set 
 the appetite at rest ; but fame is a good so wholly 
 foreign to our natures, that we have no faculty in the 
 soul adapted to it, nor any organ in the body to relish 
 it ; an object of desire, placed out of the possibility 
 
No. 256.] THE SPECTATOR. 219 
 
 of fruition. It may indeed fill the mind for a while 
 with a giddy kind of pleasure, but it is such a pleas- 
 ure as makes a man restless and uneasy under it ; and 
 which does not so much satisfy the present thirst, as it 
 excites fresh desires, and sets the soul on new enter- 
 prises. For how few ambitious men are there who 
 have got as much fame as they desired, and whose 
 thirst after it has not been as eager in the very height 
 of their reputation, as it was before they became 
 known and eminent among men? There is not any 
 circumstance in Caesar's character which gives me a 
 greater idea of him, than a saying which Cicero tells 
 us he frequently made use of in private conversation, 
 **That he was satisfied with his share of life and 
 fame." ^^ Se satis vel ad naturam^ vel ad gloriam 
 vixissey Many indeed have given over their pursuits 
 after fame, but that has proceeded either from the 
 disappointments they have met in it, or from their 
 experience of the little pleasure which attends it, or 
 from the better informations or natural coldness of 
 old age ; but seldom from a full satisfaction and ac- 
 quiescence in their present enjoyments of it. 
 
 Nor is fame only unsatisfying in itself, but the de- 
 sire of it lays us open to many accidental troubles 
 which those are free from, who have no such a ten- 
 der regard for it. How often is the ambitious man 
 cast down and disappointed, if he receives no praise 
 where he expected it? Nay, how often is he morti- 
 fied with the very praises he receives, if they do not 
 rise so high as he thinks they ought ; which they sel- 
 dom do unless increased by flattery, since few men 
 have so good an opinion of us as we have of our- 
 selves? But if the ambitious man can be so much 
 grieved even with praise itself, how will he be able 
 to bear up under scandal and defamation? for the 
 same temper of mind which makes him desire fame 
 
220 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 256. 
 
 makes him hate reproach. If he can be transported 
 with the extraordinary praises of men, he will be as 
 much dejected by their censures. How httle, there- 
 fore, is the happiness of an ambitious man, who gives 
 every one a dominion over it, who thus subjects him- 
 self to the good or ill speeches of others, and puts 
 it in the power of every malicious tongue to throw 
 him into a fit of melancholy, and destroy his natural 
 rest and repose of mind ; especially when we consider 
 that the world is more apt to censure than applaud, 
 and himself fuller of imperfections than virtues. 
 
 We may further observe, that such a man will be 
 more grieved for the loss of fame, than he could have 
 been pleased with the enjoyment of it. For though 
 the presence of this imaginary good cannot make us 
 happy, the absence of it may make us miserable : be- 
 cause in the enjoyment of an object we only find that 
 share of pleasure which it is capable of giving us, but 
 in the loss of it we do not proportion our grief to the 
 real value it bears, but to the value our fancies and 
 imaginations set upon it. 
 
 So inconsiderable is the satisfaction that fame brings 
 along with it, and so great the disquietudes to which 
 it makes us hable. The desire of it stirs up very 
 uneasy motions in the mind, and is rather inflamed 
 than satisfied by the presence of the thing desired. 
 The enjoyment of it brings but very httle pleasure, 
 though the loss or want of it be very sensible and 
 afflicting ; and even this little happiness is so very 
 precarious, that it wholly depends upon the will of 
 others. We are not only tortured by the reproaches 
 which are offered us, but are disappointed by the si- 
 lence of men when it is unexpected ; and humbled 
 even by their praises. — C. 
 
No. 257.] THE SPECTATOR, 221 
 
 No. 257.] Saturday, December 25, 1711. 
 
 No slumber seals the eye of Providence, 
 Present to every action we commence. — Hob^us. 
 
 That I might not lose myself upon a subject of so 
 great extent as that of fame, I have treated it in a 
 particular order and method. I have first of all con- 
 sidered the reasons why Providence may have im- 
 planted in our mind such a principle of action. I 
 have in the next place shown from many considera- 
 tions, first, that fame is a thing difficult to be obtained, 
 and easily to be lost ; secondly, that it brings the am- 
 bitious man very little happiness, but subjects him to 
 much uneasiness and dissatisfaction. I shall in the 
 last place show, that it hinders us from obtaining an 
 end which we have abilities to acquire, and which is 
 accompanied by fullness of satisfaction. I need not 
 tell my reader, that I mean by this end, that happi- 
 ness which is reserved for us in another world, which 
 every one has abilities to procure, and which will 
 bring along with it '' fullness of joy, and pleasures for 
 evermore." 
 
 How the pursuit after fame may hinder us in the 
 attainment of this great end, I shall leave the reader 
 to collect from the three following considerations: 
 
 First, Because the strong desire of fame breeds 
 several vicious habits in the mind. 
 
 Secondly, Because many of those actions, which are 
 apt to procure fame, are not in their nature condu- 
 cive to our ultimate happiness. 
 
 Thirdly, Because if we should allow the same 
 actions to be the proper instruments, both of acquir- 
 ing fame, and of procuring this happiness, they would 
 nevertheless fail in the attainment of this last end, if 
 they proceeded from a desire of the first. 
 
222 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 257. 
 
 These three propositions are self-evident to those 
 who are versed in speculations of morality. For 
 which reason I shall not enlarge upon them, but pro- 
 ceed to a point of the same nature, which may open 
 to us a more uncommon field of speculation. 
 
 From what has been already observed, I think we 
 may make a natural conclusion, that it is the greatest 
 folly to seek the praise or approbation of any being, 
 except the Supreme, and that for these two reasons ; 
 because no other being can make a right judgment 
 of us, and esteem us according to our merits ; and 
 because we can procure no considerable benefit or 
 advantage from the esteem and approbation of any 
 other being. 
 
 In the first place, no other being can make a right 
 judgment of us, and esteem us according to our 
 merits. Created beings see nothing but our outside, 
 and can therefore only frame a judgment of us from 
 our exterior actions and behavior; but how unfit 
 these are to give us a right notion of each other's 
 perfections, may appear from several considerations. 
 There are many virtues, which in their own nature 
 are incapable of any outward representation ; many 
 silent perfections in the soul of a good man, which 
 are great ornaments to human nature, but not able to 
 discover themselves to the knowledge of others ; they 
 are transacted in private without noise or show, and 
 are only visible to the great Searcher of hearts. What 
 actions can express the entire purity of thought 
 which refines and sanctifies a virtuous man? That 
 secret rest and contentedness of mind, which gives 
 him a perfect enjoyment of his present condition? 
 That inward pleasure and complacency which he feels 
 in doing good ? That dehght and satisfaction which 
 he takes in the prosperity and happiness of another? 
 These and the hke virtues are the hidden beauties of a 
 
No. 257.] THE SPECTATOR. 223 
 
 soul, the secret graces which cannot be discovered 
 by a mortal eye, but make the soul lovely and precious 
 in his sight from whom no secrets are concealed. 
 Again, there are many virtues which want an oppor- 
 tunity of exerting and showing themselves in actions. 
 Every virtue requires time and place, a proper ob- 
 ject and a fit conjecture of circumstances, for the due 
 exercise of it. A state of poverty obscures all the 
 virtues of hberality and munificence. The patience 
 and fortitude of a martyr and confessor lie concealed 
 in the flourishing times of Christianity. Some virt- 
 ues are only seen in affliction, and some in pros- 
 perity ; some in a private, and others in a public 
 capacity. But the great Sovereign of the world be- 
 holds every perfection in its obscurity, and not only 
 sees what we do, but what we would do. He views 
 oiu" behavior in every concmTence of affairs, and sees 
 us engaged in all the possibilities of action. He dis- 
 covers the martyr and confessor without the trial of 
 flames and tortures, and will hereafter entitle many to 
 the reward of actions which they had never the op- 
 portunity of performing. Another reason why men 
 cannot form a right judgment of us is, because the 
 same actions may be aimed at different ends, and arise 
 from quite contrary principles. Actions are of so 
 mixed a nature, and so full of circumstances, that as 
 men pry into them more or less, or observe some parts 
 more than others, they take different hints, and put 
 contrary interpretations on them ; so that the same 
 actions may represent a man as hypocritical and de- 
 signing to one, which make him appear a saint or 
 hero to another. He, therefore, who looks upon the 
 soul through its outward actions, often sees it through 
 a deceitful medium, which is apt to discolor and per- 
 vert the object ; so that, on this account also, he is 
 the only proper judge of our perfections, who does 
 
224 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 257. 
 
 not guess at the sincerity of our intentions from the 
 goodness of our actions but weighs the goodness of 
 our actions by the sincerity of our intentions. 
 
 But further, it is impossible for outvrard actions to 
 represent the perfections of the soul, because they 
 can never show the strength of those principles from 
 whence they proceed. They are not adequate ex- 
 pressions of our \-irtues, and can only show us what 
 habits are in the soul, without discovering the degTee 
 and perfection of such habits. They are at best but 
 weak resemblances of our intentions, faint and im- 
 perfect, that may acquaint us with the general design, 
 but can never express the beauty and life of the 
 original. But the great Judge of all the earth knows 
 ever}- different state and degree of human improve- 
 ment, from those weak stirrings and tendencies of the 
 will which have not yet formed themselves into regular 
 piuposes and designs, to the last entire finishing and 
 consmnmation of a good habit. He beholds the first 
 imperfect rudiments of a virtue in the soul, and keeps 
 a watchful eye over it in all its progress, until it has 
 received even- grace it is capable of, and appears 
 in its full beauty and perfection. Thus we see, that 
 none but the Supreme Being can esteem us accord- 
 ing to our proper merits, since all others must judge 
 of us from oiu outward actions ; which can never g\\^ 
 them a just estimate of us, since there are many per- 
 fections of a man which are not capable of appearing 
 in actions ; many which, allowing no natural inca- 
 pacity of sho^-ing themselves, want an opportunity of 
 doing it : should they all meet with an opportimity of 
 appearing by actions, yet those actions may be misin- 
 terpreted, and apphed to wTong principles : or, though 
 they plainly discovered the principles from whence 
 they proceeded, they could never show the degree, 
 strength, and perfection of those principles. 
 
Na26i.] THE SPECTATOR, 225 
 
 And as the Supreme Being is the only proper 
 judge of our perfections, so he is the only fit rewarder 
 of them. This is a consideration that comes home 
 to our interest, as the other adapts itself to our ambi- 
 tion. And what could the most aspiring, or the most 
 selfish man desire more, were he to form the notion 
 of a Being to whom he would recommend himself, 
 than such a knowledge as can discover the least 
 appearance of perfection in him, and such , a good- 
 ness as will proportion a reward to it? 
 
 Let the ambitious man, therefore, turn all his desire 
 of fame this way ; and, that he may propose to him- 
 self a fame worthy of his ambition, let him consider, 
 that if he employs his abilities to the best advantage, 
 the time will come when the Supreme Governor of 
 the world, the great Judge of mankind, who sees 
 every degree of perfection in others, and possible 
 perfection in himself, shall proclaim his worth before 
 men and angels, and pronounce to him in the pres- 
 ence of the whole creation that best and most signifi- 
 cant of applause, '* Well done, thou good and faithful 
 servant, enter thou into thy Master's joy." — C. 
 
 No. 261.] Saturday, December 29, 171 1. 
 
 Wedlock's an ill men eagerly embrace. 
 
 My father, whom I mentioned in my first specula- 
 tion, and whom I must always name with honor and 
 gratitude, has very frequently talked to me upon the 
 subject of marriage. I was in my younger years 
 engaged partly by his advice and partly by my own 
 incHnations, in the courtship of a person who had a 
 great deal of beauty, and did not at my first ap- 
 proaches seem to have any aversion to me ; but as 
 
226 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 261. 
 
 my natural taciturnity hindered me from showing 
 myself to the best advantage, she by degrees began 
 to look upon me as a very silly fellow, and being 
 resolved to regard merit more than anything else in 
 the persons who made their applications to her, she 
 married a captain of dragoons who happened to be 
 beating up for recruits in those parts. 
 
 This unlucky accident has given me an aversion 
 to pretty fellows ever since, and discouraged me from 
 trying my fortune with the fair sex. The observa- 
 tions which I made at this conjuncture, and the re- 
 peated advices which I received at that time from the 
 good old man above-mentioned, have produced the 
 following essay upon love and marriage. 
 
 The pleasantest part of a man's life is generally 
 that which passes in courtship, provided his passion 
 be sincere, and the party beloved kind with discretion. 
 Love, desire, hope, all the pleasing emotions of the 
 soul rise in the pursuit. 
 
 It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, to 
 persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to 
 succeed in his pursuits, than for one who loves with 
 the greatest violence. True love has ten thousand 
 griefs, impatiencies, and resentments, that render a 
 man unamiable in the eyes of the person whose af- 
 fection he sohcits ; beside that it sinks his figure, 
 gives him fears, apprehensions, and poorness of spirit, 
 and often makes him appear ridiculous where he has 
 a mind to recommend himself. 
 
 Those marriages generally abound most with love 
 and constancy, that are preceded by a long courtship. 
 The passion should strike root, and gather strength 
 before marriage be grafted on it. A long course of 
 hopes and expectations fixes the idea in our minds, 
 and habituates us to a fondness of the person beloved. 
 
 There is nothing of so great importance to us, as 
 
No. 261.] THE SPECTATOR, 227 
 
 the good qualities of one to whom we join ourselves 
 for life ; they do not make our present state agree- 
 able, but often determine our happiness to all eternity. 
 Where the choice is left to friends, the chief point 
 under consideration is an estate ; where the parties 
 choose for themselves, their thoughts turn most upon 
 the person. They have both their reasons. The 
 first would procure many conveniences and pleasures 
 of life to the party whose interests they espouse ; and 
 at the same time may hope that the wealth of their 
 friends will turn to their own credit and advantage. 
 The others are preparing for themselves a perpetual 
 feast. A good person does not only raise but con- 
 tinue love, and breeds a secret pleasure and com- 
 placency in the beholder, when the first heats of 
 desire are extinguished. It puts the wife or husband 
 in countenance both among friends and strangers, 
 and generally fills the family with a healthy and 
 beautiful race of children. 
 
 I should prefer a woman that is agreeable in my 
 own eye, and not deformed in that of the world, to a 
 celebrated beauty. If you marry one remarkably 
 beautiful, you must have a violent passion for her, 
 or you have not the proper taste for her charms ; and 
 if you have such a passion for her, it is odds but it 
 would be imbittered with fears and jealousies. 
 
 Good-nature and evenness of temper will give you 
 an easy companion for life ; virtue and good sense 
 an agreeable friend ; love and constancy, a good wife 
 or husband. Where we meet one person with all 
 these accompHshments, we find a hundred without 
 any one of them. The world, notwithstanding, is 
 more intent on trains and equipages, and all the 
 showy parts of life ; we love rather to dazzle the 
 multitude, than consult our proper interests ; and, as 
 I have elsewhere observed, it is one of the most un- 
 
228 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 261. 
 
 accountable passions of human nature, that we are 
 at greater pains to appear easy and happy to others, 
 than really t© make ourselves so. Of all disparities, 
 that in humor makes the most unhappy marriages, 
 yet scarce enters into our thoughts at the contracting 
 of them. Several that are in this respect unequally 
 yoked, and uneasy for life with a person of a particu- 
 lar character, might have been pleased and happy 
 with a person of a contrary one, notwithstanding they 
 are both perhaps equally virtuous and laudable in 
 their kind. 
 
 Before marriage we cannot be too inquisitive and 
 discerning in the faults of the person beloved, nor 
 after it too dim-sighted and superficial. However 
 perfect and accomplished the person appears to you 
 at a distance, you will find many blemishes and im- 
 perfections in her humor, upon a more intimate 
 acquaintance, which you never discovered or perhaps 
 suspected. Here, therefore, discretion and good- 
 nature are to show their strength ; the first will hinder 
 your thoughts from dwelling on what is disagreeable, 
 the other will raise in you all the tenderness of com- 
 passion and humanity, and by degrees soften those 
 very imperfections into beauties. 
 
 Marriage enlarges the scene of our happiness and 
 miseries. A marriage of love is pleasant ; a marriage 
 of interest easy ; and a mamage where both meet, 
 happy. A happy marriage has in it all the pleasures 
 of friendship, all the enjoyments of sense and rea- 
 son, and indeed all the sweets of life. Nothing is a 
 greater mark of a degenerate and vicious age, than 
 the common ridicule which passes on this state of hfe. 
 It is, indeed, only happy in those who can look down 
 w^ith scorn and neglect on the impieties of the times, 
 and tread the paths of life together in a constant uni- 
 form course of virtue. — C. 
 
No. 282.] THE SPECTATOR. 229 
 
 No. 282.] Wednesday, January 23, 1711-12. 
 
 Spes incerta futuri.— Virg., ^n. viii, 580. 
 
 Hopes and fears in equal balance laid. — Dryden. 
 
 It is a lamentable thing that every man is full of 
 complaints, and constantly uttering sentences against 
 the fickleness of fortune, when people generally bring 
 upon themselves all the calamities they fall into, and 
 are constantly heaping up matter for their own sor- 
 row and disappointment. That which produces the 
 greatest part of the delusions of mankind, is a false 
 hope which people indulge with so sanguine a flattery 
 to themselves, that their hearts are bent upon fantas- 
 tical advantages which they have no reason to believe 
 should ever have arrived to them. By this unjust 
 measure of calculating their happiness, they often 
 mourn with real affliction for imaginary losses. When 
 I am talking of this unhappy way of accounting for 
 ourselves, I cannot but reflect upon a particular set 
 of people, who in their own favor, resolve everything 
 that is possible into what is probable, and then reckon 
 on that probability as on what must certainly happen. 
 Will Honeycomb, upon my observing his looking 
 on a lady with some particular attention, gave me 
 an account of the great distresses which had laid 
 waste that very fine face, and had given an air of 
 melancholy to a very agreeable person. That lady 
 and a couple of sisters of hers, were, said Will, four- 
 teen years ago, the greatest fortunes about town ; but 
 without having any loss, by bad tenants, by bad 
 securities, or any damage by sea or land, are reduced 
 to very narrow circumstances. They were at that 
 time the most inaccessible, haughty beauties in 
 town ; and their pretensions to take upon them at 
 that unmerciful rate, were raised upon the following 
 
230 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 282. 
 
 scheme, according to which all their lovers were 
 answered. 
 
 '* Our father is a youngish man. but then our 
 mother is somewhat older, and not likely to have any 
 children: his estate being ^ool.per annu?n, at twenty 
 years' purchase, is worth 16,000/. Our imcle, who is 
 above fiftv', has \ool. per annum ^ which, at the afore- 
 said rate, is 8,000/. There is a widow aimt, who has 
 10,000/. at her own disposal, left by her husband, and 
 an old maiden aunt who has 6000/. Then our 
 father's mother has 900/. per annum, which is worth 
 18,000/. and 1,000/. each of us has of our own, which 
 cannot be taken from us. These summed up together 
 stand thus : 
 
 ''Father's Soo 16,000 
 
 Uncle's 400 8,000 
 
 . , s 10,000 / r 
 
 Aunts { f!r.^^ 16,000 
 
 I 0,000 S 
 
 Grandmother's 900 18,000 
 
 Own 1,000 each 3,ooo 
 
 Total 61,000 
 
 This, equally di\-ided between us three, amounts to 
 20, coo/ each: an allowance being given for an en- 
 largement upon common fame, we may lawfully pass 
 for 30,000/. fortunes." 
 
 In prospect of this, and the knowledge of their 
 owTi personal merit, ever\' one was contemptible in 
 their eyes, and they refused those offers which had 
 been frequently made them. But mark the end. 
 The mother dies, the father is married again and has 
 a son ; on him was entailed the father's, uncle's, and 
 grandmother's estate. This cut off 42,000/. The 
 maiden aunt married a tall Irishman, and with her 
 went the 6,000/. The widow died, and left but 
 enough to pay her debts and bury her ; so that there 
 
No. 282.] THE SPECTATOR. 231 
 
 remained for these three girls but their own 1,000/. 
 They had by this time passed their prime ; and got 
 on the wrong side of thirty ; and must pass the re- 
 mainder of their days, upbraiding mankind that they 
 mind nothing but money, and bewaihng that virtue, 
 sense, and modesty, are had at present in no manner 
 of estimation. 
 
 I mention this case of ladies before any other, 
 because it is the most irreparable ; for though youth 
 is the time least capable of reflection, it is in that sex 
 the only season in w^hich they can advance their fort- 
 unes. But if we turn our thoughts to the men, we 
 see such crowds unhappy, from no other reason than 
 an ill-grounded hope, that it is hard to say which 
 they rather deserve, our pity or contempt. It is not 
 unpleasant to see a fellow, after growing old in attend- 
 ance, and after having passed half a life in servitude, 
 call himself the unhappiest of all men, and pretend to 
 be disappointed, because a courtier broke his word. 
 He that promises himself anything but what may 
 naturally arise from his own property or labor, and 
 goes beyond the desire of possessing above two parts 
 in three even of that, lays up for himself an increas- 
 ing heap of afflictions and disappointments. There 
 are but two means in the world of gaining by other 
 men, and these are by being either agreeable, or con- 
 siderable. The generality of mankind do all things 
 for their own sakes ; and when you hope anything 
 from persons above you, if you cannot say, " I can 
 be thus agreeable, or thus serviceable," it is ridiculous 
 to pretend to the dignity of being unfortunate when 
 they leave you ; you were injudicious in hoping for 
 any other than to be neglected for such as can come 
 within these descriptions of being capable to please 
 or serve your patron, when his humor or interests call 
 for their capacity either way. 
 
232 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 283. 
 
 It would not, methinks, be a useless comparison 
 between the condition of a man who shuns all the 
 pleasures of life, and of one who makes it his busi- 
 ness to pursue them. Hope in the recluse makes his 
 austerities comfortable, while the luxurious man gains 
 nothing but uneasiness from his enjoyments. What 
 is the difference in happiness of him who is macerated 
 by abstinence, and his who is surfeited with excess? 
 He who resigns the world has no temptation to envy, 
 hatred, maHce, anger, but is in constant possession of 
 a serene mind ; he who follows the pleasures of it, 
 which are in their ver}^ nature disappointing, is in 
 constant search of care, soHcitude, remorse, and con- 
 fusion. * * * — T. 
 
 No. 283.] Thursday, January 24, 1711-12. 
 
 Ma^ster artis ingenique largitor 
 Venter Pers., Prol,. ver. 10. 
 
 Necessity is the mother of invention. 
 
 English Proverbs. 
 
 LuciAN rallies the philosophers in his time, who 
 could not agree whether they should admit riches 
 into the number of real goods ; the professors of the 
 severer sects threw them quite out, while others as 
 resolutely inserted them. 
 
 I am apt to beheve, that as the world grew more 
 pohte, the rigid doctrines of the first were wholly 
 discarded ; and I do not find any one so hardy at 
 present as to deny that there are very great advan- 
 tages in the enjoyment of a plentiful fortune. In- 
 deed, the best and wisest of men, though they may 
 possibly despise a good part of those things which 
 the world calls pleasures, can, I think, hardly be in- 
 
No. 283.] THE SPECTATOR, 233 
 
 sensible of that weight and dignity which a moderate 
 share of wealth adds to their characters, counsels, and 
 actions. 
 
 We find it a general complaint in professions and 
 trades, that the richest members of them are chiefly- 
 encouraged, and this is falsely imputed to the ill- 
 nature of mankind, who are ever bestowing their 
 favors on such as least want them. Whereas, if we 
 fairly consider their proceedings in this case, we shall 
 find them founded on undoubted reason : since, sup- 
 posing both equal in their natural integrity, I ought 
 in common prudence, to fear foul play from an in- 
 digent person, rather than from one whose circum- 
 stances seem to have placed him above the bare 
 temptation of money. 
 
 This reason also makes the commonwealth regard 
 her richest subjects, as those who are most concerned 
 for her quiet and interest, and consequently fittest to 
 be intrusted with her highest employments. On the 
 contrary, Catiline's saying to those men of desperate 
 fortunes who applied themselves to him, and of 
 whom he afterward composed his army, that they had 
 nothing to hope for, but from a civil war, was too 
 true not to make the impressions he desired. 
 
 I believe I need not fear but that what I have said 
 in praise of money, will be more than sufficient 
 with most of my readers to excuse the subject of 
 my present paper, which I intend as an essay on 
 the ways to raise a man's fortune, or the art of grow- 
 ing rich. 
 
 The first and most infallible method toward the 
 attaining of this end is thrift. All men are not 
 equally qualified for getting money, but it is in the 
 power of every one alike to practice this virtue, and 
 I believe there are very few persons who, if they 
 please to reflect on their past lives, will not find that 
 
234 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 283. 
 
 had they saved all those httle sums which they have 
 spent unnecessarily, they might at present have been 
 masters of a competent fortune. Diligence justly 
 claims the next place to thrift ; I find both these 
 excellently well recommended to common use in the 
 three following ItaHan proverbs : 
 
 Never do that by proxy which you can do yourself, 
 Never defer that till to-morrow which you can do to-day, 
 Never neglect small matters and expenses. 
 
 A third instrument of growing rich is method in 
 busin"fess, which, as well as the two former, is also 
 attainable by persons of the meanest capacities. 
 
 The famous De Witt, one of the greatest statesmen 
 of the age in which he Hved, being asked by a friend 
 how he was able to dispatch that multitude of affairs 
 in which he w^as engaged ? replied, that his whole art 
 consisted in doing one thing at once. '' If," says he, 
 *^ I have any necessary dispatches to make, I think 
 of nothing else until those are finished : if any do- 
 mestic affairs require my attention, I give myself up 
 wholly to them until they are set in order." 
 
 In short, we often see men of dull and phlegmatic 
 tempers arriving to great estates, by making a regular 
 and orderly disposition of their business, and that 
 without it the greatest parts and most lively imagina- 
 tions rather puzzle their affairs, than bring them to a 
 happy issue. . 
 
 From what has been said, I think I may lay it 
 down as a maxim, that every man of good common 
 sense may, if he please, in his particular station of 
 life, most certainly be rich. The reason why we 
 sometimes see that men of the greatest capacities are 
 not so, is either because they despise wealth in com- 
 parison of something else ; or at least are not content 
 to be getting an estate, unless they may do it in their 
 
No. 283.] THE SPECTATOR, 235 
 
 own way, and at the same time enjoy all the pleasures 
 and gratifications of life. 
 
 But beside these ordinary forms of growing rich, 
 it must be allowed that there is room for genius as 
 well in this as in all other circumstances of life. 
 
 Though the ways of getting money were long since 
 very numerous, and though so many new ones have 
 been found out of late years, there is certainly still 
 remaining so large a field for invention, that a man 
 of an indifferent head might easily sit down and draw 
 up such a plan for the conduct and support of his 
 life, as was never yet once thought of. 
 
 We daily see methods put in practice by hungry 
 and ingenious men, which demonstrate the power of 
 invention in this particular. 
 
 It is reported of Scaramouch, the first famous 
 Italian comedian, that being at Paris and in great 
 want, he bethought himself of constantly plying near 
 the door of a noted perfumer in that city, and when 
 any one came out who had been buying snuff, never 
 failed to desire a taste of them : when he had by this 
 means got together a quantity made up of several 
 different sorts, he sold it again at a lower rate to the 
 same perfumer, who, finding out the trick, called it 
 ''Tabac de mille fleiirs^' or ''Snuff of a thousand 
 flowers." The story further tells us, that by this 
 means he got a very comfortable subsistence, until 
 making too much haste to grow rich, he one day 
 took such an unreasonable pinch out of the box of a 
 Swiss officer, as engaged him in a quarrel, and obliged 
 him to quit this ingenious way of life. 
 
 Nor can I in this place omit doing justice to a 
 youth of my own country, who though he is scarce 
 yet twelve years old, has with great industry and 
 appHcation attained to the art of beating the grena- 
 dier's march on his chin. I am credibly informed 
 
236 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 283. 
 
 that by this means he does not only maintain himself 
 and his mother, but that he is laying up money every 
 day, with a design, if the war continues, to purchase 
 a drum at least, if not a pair of colors. 
 
 I shall conclude these instances with the device of 
 the famous Rabelais, when he was at a great distance 
 from Paris, and without money to bear his expenses 
 thither. The ingenious author being thus sharp-set, 
 got together a convenient quantity of brick-dust, and 
 having disposed of it into several papers, wrote upon 
 one, '' Poison for monsieur ;" upon a second, " Poison 
 for the dauphin," and on a third, '' Poison for the 
 king." Having made this provision for the royal 
 family of France, he laid his papers so that his land- 
 lord, who was an inquisitive man, and a good sub- 
 ject, might get a sight of them. 
 
 The plot succeeded as he desired. The host gave 
 immediate intelligence to the secretar}^ of state. The 
 secretary presently sent down a special messenger, 
 who brought up the traitor to court and provided 
 him at the king's expense with proper accommoda- 
 tions on the road. As soon as he appeared, he was 
 known to be the celebrated Rabelais, and his powder 
 upon examination being found very innocent, the jest 
 was only laughed at ; for which a less eminent droll 
 would have been sent to the galleys. 
 
 Trade and commerce might doubtless be still varied 
 a thousand ways, out of which would arise such 
 branches as have not yet been touched. The famous 
 Doily is still fresh in every one's memory, who raised 
 a fortune by finding out materials for such stuffs as 
 might at once be cheap and genteel. I have heard 
 it affirmed, that had not he discovered this frugal 
 method of gratifying our pride, we should hardly 
 have been able to carry on the last war. 
 
 I regard trade not only as highly advantageous to 
 
No. 302.] THE SPECTATOR. 237 
 
 the commonwealth in general, but as the m.ost natural 
 and likely method of making a man's fortune : hav- 
 ing observed, since my being a Spectator in the 
 world, greater estates got about 'Change, than at 
 Whitehall or St. James's. I believe I may also add, 
 that the first acquisitions are generally attended with 
 more satisfaction, and as good a conscience. 
 
 I must not, however, close this essay without 
 observing, that what has been said is only intended 
 for persons in the common ways of thriving, and is 
 not designed for those men who from low beginnings 
 push themselves up to the top of states, and the most 
 considerable figures in life. My maxim of saving is 
 not designed for such as these, since nothing is more 
 usual than for thrift to disappoint the ends of ambi- 
 tion ; it being almost impossible that the mind should 
 be intent upon trifles, while it is at the same time 
 forming some great design. 
 
 I may therefore compare these men to a great 
 poet, who, as Longinus says, while he is full of the 
 most magnificent ideas, is not always at leisure to 
 mind the little beauties and niceties of his art. 
 
 I would, however, have all my readers take great 
 care how they mistake themselves for uncommon 
 geniuses, and men above rule, since it is very easy 
 for them to be deceived in this particular. — X. 
 
 No. 302.] Friday, February 15, 1711-12. 
 
 Lachrymaeque decorae, 
 
 Gratior et pulchro veniens in corpore virtus. 
 
 ViRG. -^n., V, 343. . 
 
 Becoming sorrows, and a virtuous mind 
 More lovely in a beauteous form enshrin'd. 
 
 I READ what I give for the entertainment of this 
 day with a great deal of pleasure, and publish it just 
 
238 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 302. 
 
 as it came to my hands. I shall be very glad to find 
 there are many guessed at for Emilia. 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, 
 
 '* If this paper has the good fortune to be honored 
 with a place in your writings, I shall be the more 
 pleased, because the character of Emilia is not an 
 imaginary but a real one. I have industriously ob- 
 scured the whole by the addition of one or two cir- 
 cumstances of no consequence, that the person it is 
 drawn from might still be concealed, and that the 
 \\Titer of it might not be in the least suspected, and 
 for some other reasons, I choose not to give it in the 
 -form of a letter : but if, beside the faults of the com- 
 position, there be anything in it more proper for a 
 correspondent than the Spectator himself to ^^Tite, I 
 submit it to your better judgment, to receive any 
 other model you think fit. 
 
 '' I am, Sir, 
 
 "Your very humble Servant." 
 
 There is nothing which gives one so pleasing a 
 prospect of human nature, as the contemplation of 
 wisdom and beauty : the latter is the peculiar portion 
 of that sex which is therefore called fair ; but the 
 happy concurrence of both these excellencies in the 
 same person, is a character too celestial to be fre- 
 quently met with. Beauty is an overweening, self- 
 sufficient thing, careless of providing itself any more 
 substantial ornaments ; nay, so little does it consult 
 its own interests, that it too often defeats itself, by 
 betraying that innocence, which renders it lovely and 
 desirable. As therefore virtue makes a beautiful 
 woman appear more beautiful, so beauty makes a 
 \artuous woman really more virtuous. While I am 
 considering these two perfections gloriously united 
 
No. 302.] THE SPECTATOR, 239 
 
 in one person, I cannot help representing to my mind 
 the image of Emilia. 
 
 Who ever beheld the charming Emilia, without 
 feeling in his breast at once the glow of love, and the 
 tenderness of virtuous friendship? The unstudied 
 graces of her behavior, and the pleasing accents of 
 her tongue, insensibly draw you on to wish for a 
 nearer enjoyment of them ; but even her smiles carry 
 in them a silent reproof to the impulses of licentious 
 love. Thus, though the attractives of her beauty 
 play almost irresistibly upon you, and create desire, 
 you immediately stand corrected, not by the severity, 
 but the decency, of her virtue. That sweetness and 
 good-humor, which is so visible in her face, naturally 
 diffuses itself into every word and action : a man 
 must be a savage, who, at the sight of Emilia, is not 
 more inclined to do her good, than gratify himself. 
 Her person as it is thus studiously embellished by 
 nature, thus adorned with unpremeditated graces, is 
 a fit lodging for a mind so fair and lovely; there 
 dwell rational piety, modest hope, and cheerful 
 resignation. 
 
 Many of the prevaihng passions of mankind do 
 undeservedly pass under the name of religion ; which 
 is thus made to express itself in action, according to 
 the nature of the constitution in w^hich it resides ; so 
 that were we to make a judgment from appearances, 
 one would imagine rehgion in some is little better 
 than sullenness and reserve, in many fear, in others 
 the despondings of a melancholy complexion, in others 
 the formality of insignificant unaff ecting observances, 
 in others severity, in others ostentation. In Emilia 
 it is a principle founded in reason, and enlivened with 
 hope ; it does not break forth into irregular fits and 
 sallies of devotion, but it is a uniform and consistent 
 tenor of action ; it is strict without severity ; com- 
 
240 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 302. 
 
 passionate without weakness ; it is the perfection of 
 that good-humor which proceeds from the under- 
 standing, not the effect of an easy constitution. 
 
 By a generous sympathy in nature, we feel our- 
 selves disposed to mourn when any of our fellow- 
 creatures are afflicted ; but injiured innocence and 
 beauty in distress is an object that carries in it some- 
 thing inexpressibly moving ; it softens the most manly 
 heart with the tenderest sensations of love and com- 
 passion, until at length it confesses its humanity, and 
 flows out into tears. 
 
 Were I to relate that part of Emiha's hfe which 
 has given her an opportunity of exerting the heroism 
 of Christianity, it would make too sad, too tender a 
 story ; but when I consider her alone in the midst of 
 her distresses, looking beyond this gloom^y vale of 
 affliction and sorrow, into the joys of heaven and 
 immortality, and when I see her in conversation 
 thoughtless and easy, as if she were the most happy 
 creature in the world, I am transported with admira- 
 tion. Surely never did such a philosophic soul in- 
 habit such a beauteous form! For beauty is often 
 made a privilege against thought and reflection ; it 
 laughs at wisdom, and will not abide the gravity of 
 its instructions. 
 
 Were I able to represent Emiha's virtues in their 
 proper colors, and their due proportions, love or flat- 
 tery might perhaps be thought to have drawn the 
 picture larger than life ; but as this is but an imper- 
 fect draught of so excellent a character, and as I 
 cannot, I will not, hope to have any interest in her 
 person, all that I can say of her is but impartial 
 praise extorted from me by the prevailing brightness 
 of her virtues. So rare a pattern of female excellence 
 ought not to be concealed, but should be set out to 
 the view and imitation of the world ; for how amiable 
 
No. 302.] THE SPECTATOR, 241 
 
 does virtue appear thus, as it were, made visible to 
 us, in so fair an example! 
 
 Honoria's disposition is of a very different turn : 
 her thoughts are wholly bent upon conquest and 
 arbitrary power. That she has some wit and beauty 
 nobody denies, and therefore has the esteem of all 
 her acquaintance as a woman of an agreeable person 
 and conversation ; but (whatever her husband may 
 think of it) that is not sufficient for Honoria: she 
 waves that title to respect as a mean acquisition, and 
 demands veneration in the right of an idol ; for this 
 reason, her natural desire of life is continually checked 
 with an inconsistent fear of wrinkles and old age. 
 
 Emilia cannot be supposed ignorant of her personal 
 charms, though she seems to be so ; but she will not 
 hold her happiness upon so precarious a tenure, while 
 her mind is adorned with beauties of a more exalted 
 and lasting nature. When in the full bloom of youth 
 and beauty we saw her surrounded with a crowd of 
 adorers, she took no pleasure in slaughter and de- 
 struction, gave no false deluding hopes which might 
 increase the torments of her disappointed lovers ; but 
 having for some time given to the decency of a virgin 
 coyness, and examined the merit of their several pre- 
 tensions, she at length gratified her own, by resigning 
 herself to the ardent passion of Bromius. Bromius 
 was then master of many good qualities and a mod- 
 erate fortune, which was soon after unexpectedly 
 increased to a plentiful estate. This for a good while 
 proved his misfortune, as it furnished his inexperi- 
 enced age with the opportunities of evil company, 
 and a sensual life. He might have longer wandered 
 in the labyrinths of vice and folly, had not Emilia's 
 prudent conduct won him over to the government of 
 his reason. Her ingenuity has been constantly em- 
 ployed in humanizing his passions, and refining his 
 
242 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 302. 
 
 pleasures. She has showed him, by her own example, 
 that virtue is consistent with decent freedoms, and 
 good-humor, or rather that it cannot subsist without 
 them. Her good sense readily instructed her, that a 
 silent example, and an easy unrepining behavior, will 
 always be more persuasive than the severity of lect- 
 ures and admonitions ; and that there is so much 
 pride interv/oven into the make of human nature, that 
 an obstinate man must only take the hint from 
 another, and then be left to advise and correct him- 
 self. Thus by an artful train of management, and 
 unseen persuasions, having at first brought him not 
 to dishke, and at length to be pleased with that which 
 otherwise he would not have borne to hear of, she 
 then knew how to press and secure this advantage ; 
 by approving it as his thought, and seconding it as 
 his proposal. By this means she has gained an inter- 
 est in some of his leading passions, and made them 
 accessory to his reformation. 
 
 There is another particular of Emilia's conduct 
 which I cannot forbear mentioning: to some, per- 
 haps, it may at first sight appear but a trifling incon- 
 siderable circumstance ; but, for my part, I think it 
 highly worthy of observation, and to be recomm.ended 
 to the consideration of the fair sex. I have often 
 thought wrapping-gowns and dirty linen, with all that 
 huddled economy of dress which passes under the 
 name of "a mob," the bane of conjugal love, and 
 one of the readiest means imaginable to ahenate the 
 affection of a husband, especially a fond one. I have 
 heard some ladies who have been surprised by com- 
 pany in such a dishabille, apologize for it after this 
 manner: ''Truly, I am ashamed to be caught in this 
 pickle : but my husband and I were sitting all alone 
 by ourselves, and I did not expect to see such good 
 company." This, by the way, is a fine compliment 
 
No. 302.] THE SPECTATOR, 243 
 
 to the good man, which it is ten to one but he 
 returns in dogged answers and a churhsh behavior, 
 without knowing what it is that puts him out of 
 humor. 
 
 EmiHa's observation teaches her, that as Httle in- 
 advertencies and neglects cast a blemish upon a great 
 character; so the neglect of apparel, even among 
 the most intimate friends, does insensibly lessen their 
 regards to each other, by creating a familiarity too 
 low and contemptible. She understands the impor- 
 tance of those things which the generality account 
 trifles ; and considers everything as a matter of con- 
 sequence that has the least tendency toward keeping 
 up or abating the affection of her husband : him she 
 esteems as a fit object to employ her ingenuity in 
 pleasing, because he is to be pleased for life. 
 
 By the help of these, and a thousand other name- 
 less arts, which it is easier for her to practice than for 
 another to express, by the obstinacy of her goodness 
 and unprovoked submission, in spite of all her afflic- 
 tions and ill-usage, Bromius has become a man of 
 sense and a kind husband, and Emilia a happy wife. 
 
 Ye guardian angels, to whose care Heaven has in- 
 trusted its dear Emiha, guide her still forward in the 
 paths of virtue, defend her from the insolence and 
 wrongs of this undiscerning world : at length, when 
 we must no more converse with such purity on earth, 
 lead her gently hence, innocent and unreprovable, 
 to a better place, where, by an easy transition from 
 what she now is, she may shine forth an angel of 
 light.— T. 
 
244 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 317. 
 
 No. 317.] Tuesday, March 4, 171 i-i 2. 
 
 Fniges consumere nati.—HoR. i Ep. ii, 27. • 
 
 Born to drink and eat. — Creech. 
 
 Augustus, a few minutes before his death, asked 
 his friends who stood about him, if they thought he 
 had acted his part well ; and upon receiving such an 
 answer as was due to his extraordinary merit, '' Let me 
 then," says he, '' go off the stage with your applause ;" 
 using the expression with which the Roman actors 
 made their exit at the conclusion of a dramatic 
 piece.* I could wish that men, while they are in 
 health, would consider well the nature of the part 
 they are engaged in, and what figure it will make in 
 the minds of those they leave behind them, whether 
 it was worth coming into the world for ; whether it be 
 suitable to a reasonable being ; in short, whether it 
 appears graceful in this hfe, or will turn to advantage 
 in the next. Let the sycophant or the buffoon, the 
 satirist, or the good companion, consider with him- 
 self, when his body shall be laid in the grave, and 
 his soul pass into another state of existence, how 
 much it will redound to his praise to have it said of 
 him, that no man in England ate better, that he had 
 an admirable talent at turning his friends into ridi- 
 cule, that nobody outdid him at an ill-natured jest, 
 or that he never went to bed before he had dis- 
 patched his third bottle. These are, however, very 
 common funeral orations, and eulogiums on deceased 
 persons who have acted among mankind with some 
 figure and reputation. 
 
 But if we look into the bulk of our species, they 
 are such as are not Hkely to be remembered a mo- 
 
 * Vos valete et plaudite. 
 
No. 3I7-] THE SPECTATOR. 245 
 
 ment after their disappearance. They leave behind 
 them no traoes of their existence^ but are forgotten 
 as though they had never been. They are neither 
 wanted by the poor, regretted by the rich, nor cele- 
 brated by the learned. They are neither missed in 
 the commonwealth, nor lamented by private persons. 
 Their actions are of no significancy to mankind, and 
 might have been performed by creatures of much less 
 dignity than those who are distinguished by the faculty 
 of reason. An eminent French author speaks some- 
 where to the following purpose : I have often seen 
 from my chamber-window two noble creatures, both 
 of them of an erect countenance and endowed with 
 reason. These two intellectual beings are employed 
 from morning till night in rubbing two smooth stones 
 one upon another : that is, as the vulgar phrase is, 
 in polishing marble. 
 
 My friend. Sir Andrew Freeport, as we were sitting 
 in the club last night, gave us an account of a sober 
 citizen, who died a few days since. This honest man, 
 of greater consequence in his own thoughts than in 
 the eye of the world, had for some years past kept a 
 journal of his life. Sir Andrew showed us one week 
 of it. Since the occurrences set down in it mark out 
 such a road of action as that I have been speaking 
 of, I shall present my reader with a faithful copy of 
 it ; after having first informed him, that the deceased 
 person had in his youth been bred to trade, but find- 
 ing himself not so well turned for business, he had for 
 several years past hved altogether upon a moderate 
 annuity. 
 
 Monday^ eight o'clock. I put on my clothes, and 
 walked into the parlor. 
 
 Nine o'clock, ditto. Tied my knee-strings and 
 washed my hands. 
 
246 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 317. 
 
 Hours ten, eleven, and twelve. Smoked three 
 pipes of Virginia. Read the Supplement and Daily 
 Courant. Things go ill in the north. Mr. Nisby*s 
 opinion thereupon. 
 
 One o'clock in the afternoon. Chid Ralph for 
 mislaying my tobacco-box. 
 
 Two o'clock. Sat down to dinner. Mem. Too 
 many plums and no suet. 
 
 From three to four. Took my afternoon's nap. 
 
 From four to six. Walked into the fields. Wind 
 S. S. E. 
 
 From six to ten. At the club. Mr. Nisby's opin- 
 ion about the peace. 
 
 Ten o'clock. Went to bed, slept sound. 
 
 Tuesday^ being holiday, eight o'clock. Rose as usual. 
 
 Nine o'clock. Washed hands and face, shaved, 
 put on my double-soled shoes. 
 
 Ten, eleven, twelve. Took a walk to Islington. 
 
 One. Took a pot of Mother Cob's mild. 
 
 Between two and three. Returned, dined on a 
 knuckle of veal and bacon. Mem. Sprouts wanting. 
 
 Three. Nap as usual. 
 
 From four to six Coffee-house. Read the news. 
 A dish of twist. Grand vizier strangled. 
 
 From six to ten. At the club. Mr. Nisby's ac- 
 count of the Great Turk. 
 
 Ten. Dream of the grand vizier. Broken sleep. 
 
 Wednesday^ eight o'clock. Tongue of my shoe- 
 buckle broke. Hands but not face. 
 
 Nine. Paid off the butcher's bill. Mem. To be 
 allowed for the last leg of mutton. 
 
 Ten, eleven. At the coffee-house. More work in 
 the north. Stranger in a black wig asked me how 
 stocks went. 
 
 From twelve to one. Walked in the fields. Wind 
 to the south. 
 
No. 3I7-] THE SPECTATOR. 247 
 
 From one to two. Smoked a pipe and a half. 
 
 Two. Dined as usual. Stomach good. 
 
 Three. Nap broke by the faUing of a pewter dish. 
 Mem. Cook-maid in love, and grown careless. 
 
 From four to six. At the coffee-house. Advice 
 from Smyrna that the grand vizier was first of aE 
 strangled, and afterward beheaded. 
 
 Six o'clock in the evening. Was half an hour in 
 the club before anybody else came. Mr. Nisby of 
 opinion that the grand vizier was not strangled the 
 sixth instant. 
 
 Ten at night. Went to bed. Slept without wak- 
 ing until nine the next morning. 
 
 Thursday^ nine o'clock. Stayed within until two 
 o'clock for Sir Timothy ; who did not bring me my 
 annuity according to his promise. 
 
 Two in the afternoon. Sat down to dinner. Loss 
 of appetite. Small beer sour. Beef over-corned. 
 
 Three. Could not take my nap. 
 
 Four and five. Gave Ralph a box on the ear. 
 Turned off my cook-maid. Sent a messenger to Sir 
 Timothy. Mem. I did not go to the club to-night. 
 Went to bed at nine o'clock. 
 
 Friday. Passed the morning in meditation upon 
 Sir Timothy, who was with me a quarter before 
 twelve. 
 
 Twelve o'clock. Bought a new head to my cane, 
 and a tongue to my buckle. Drank a glass of purl 
 to recover appetite. 
 
 Two and three. Dined and slept well. 
 
 From four to six. Went to the coffee-house. Met 
 Mr. Nisby there. Smoked several pipes. Mr. Nisby 
 of opinion that laced coffee is bad for the head. 
 
 Six o'clock. At the club as steward. Sat late. 
 
 Twelve o'clock. Went to bed, dreamt that I 
 drank small beer with the grand vizier. 
 
248 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 317. 
 
 Saturday. Waked at eleven, walked in the fields, 
 wind N. E. 
 
 Twelve. Caught in a shower. 
 
 One in the afternoon. Returned home and dried 
 myself. 
 
 Two. Mr. Nisby dined with me. First course, 
 marrow-bones ; second, ox-cheek, with a bottle of 
 Brooks and Helher. 
 
 Three. Overslept myself. 
 
 Six. Went to the club. Like to have fallen into 
 a gutter. Grand Vizier certainly dead. 
 
 I question not but the reader will be surprised to 
 find the above-mentioned journalist taking so much 
 care of a life that was filled with such inconsiderable 
 actions, and received so very small improvements ; 
 and yet if we look into the behavior of many whom 
 we daily converse with, we shall find the most of 
 their hoin's are taken up in those three important 
 articles of eating, drinking, and sleeping. I do not 
 suppose that man loses his time, who is not engaged 
 in public affairs, or in an illustrious course of action. 
 On the contrary, I believe our hours may very often 
 be more profitably laid out in such transactions 
 as make no figure in the world, than in such as are 
 apt to draw upon them the attention of mankind. 
 One may become wiser and better by several methods 
 of employing one's-self in secrecy and silence, and do 
 what is laudable without noise or ostentation. I would, 
 however, recommend to every one of my readers, the 
 keeping a journal of their lives for one week, and 
 setting down punctually their whole series of employ- 
 ment during that space of time. This kind of self- 
 examination would give them a true state of them- 
 selves, and incline them to consider seriously what 
 they are about. One day would rectify the omissions 
 
No. 337-] THE SPECTATOR, 249 
 
 of another, a»d make a man weigh all those indiffer- 
 ent actions, which, though they are easily forgotten, 
 must certainly be accounted for. — L. 
 
 No. 337.] Thursday, March 27, 17 12. 
 
 Fingit equum tenera docileni cervice m agister, 
 
 Ire viam quam monstrat eques 
 
 Hop. 1 Ep. ii, 63. 
 
 The jockey trains the young and tender horse 
 
 While yet soft-mouth' d, and breeds him to the course. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 I HAVE lately received a third letter from the gen- 
 tleman who has already given the public two essays 
 upon education. As his thoughts seem to be very 
 just and new upon this subject, I shall communicate 
 them to the reader. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 *' If I had not been hindered by some extraordi- 
 nary business, I should have sent you sooner my 
 further thoughts upon education. You may please to 
 remember, that in my last letter I endeavored to give 
 the best reasons that could be urged in favor of a 
 private or public education.* Upon the whole, it may 
 perhaps be thought that I seemed rather inclined to 
 the latter, though at the same time I confess that 
 virtue, which ought to be our first principal care, was 
 more usually acquired in the former. 
 
 '' I intend, therefore, in this letter, to offer at 
 methods, by which I conceive boys might be made 
 to improve in virtue as they advance in letters. 
 
 '' I kno\^ that in most of oiu* public schools vice is 
 
 * By public and private education the author means educa- 
 tion at school, and education under a private tutor. 
 
250 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 337. 
 
 punished and discouraged, whenever it is found out ; 
 but this is far from being sufficient, unless our youth 
 are at the same time taught to form a right judgment 
 of things, and to know what is properly virtue. 
 
 '' To this end, whenever they read the lives and 
 actions of such men as have been famous in their 
 generation, it should not be thought enough to make 
 them barely understand so many Greek or Latin sen- 
 tences ; but they should be asked their opinion of 
 such an action or saying, and obliged to give their 
 reasons why they take it to be good or bad. By 
 this means they would insensibly arrive at proper 
 notions of courage, temperance, honor, and justice. 
 
 '' There must be great care taken how the example 
 of any particular person is recommended to them in 
 gross ; instead of which they ought to be taught 
 wherein such a man, though great in some respects, 
 was weak and faulty in others. For w^ant of this 
 caution, a boy so often is dazzled with the luster of a 
 great character, that he confounds its beauties with 
 its blemishes, and looks even upon the faulty part of 
 it with an eye of admiration. 
 
 '' I have often wondered how Alexander, who was 
 naturally of a generous and merciful disposition, came 
 to be guilty of so barbarous an action as that of 
 dragging the governor of a town after his chariot. I 
 know this is generally ascribed to his passion for 
 Homer : but I lately met with a passage in Plutarch, 
 which, if I am not very much mistaken, still gives us 
 a clearer hght into the motives of this action. Plu- 
 tarch tells us, that Alexander in his youth had a 
 master named Lysimachus, who, though he was a man 
 destitute of all politeness, ingratiated himself both 
 with Philip and his pupil, and became the second 
 man at court, by calling the king Peleus, the prince 
 Achilles, and himself Phoenix. It is no wonder if 
 
No. 337-] THE SPECTATOR, 251 
 
 Alexander, having been thus used not only to admire 
 but to personate Achilles, should think it glorious to 
 imitate him in this piece of cruelty and extravagance. 
 
 '^ To carry this thought yet further, I shall submit 
 it to your consideration, whether, instead of a theme 
 or copy of verses, which are the usual exercises, as 
 they are called in school phrase, it would not be more 
 proper that a boy should be tasked, once or twice a 
 week, to write down his opinion of such persons and 
 things as occur to him by his reading ; that he should 
 descant upon the actions of Turnus or ^neas ; show 
 wherein they excelled, or where defective ; censure or 
 approve any particular action ; observe how it might 
 have been carried to a greater degree of perfection, 
 and how it exceeded or fell short of another. He 
 might at the same time mark what was moral in any 
 speech, and how far it agreed with the character of 
 the person speaking. This exercise would soon 
 strengthen his judgment in what is blamable or 
 praiseworthy, and give him an early seasoning of 
 morality. 
 
 " Next to those examples which may be met with 
 in books, I very much approve Horace's way of 
 setting before youth the infamous or honorable 
 characters of their cotemporaries. That poet tells 
 us, this was the method his father made use of to 
 inchne him to any particular virtue, or give him an 
 aversion to any particular vice. ' If,' says Horace, 
 ' my father advised me to live within bounds, and be 
 contented with the fortune he should leave me ; '' Do 
 you not see," says he, *' the miserable condition of 
 Burrus, and the son of Albus? Let the misfortunes 
 of those two wretches teach you to avoid luxury and 
 extravagance? " If he would inspire me with an ab- 
 horrence to debauchery, " Do not," says he, '' make 
 yourself like Sectanus, when you may be happy in 
 
252 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 337. 
 
 the enjoyment of lawful pleasures. How scanda- 
 lous," says he, '' is the character of Trebonius, who 
 was lately caught in bed with another man's wife ! " ' 
 To illustrate the force of this method, the poet adds, 
 that as a headstrong patient, who will not at hrst fol- 
 low his physician's prescriptions, grows orderly when 
 he hears that his neighbors die all about him ; so 
 youth is often frightened from vice, by hearing the 
 ill report it brings upon others. 
 
 '' Xenophon's schools of equity, in his life of Cyrus 
 the Great, are sufficiently famous. He tells us, 
 that the Persian children went to school, and em- 
 ployed their time as dihgently in learning the princi- 
 ples of justice and sobriety, as the youth in other 
 countries did to acquire the most difficult arts and 
 sciences ; their governors spent most part of the day 
 in hearing their mutual accusations one against the 
 other, whether for violence, cheating, slander, or in- 
 gratitude ; and taught them how to give judgment 
 against those who were found to be anyways guilty of 
 these crimes. I omit the stor}^ of the long and short 
 coat, for which Cyrus himself was punished, as a case 
 equally known with any in Littleton. 
 
 '^The method which Apuleius tells us the In- 
 dian Gymnosophists took to educate their disciples, 
 is still more curious and remarkable. His words are 
 as follows : ' When their dinner is ready, before it 
 is served up, the masters inquire of every particular 
 scholar how he has employed his time since sunrising : 
 some of them answer, that, having been chosen as 
 arbiters between two persons, they have composed 
 their differences, and made them friends ; some, that 
 they have been executing the orders of their parents ; 
 and others, that they have either found out some- 
 thing new by their own application, or learnt it from 
 the instructions of their fellows. But if there hap- 
 
No. 337-] THE SPECTATOR, 253 
 
 pens to be any one among them who cannot make it 
 appear that he has employed the morning to advan- 
 tage, he is immediately excluded from the company, 
 and obhged to work while the rest are at dinner.' 
 
 ''It is not impossible, that from these several ways 
 of producing virtue in the minds of boys, some gen- 
 eral method might be invented. What I would en- 
 deavor to inculcate is, that our youth cannot be too 
 soon taught the principles of virtue, seeing the first 
 impressions which are made on the mind are always 
 the strongest. 
 
 *' The archbishop of Cambray makes Telemachus 
 say, that, though he was young in years, he was old 
 in the art of knowing how to keep both his own and 
 his friends' secrets. 'When my father,' says the 
 prince, ' went to the siege of Troy, he took me on his 
 knees, and, after having embraced and blessed me, 
 as he was surrounded by the nobles of Ithaca, "O my 
 friends," says he, " into your hands I commit the edu- 
 cation of my son : if ever you loved his father, show 
 it in your care toward him ; but above all, do not omit 
 to form him just, sincere, and faithful in keeping a 
 secret." These words of my father,' says Telemachus, 
 ' were continually repeated to me by his friends in his 
 absence ; who made no scruple of communicating to 
 me their uneasiness to see my mother surrounded with 
 lovers, and the measures they designed to take on that 
 occasion.' He adds, that he was so ravished at be- 
 ing thus treated like a man, and at the confidence re- 
 posed in him, that he never once abused it ; nor could 
 all the insinuations of his father's rivals ever get him 
 to betray what was committed to him under the seal 
 of secrecy. 
 
 " There is hardly any virtue which a lad might not 
 thus learn by practice and example. 
 
 " I have heard of a good man, who used at certain 
 
254 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 348. 
 
 times to give his scholars sixpence a-piece, that they 
 might tell him the next day how they had employed 
 it. The third part was always to be laid out in 
 charity, and every boy was blamed or commended, as 
 he could make it appear that he had chosen a fit object. 
 
 '* In short nothing is more wanting to our public 
 schools, than that the masters of them should use the 
 same care in fashioning the manners of their scholars, 
 as in forming their tongues to the learned languages. 
 Whenever the former is omitted, I cannot help agree- 
 ing with Mr. Locke, that a man must have a very 
 strange value for words when, preferring the languages 
 of the Greeks and Romans to that which made them 
 such brave men, he can think it worth while to hazard 
 the innocence and virtue of his son for a little Greek 
 and Latin. 
 
 " As the subject of this essay is of the highest im- 
 portance, and what I do not remember to have yet 
 seen treated by any author, I have sent you what oc- 
 curred to me on it from my own observation or read- 
 ing, and which you may either suppress or publish, as 
 you may think fit. 
 
 X. *' I am, Sir, yours," etc. 
 
 No. 348.] Wednesday, April 9, 171 2. 
 
 Invidiam placere paras, virtute relicta ? 
 
 HoR. 2 Sat. ill, 13. 
 
 To shun detraction, wouldst thou virtue fly ? 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, 
 
 " I HAVE not seen you lately at any of the places 
 where I visit, so that I am afraid you are wholly un- 
 acquainted with what passes among my part of the 
 world, who are, though I say it, without controversy, 
 
No. 348.] THE SPECTATOR. 255 
 
 the most accomplished and best bred of the town. 
 Give me leave to tell you, that I am extremely dis- 
 composed when I hear scandal, and am an utter 
 enemy to all manner of detraction, and think it the 
 greatest meanness that people of distinction can be 
 guilty of. However, it is hardly possible to come 
 into company where you do not find them pulHng 
 one another to pieces, and that from no other provo- 
 cation but that of hearing any one commended. 
 Merit, both as to wit and beauty, is become no other 
 than the possession of a few trifling people's favor, 
 which you cannot possibly arrive at, if you have 
 really anything in you that is deserving. What they 
 would bring to pass is, to make all good and evil con- 
 sist in report, and with whispers, calumnies, and im- 
 pertinences, to have the conduct of those reports. 
 By this means, innocents are blasted upon their first 
 appearance in' town; and there is nothing more re- 
 quired to make a young woman the object of envy 
 and hatred, than to deserve love and admiration. 
 This abominable endeavor to suppress or lessen every- 
 thing that is praiseAvorthy is as frequent among the 
 men as the women. If I can remember what passed 
 at a visit last night, it will serve as an instance that 
 the sexes are equally inclined to defamation, with 
 equal malice and impotence. Jack Triplett came 
 into my Lady Airy's about eight of the clock. You 
 know the manner we sit at a visit, and I need not 
 describe the circle ; but Mr. Triplett came in, intro- 
 duced by two tapers supported by a spruce servant, 
 whose hair is under a cap till my lady's candles are all 
 lighted up, and the hour of ceremony begins ; I say 
 Jack Triplett came in, and singing (for he is really 
 good company) ' Every feature, charming creature ' 
 
 he went on, ' It is a most unreasonable thing, 
 
 that people cannot go peaceably to see their friends. 
 
256 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 348. 
 
 but these murderers are let loose. Such a shape ! 
 such an air ! what a glance was that as her chariot 
 passed by mine ! * — My lady herself interrupted him ; 
 'Pray, who is this fine thing?' — -'I w^arrant,' says 
 another, ' 'tis the creature I was telling your ladyship 
 of just now.' — * You were telHng of? ' says Jack ; ' I 
 wish I had been so happy as to have come in and 
 heard you ; for I have not words to say what she is ; 
 but if an agreeable height, a modest air, a virgin 
 shame, and impatience of being beheld amid a blaze 
 
 of ten thousand charms ' The whole room flew 
 
 out ' Oh, Mr. Triplett ! ' When Mrs. Lofty, a 
 
 knowm prude, said she knew w^hom the gentleman 
 meant ; but she was indeed, as he civilly represented 
 
 her, impatient of being beheld Then turning to 
 
 the lady next to her ' The most unbred creature 
 
 you ever saw ! ' Another pursued the discourse : 
 ' As unbred, madam, as you may think her, she is ex- 
 tremely belied if she is the novice she appears ; she 
 was last week at a ball till two in the morning ; Mr. 
 Triplett knows w^hether he was the happy man that 
 
 took care of her home ; but ' This was followed 
 
 by some particular exception that each woman in the 
 room made to some peculiar grace or advantage ; so 
 that Mr. Triplett was beaten from one limb and feat- 
 ure to another, till he was forced to resign the whole 
 woman. In the end, I took notice Tiplett re- 
 corded all this malice in his heart ; and saw in his 
 countenance, and a certain waggish shrug, that he 
 designed to repeat the conversation : I therefore let 
 the discourse die, and soon after took an occasion to 
 recommend a certain gentleman of my acquaintance 
 for a person of singular modesty, courage, integrity, 
 and withal as a man of an entertaining conversation, to 
 which advantages he had a shape and manner pecul- 
 iarly graceful. Mr. Triplett, who is a woman's man, 
 
No. 348.] THE SPECTATOR. 257 
 
 seemed to hear me with patience enough to commend 
 the quahties of his mind. He never heard, indeed, 
 but that he was a very honest man, and no fool ; but 
 for a finer gentleman, he must ask pardon. Upon 
 no other foundation than this, Mr. Triplett took oc- 
 casion to g\\^ the gentleman's pedigree, by what 
 method some part of the estate was acquired, how 
 much it was beholden to a marriage for the pres- 
 ent circumstances of it : after all, he could see noth- 
 ing but a common man in his person, his breeding, 
 or understanding. 
 
 ''Thus, Mr. Spectator, this impertinent humor of 
 diminishing every one who is produced in conversa- 
 tion to their advantage, runs through the world ; and 
 I am, I confess, so fearful of the force of ill tongues, 
 that I have begged of all those who are my well- 
 wishers never to commend me, for it will but bring 
 my frailties into examination ; and I had rather be 
 unobserved, than conspicuous for disputed perfec- 
 tions. I am confident a thousand young people, who 
 would have been ornaments to society, have, from 
 fear of scandal, never dared to exert themselves in 
 the polite arts of life. Their lives have passed away 
 in an odious rusticity, in spite of great advantages of 
 person, genius, and fortune. There is a vicious terror 
 of being blamed in some well-inclined people, and a 
 wicked pleasure in suppressing them in others ; both 
 which I recommend to your spectatorial wisdom to 
 animadvert upon ; and if you can be successful in 
 it, I need not say how much you will deserve of the 
 town ; but new toasts will owe to you their beauty, 
 and new wits their fame. 
 
 " I am, Sir, 
 '' Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 T. '' Mary." 
 
258 • THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 349. 
 
 No. 349.] Thursday, April 10, 171 2, 
 
 -Quos ille timorum 
 
 Maximus baud urget, lethi metus : inde ruendi 
 In ferrum mens prona viris, animaeque capaces 
 Mortis LucAxN., i, 454. 
 
 Thrice happy they beneath their northern skies, 
 Who that worst tear, the fear of death despise ! 
 Hence they no cares for this frail being feel, 
 But rush undaunted on the pointed steel, 
 Provoke approaching fate, and bravely scorn 
 To spare that life which must so soon return. 
 
 ROWE. 
 
 I AM very much pleased with a consolatory letter 
 of Phalaris, to one who had lost a son that was a 
 young man of great merit. The thought with which 
 he comforts the afflicted father is, to the best of my 
 memory, as follows : — That he should consider death 
 had set a kind of seal upon his son's character, and 
 placed him out of the reach of vice and infamy : that, 
 while he lived, he was still within the possibihty of 
 falhng away from virtue, and losing the fame of 
 which he was possessed. Death only closes a man*s 
 reputation, and determines it as good or bad. 
 
 This, among other motives, may be one reason 
 why we are naturally averse to the launching out 
 into a man's praise till his head is laid in the dust. 
 While he is capable of changing, we may be forced 
 to retract our opinions. He may forfeit the esteem 
 we have conceived of him, and some time or other 
 appear to us under a different light from what he does 
 at present. In short, as the life of any man cannot 
 be called happy or unhappy, so neither can it be 
 pronounced vicious or virtuous before the conclusion 
 of it. 
 
 It was upon this consideration that Epaminondas, 
 being asked whether Chabrias, Iphicrates, or he him- 
 self, deserved most to be esteemed? "You must 
 
No. 349.] THE SPECTATOR, 259 
 
 first see us die,'* saith he, ''before that question can 
 be answered." 
 
 As there is not a more melancholy consideration 
 to a good man than his being obnoxious to such a 
 change, so there is nothing more glorious than to 
 keep up a uniformity in his actions, and preserve the 
 beauty of his character to the last. 
 
 The end of a man's life is often compared to the 
 winding up of a well-written play, where the principal 
 persons still act in character, whatever the fate is 
 which they undergo. There is scarce a great person 
 in the Grecian or Roman history, whose death has 
 not been remarked upon by some writer or other, and 
 censured or applauded according to the genius or 
 principles of the person who has descanted on it. 
 Monsieur de St. Evremond is very particular in set- 
 ting forth the constancy and com*age of Petronius 
 Arbiter during his last moments, and thinks he dis- 
 covers in them a greater firmness of mind and reso- 
 lution than in the death of Seneca, Cato, or Socrates. 
 There is no question but this polite author's affecta- 
 tion of appearing singular in his remarks, and making 
 discoveries which had escaped the observations of 
 others, threw him into this course of reflection. It 
 was Petronius's merit that he died in the same gayety 
 of temper in which he Hved: but as his life was 
 altogether loose and dissolute, the indifference which 
 he showed at the close of it is to be looked upon as 
 a piece of natural carelessness and levity, rather than 
 fortitude. The resolution of Socrates proceeded from 
 very different motives, the consciousness of a well- 
 spent life, and the prospect of a happy eternity. If 
 the ingenious author above-mentioned was so pleased 
 with gayety of humor in a dying man, he might have 
 found a much nobler instance of it in our country- 
 man Sir Thomas More. 
 
26o THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 349. 
 
 This great and learned man was famous for enliv- 
 ening his ordinary discourses with wit and pleasantry ; 
 and as Erasmus tells him, in an epistle dedicatory, 
 acted in all parts of hfe hke a second Democritus. 
 
 He died upon a point of rehgion, and is respected 
 as a martyr by that side for which he suffered. That 
 innocent mirth, which had been so conspicuous in 
 his life, did not forsake him to the last. He main- 
 tained the same cheerfulness of heart upon the scaf- 
 fold which he used to show at his table ; and upon 
 laying his head on the block, gave instances of that 
 good-humor with which he had always entertained his 
 friends in the most ordinary occurrences. His death 
 was of a piece with his life. There was nothing in it 
 new, forced, or affected. He did not look upon the 
 severing his head from his body as a circumstance 
 that ought to produce any change in the disposition 
 of his mind ; and as he died under a fixed and set- 
 tled hope of immortality, he thought any unusual 
 degree of sorrow and concern improper on such an 
 occasion, as he had nothing in it which could deject 
 or terrify him. 
 
 There is no great danger of imitation from this ex- 
 ample. Men's natural fears will be sufficient guard 
 against it. I shall only observe, that what was phi- 
 losophy in this extraordinary man would be frenzy in 
 one who does not resemble him as well in the cheer- 
 fulness of his temper as in the sanctity of his Hfe and 
 manners. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the instance of a 
 person who seems to me to have shown more intre- 
 pidity and greatness of soul in his dying moments 
 than what we meet with among any of the most cele- 
 brated Greeks and Romans, I met with this in- 
 stance in the History of the Revolutions in Portugal, 
 written by the Abbot de Vertot. 
 
No. 349-] THE SPECTATOR, 261 
 
 When Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, had in- 
 vaded the territories of MuK Moluc, emperor of Mo- 
 rocco, in order to dethrone him, and set the crown 
 upon the head of his nephew, Moluc was wearing 
 away with a distemper which he himself knew was in- 
 curable. However, he prepared for the reception of 
 so formidable an enemy. He was, indeed, so far 
 spent with his sickness, that he did not expect to live 
 out the whole day, when the last decisive battle was 
 given ; but, knowing the fatal consequences that 
 would happen to his children and people, in case he 
 should die before he put an end to that war, he com- 
 manded his principal officers, that if he died during 
 the engagement, they should conceal his death from 
 the army, and that they should ride up to the litter 
 in which his corpse was carried, under the pretense 
 of receiving orders from him as usual. Before the 
 battle began he was carried through all the ranks of 
 his army in an open htter, as they stood drawn up in 
 array, encouraging them to fight valiantly in defense 
 of their religion and country. Finding afterward the 
 battle to go against him, though he was very near his 
 last agonies, he threw himself out of his litter, rallied 
 his army, and led them on to the charge ; which af- 
 terward ended in a complete victory on the side of 
 the Moors. He had no sooner brought his men to 
 the engagement, but finding himself utterly spent, 
 he was again replaced in his litter, where, laying his 
 finger on his mouth, to enjoin secrecy to his officers 
 who stood about him, he died a few moments after 
 in that posture. — L. 
 
262 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 355. 
 
 No. 355.] Thursday, April 17, 171 2, 
 
 Non ego mordaci distrinxi carmine quenquam. 
 
 Ovid, Trist. ii, 563. 
 
 I ne'er in gall dipp'd my envenom'd pen, 
 Nor branded the bold front of shameless men. 
 
 I HAVE been very often tempted to write invec- 
 tives upon those who have detracted from my works, 
 or spoken in derogation of my person : but I look 
 upon it as a particular happiness, that I have always 
 hindered my resentments from proceeding to this ex- 
 tremity. I once had gone through half a satire, but 
 found so many motions of humanity rising in me 
 toward the persons whom I had severely treated, 
 that I threw it into the fire without ever finishing 
 it. I have been angry enough to m.ake several little 
 epigrams and lampoons ; and, after having admired 
 them a day or two, have likewise com^mitted them to 
 the flames. These I look upon as so many sacrifices 
 to humanity, and have received much greater satisfac- 
 tion from the suppressing such performances, than I 
 could have done from any reputation they might have 
 procured me, or from any mortification they might 
 have given my enemies, in case I had made them 
 pubHc. If a man has any talent in writing, it shows 
 a good mind to forbear answering calumnies and re- 
 proaches in the same spirit of bitterness in which they 
 are offered. But when a man has been at some pains 
 in making suitable returns to an enemy, and has the 
 instruments of revenge in his hands, to let drop his 
 wrath, and stifle his resentments, seems to have some- 
 thing in it great and heroical. There is a particular 
 merit in such a way of forgiving an enemy ; and 
 the more violent and unprovoked the offense has 
 
No. 3550 THE SPECTATOR, 263 
 
 been, the greater still is the merit of him who thus 
 forgives it. 
 
 I never met with a consideration that is more finely 
 spun, and what has better pleased me, than one in 
 Epictetus, which places an enemy in a new light, and 
 gives us a view of him altogether different from that 
 in which we are used to regard him. The sense of it 
 is as follows : '' Does a man reproach thee for being 
 proud or ill-natured, envious or conceited, ignorant, 
 or detracting? Consider w^ith thyself whether his re- 
 proaches are true. If they are not, consider that thou 
 art not the person whom he reproaches, but that he 
 reviles an imaginary being, and perhaps loves what 
 thou really art, though he hates what thou appearest 
 to be. If his reproaches are true, if thou art the 
 envious, ill-natured man he takes thee for, g\N^ thy- 
 self another turn, become mild, affable, and obliging, 
 and his reproaches of thee naturally cease. His re- 
 proaches may indeed continue, but thou art no longer 
 the person whom he reproaches." * 
 
 I often apply this rule to myself ; and when I hear 
 of a satirical speech or writing that is aimed at me, 
 I examine my own heart whether I deserve it or not. 
 If I bring in a verdict against myself, I endeavor to 
 rectify my conduct for the future in those particulars 
 which have drawn the censure upon me ; but if the 
 whole invective be grounded upon a falsehood, I 
 trouble myself no further about it, and look upon my 
 name at the head of it to signify no more than one 
 of those ficititious names made use of by an author 
 to introduce an imaginary character. Why should a 
 man be sensible of the sting of a reproach, who is a 
 stranger to the guilt that is imphed in it? or subject 
 himself to the penalty, when he knows he has never 
 
 * Epict. Ench., cap. 48 and 64, ed. Berk., 1670, 8vo. 
 
264 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 355. 
 
 committed the crime? This is a piece of fortitude 
 which every one owes to his own innocence, and 
 without which it is impossible for a man of any merit 
 or figure to hve at peace with himself, in a country 
 that abounds with wit and hberty. 
 
 The famous Monsieur Balzac, in a letter to the 
 Chancellor of France, who had prevented the publi- 
 cation of a book against him, has the following words, 
 which are a lively picture of the greatness of mind so 
 visible in the works of that author : '' If it was a 
 new thing, it may be I should not be displeased with 
 the suppression of the first libel that should abuse me ; 
 but since there are enough of them to make a small 
 library, I am secretly pleased to see the number in- 
 creased, and take dehght in raising a heap of stones 
 that envy has cast at me without doing me any harm." 
 
 The author here alludes to those monuments of the 
 eastern nations, which were mountains of stones raised 
 upon the dead bodies by travelers, that used to cast 
 every one his stone upon it as they passed by. It is 
 certain that no monument is so glorious as one which 
 is thus raised by the hands of envy. For my part, I 
 admire an author for such a temper of mind as en- 
 ables him to bear an undeserved reproach without 
 resentment, more than for all the wit of any the finest 
 satirical reply. 
 
 Thus far I thought necessary to explain myself in 
 relation to those who have animadverted on this 
 paper, and to show the reasons why I have not 
 thought fit to return them any formal answer. I 
 must further add, that the work would have been of 
 very httle use to the public had it been filled w^ith per- 
 sonal reflections and debates ; for which reason I never 
 once turned out of my way to observe those httle 
 cavils which have been made against it by envy or 
 ignorance. The common fry of scribblers, who have 
 
No. 374.] THE SPECTATOR, 265 
 
 no other way of being taken notice of but by attack- 
 ing what has gained some reputation in the world, 
 would have furnished me with business enough, had 
 they found me disposed to enter the lists with them. 
 I shall conclude with the fable of Boccalini's trav- 
 eler, who was so pestered with the noise of grasshop- 
 pers in his ears, that he alighted from his horse in 
 great wrath to kill them all. '' This," says the author, 
 ** was troubling himself to no manner of purpose. 
 Had he pursued his journey without taking notice of 
 them, the troublesome insects would have died of 
 themselves in a very few weeks, and he would have 
 suffered nothing from them." — L. 
 
 No. 374.] Friday, May 9, 1712. 
 
 Nil actum reputans si quid superesset agendum. 
 
 LucAN, ii, 57. 
 
 He reckon'd not the past, while aught remain'd 
 Great to be done, or mighty to be gain'd. — Rowe. 
 
 There is a fault, which, though common, wants a 
 name. It is the very contrary to procrastination. As 
 we lose the present hour by delaying from day to day 
 to execute what we ought to do immediately, so most 
 of us take occasion to sit still and throw away the time 
 in our possession by retrospect on what is past, im- 
 agining we have already acquitted ourselves, and es- 
 tablished our characters in the sight of mankind. But 
 when we thus put a value upon ourselves for what 
 we have already done, any further than to explain 
 ourselves in order to assist our future conduct, that 
 will %\N^ us an overweening opinion of our merit, to 
 the prejudice of our present industry. The great 
 rule, methinks, should be, to manage the instant in 
 
266 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 374. 
 
 which we stand, with fortitude, equanimity, and mod- 
 eration, according to men's respective circumstances. 
 If our past actions reproach us, they cannot be atoned 
 for by our own severe reflections so effectually as 
 by a contrary behavior. If they are praiseworthy, 
 the memory of them is of no use but to act suitably 
 to them. Thus a good present behavior is an im- 
 phcit repentance for any miscarriage in what is past ; 
 but present slackness will not make up for past ac- 
 tivity. Time has swallowed up all that we cotempo- 
 raries did yesterday as irrevocably as it has the actions 
 of the antediluvians. But we are again awake, and 
 what shall we do to-day — to-day, which passes while 
 we are yet speaking? Shall we remember the folly 
 of last night, or resolve upon the exercise of virtue 
 to-morrow? Last night is certainly gone, and to- 
 morrow may never arrive. This instant make use 
 of. Can you obhge any man of honor and virtue? 
 Do it immediately. Can you visit a sick friend? 
 AVill it revive him to see you enter, and suspend your 
 own ease and pleasure to comfort his weakness, and 
 hear the impertinences of a wretch in pain? Do not 
 stay to take coach, but be gone. Your mistress will 
 bring sorrow, and your bottle madness. Go to neither 
 — such virtues and diversions as these are mentioned 
 because they occur to all men. But every man is 
 sufficiently convinced, that to suspend the use of the 
 present moment, and resolve better for the future 
 only, is an unpardonable folly. What I attempted to 
 consider, was the mischief of setting such a value 
 upon what is past, as to think we have done enough. 
 Let a man have filled all the ofl[ices of life with the 
 highest dignity till yesterday, and begin to live only to 
 himself to-day, he must expect he will, in the effects 
 upon his reputation, be considered as the man who 
 died yesterday. The man who distinguishes himself 
 
No. 374.] THE SPECTATOR, 267 
 
 from the rest, stands in a press of people : those be- 
 fore him intercept his progress ; and those behind 
 him, if he does not urge on, will tread him down. 
 Caesar, of whom it was said that he thought nothing 
 done while there was anything left for him to do, 
 went on in performing the greatest exploits, without 
 assuming to himself a privilege of taking rest upon 
 the foundation of the merit of his former actions. It 
 was the manner of that glorious captain to write down 
 what scenes he had passed through ; but it was rather 
 to keep his affairs in method, and capable of a clear re- 
 view in case they should be examined by others, than 
 that he built a renown upon anything that was past. 
 I shall produce two fragments of his, to demonstrate 
 that it was his rule of life to support himself rather by 
 what he should perform, than what he had done al- 
 ready. In the tablet which he wore about him the 
 same year in which he obtained the battle of Phar- 
 salia, there were found these loose notes of his own 
 conduct. It is supposed, by the circumstances they 
 alluded to, that they might be set down the evening 
 of the same night. 
 
 '' My part is now but begun, and my glory must 
 be sustamed by the use I make of this victory, other- 
 wise my loss will be greater than that of Pompey. 
 Our personal reputation will rise or fall as we bear 
 our respective fortunes. All my private enemies 
 among the prisoners shall be spared. I will forget 
 this, in order to obtain such another day. Trebutius 
 is ashamed to see me ; I will go to his tent, and be 
 reconciled in private. Give all the men of honor, 
 who take part with me, the terms I offered before the 
 battle. Let them owe this to their friends who have 
 been long in my interests. Power is weakened by the 
 full use of it, but extended by moderation. Galbinius 
 is proud, and will be servile in his present fortune : let 
 
268 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 374. 
 
 him wait. Send for Stertinius : he is modest, and his 
 virtue is worth gaining. I have cooled my heart 
 with reflection, and am fit to rejoice with the army 
 to-morrow. He is a popular general, who can ex- 
 pose himself like a private man during a battle ; but 
 he is more popular who can rejoice but like a private 
 man after a victor^'." 
 
 What is particularly proper for the example of all 
 who pretend to industr}^ in the pursuit of honor and 
 virtue, is, that this hero was more than ordinarily so- 
 licitous about his reputation, when a common mind 
 would have thought itself in security, and given itself 
 a loose to joy and triumph. But though this is a 
 ver}^ great instance of his temper, I must confess I 
 am more taken with his reflections when he retired to 
 his closet in some distui*bance upon the repeated ill 
 omens of Calphurnia's dream, the night before his 
 death. The literal translation of that fragment shall 
 conclude this paper. 
 
 *' Be it so then. If I am to die to-morrow, that is 
 what I am to do to-morrow. It will not be then, be- 
 cause I am willing it should be then ; nor shall I es- 
 cape it, because I am unwilling. It is in the gods 
 when, but in myself how, I shall die. If Calphur- 
 nia's dreams are fumes of indigestion, how shall I 
 behold the day after to-morrow ! If they are from 
 the gods, their admonition is not to prepare me to 
 escape from their decree, but to meet it. I have 
 lived a fullness of days and of glor\^ : what is there 
 that Caesar has not done with as much honor as an- 
 cient heroes? — Caesar has not yet died! Caesar is 
 prepared to die." — T. 
 
No. 379-] THE SPECTATOR, 269 
 
 No. 379.] Thursday, May 15, 171 2. 
 
 Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter. 
 
 Pers. Sat. i, 27. 
 
 Science is not science till reveal' (I.—Dryden. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at that ill-natured position 
 which has sometime been maintained in the schools, 
 and is comprised in an old Latin verse, namely, that 
 '' A man's knowledge is worth nothing if he commu- 
 nicates what he knows to any one beside." There is 
 certainly no more sensible pleasure to a good-natiured 
 man, than if he can by any means gratify or inform 
 the mind of another. I might add, that this virtue 
 naturally carries its own reward along with it, since it 
 is almost impossible it should be exercised without the 
 improvement of the person who practices it. The 
 reading of books, and the daily occiu-rences of life, 
 are continually furnishing us with matter for thought 
 and reflection. It is extremely natiu"al for us to de- 
 sire to see such of our thoughts put in the dress of 
 words, without which, indeed, we can scarce have a 
 clear and distinct idea of them ourselves. When they 
 are thus clothed in expressions, nothing so truly 
 shows us whether they are just or false, as those 
 effects which they produce in the minds of others. 
 
 I am apt to flatter myself, that, in the course of 
 these my speculations, I have treated of several sub- 
 jects, and laid down many such rules for the conduct 
 of a man's life, which my readers were either wholly 
 ignorant of before, or which at least those few who 
 were acquainted with them, looked upon as so many 
 secrets they have found out for the conduct of them- 
 selves, but were resolved never to have made public. 
 
 I am the more confirmed in this opinion from my 
 
270 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 379. 
 
 having received several letters, wherein I am censured 
 for having prostituted Learning to the embraces of 
 the vulgar, and made her, as one of my correspondents 
 phrases it, a common strumpet. I am charged by 
 another with laying open the arcana or secrets of 
 prudence to the eyes of every reader. 
 
 The narrow spirit which appears in the letters of 
 these my correspondents is the less surprising, as it 
 has shown itself in all ages : there is still extant an 
 epistle written by Alexander the Great to his tutor 
 Aristotle, upon that philosopher's pubhshing some part 
 of his writings ; in which the prince complains of his 
 having made known to all the world those secrets in 
 learning which he had before communicated to him in 
 private lectures : concluding, that he had rather excel 
 the rest of mankind in knowledge than in power. 
 
 Louisa de Padilla, a lady of great learning, and 
 countess of Aranda, was in like manner angry with 
 the famous Gratian, upon his publishing his treatise 
 of the Discrete, wherein she fancied that he had laid 
 open those maxims to common readers which ought 
 only to have been reserved for the knowledge of the 
 great. 
 
 These objections are thought by many of so much 
 weight, that they often defend the above-mentioned 
 authors by affirming they have affected such an 
 obscurity in their style and manner of writing, that, 
 though every one may read their works, there wull 
 be but very few who can comprehend their meaning. 
 
 Persius, the Latin satirist, affected obscurity for 
 another reason ; with which, however, Mr. Cowley 
 is so offended, that, writing to one of his friends, 
 "You," says he, ''tell me, that you do not know 
 whether Persius be a good poet or no, because you 
 cannot understand him ; for which very reason I af- 
 firm that he is not so." 
 
No. 379-] THE SPECTATOR, 271 
 
 However, this art of writing unintelligibly has been 
 very much improved, and followed by several of the 
 moderns, who, observing the general inclination of 
 mankind to dive into a secret, and the reputation 
 many have acquired by concealing their meaning 
 under obscure terms and phrases, resolve, that they 
 may be still more abstruse, to wTite without any 
 meaning at all. This art, as it is at present practiced by 
 many eminent authors, consists in throwing so many 
 words at a ventiu-e into different periods, and leaving 
 the curious reader to find out the meaning of them. 
 The Egyptians, who made use of hieroglyphics to 
 signify several things, expressed a man who confined 
 his knowledge and discoveries altogether within him- 
 self by the figure of a dark lantern closed on all sides ; 
 which, though it was illuminated within, afforded no 
 manner of light or advantage to such as stood by 
 it. For my own part, as I shall from time to time 
 communicate to the public whatever discoveries I 
 happen to make, I should much rather be compared 
 to an ordinary lamp, which consumes and wastes it- 
 self for the benefit of every passenger. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the story of Rosi- 
 crusius's sepulchre. I suppose I need not inform my 
 readers, that this man was the founder of the Rosi- 
 crucian sect, and that his disciples still pretend to new 
 discoveries, which they are never to communicate to 
 the rest of mankind.* 
 
 ** A certain person having occasion to dig some- 
 what deep in the ground, where this philosopher lay 
 interred, met with a small door, having a wall on each 
 side of it. His curiosity, and the hopes of finding 
 
 * See Comte de Gabalis, par I'Abbe Villars, 1742, 2 vols., 
 in i2mo., and Pope's Works, ed. of Warb., vol. i, p. 109, 
 i2mo. 1770, 6 vols. 
 
272 THE SPECTATOR. [No, 379. 
 
 some hidden treasure, soon prompted him to force 
 open the door. He was immediately surprised by 
 a sudden blaze of light, and discovered a very fair 
 vault. At the upper end of it was a statue of a man in 
 armor, sitting by a table, and leaning on his left arm. 
 He held a truncheon in his right hand, and had a 
 lamp burning before him. The man had no sooner set 
 one foot within the vault than the statue erected itself 
 from its leaning posture, stood bolt upright, and upon 
 the fellow's advancing another step, lifted up the trun- 
 cheon in his right hand. The man still ventured a 
 third step, when the 'statue, with a furious blow, broke 
 the lamp into a thousand pieces, and left his guest 
 in a sudden darkness. 
 
 " Upon the report of this adventure, the country 
 people soon came with lights to the sepulchre, and 
 discovered that the statue, which was made of brass, 
 was nothing more than a piece of clock-work ; that 
 the floor of the vault was all loose, and underlaid with 
 several springs, which upon any man's entering, nat- 
 urally produced that which had happened." 
 
 Rosicrusius, say his disciples, made use of this 
 method to show the world that he had re-invented 
 the ever-burning lamps of the ancients, though he 
 was resolved no one should reap any advantage from 
 the discovery. — X. 
 
No. 381.] THE SPECTATOR. 273 
 
 No. 381.] Saturday, May 17, 171 2. 
 
 ^quam memento rebus in arduis 
 
 Servare mentem, non secus in bonis, 
 Ab insolenti temperatam 
 Lsetitia, moriture Delli.— Hor. 2 Od. iii, i. 
 
 Be calm, my Dellius, and serene, 
 
 However fortune change the scene, 
 
 In thy most dejected state, 
 
 Sink not underneath the weight ; 
 
 Nor yet, when happy days begin, 
 
 And the full tide comes rolling in 
 
 Let a fierce, unruly joy, 
 
 The settled quiet of thy mind destroy.— Anon. 
 
 I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. 
 The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit 
 of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerful- 
 ness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised 
 into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject 
 to the greatest depressions of melancholy. On the 
 contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not ^\nq the 
 mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from 
 falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a 
 flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of 
 clouds and glitters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps 
 up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a 
 steady and perpetual serenity. 
 
 Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too 
 wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as 
 filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart 
 that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment 
 obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this 
 complexion have observed, that the Sacred Person 
 who was the great pattern of perfection was never 
 seen to laugh. 
 
 Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these 
 exceptions ; it is of a serious and composed nature ; 
 it does not throw the mind into a condition improper 
 
274 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 381. 
 
 for the present state of humanity, and is very con- 
 spicuous in the characters of those who are looked 
 upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, 
 as well as among those who have been deservedly 
 esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians. 
 
 If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with 
 regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and 
 to the great Author of our being, it will not a little 
 recommend itself on each of these accounts. The 
 man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, 
 is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master 
 of all the powers and faculties of his soul. His 
 imagination is always clear, and his judgment undis- 
 turbed ; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in 
 action or in solitude. He comes with rehsh to all 
 those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes 
 all the pleasiu-es of the creation which are poured 
 about him, and does not feel the full weight of those 
 accidental evils which may befall him. 
 
 If we consider him in relation to the persons whom 
 he converses with, it naturally produces love and 
 good-will toward him. A cheerful mind is not only 
 disposed to be affable and obliging; but raises the 
 same good-humor in those who come within its in- 
 fluence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not 
 know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion. 
 It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret 
 delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The 
 heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows 
 out into friendship and benevolence toward the per- 
 son who has so kindly an effect upon it. 
 
 When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its 
 third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant 
 habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An 
 inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanks- 
 giving to Providence under all its dispensations. It 
 
No. 381.] THE SPECTATOR, 275 
 
 is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are 
 placed, and a secret approbation of the Divine Will 
 in his conduct toward man. 
 
 There are but two things which, in my opinion, 
 can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of 
 heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. K 
 man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, 
 can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of 
 mind which is the health of the soul, and the natural 
 effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an 
 ill man deserves a harder name than language can 
 furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what 
 we commonly call folly or madness. 
 
 Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme 
 Being, and consequently of a future state, under 
 whatsoever titles it shelters itself, may likewise very 
 reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of 
 temper. There is something so particularly gloomy 
 and offensive to human nature in the prospect of 
 non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many 
 excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to out- 
 live the expectation of it. For my own part, I think 
 the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it 
 is almost the only truth we are sure of; and such a 
 truth as we meet with in every object, in every occur- 
 rence, and in every thought. If we look into the 
 characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find 
 they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is 
 indeed no wonder, that men w^ho are uneasy to them- 
 selves should be so to the rest of the world ; and how 
 is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy 
 in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing 
 his entire existence, and dropping into nothing? 
 
 The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no 
 pretense to cheerfulness, and would act very unreason- 
 ably should they endeavor after it. It is impossible 
 
276 THE SPECTATOR. [Xo. 381. 
 
 for any one to live in good-humor, and enjoy his 
 present existence, who is apprehensive either of tor- 
 ment or of annihilation ; of being miserable, or of not 
 being at all. 
 
 After having mentioned these two great principles, 
 which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own 
 nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of 
 any other that ought to banish this happy temper 
 from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and 
 reproach, poverty and old age, nay death itself, con- 
 sidering the shortness of their duration, and the ad- 
 vantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the 
 name of evils. A good mind may bear up under 
 them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheer- 
 fulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not 
 discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a 
 joyful harbor. 
 
 A man who uses his best endeavors to live accord- 
 ing to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two 
 perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration 
 of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has 
 a dependence. If he looks into himself^ he cannot 
 but rejoice in that existence which is so lately be- 
 stowed upon him, and w^hich after millions of ages 
 wall be still new^ and still in its beginning. How 
 many self -congratulations naturally arise in the mind, 
 when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, 
 when it takes a view of those improvable faculties, 
 which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, 
 have made so considerable a progress, and which 
 will still be receiving an increase of perfection, and 
 consequently an increase of happiness I The con- 
 sciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffu- 
 sion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and 
 makes him look upon himself every moment as more 
 happy than he knows how to conceive. 
 
No. 385.] THE SPECTATOR, 277 
 
 The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind 
 is the consideration of that Being on whom we have 
 our dependence, and in whom, though w^e behold 
 him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his per- 
 fections, we see everything that we can imagine, as 
 great, glorious^ or amiable. We find ourselves every- 
 where upheld by his goodness, and siurounded with 
 an immensity of love and mercy. In short, we de- 
 pend upon a Being, whose power quahfies him to 
 make us happy by an infinity of means, whose good- 
 ness and truth engage him to make those happy who 
 desire it of him, and whose unchangeableness will 
 secure us in this happiness to all eternity. 
 
 Such considerations, which every one should per- 
 petually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us 
 all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking 
 men are subject to when they lie under no real afflic- 
 tion ; all that anguish which we may feel from any 
 evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may like- 
 wise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly that 
 are apter to betray virtue than support it ; and estab- 
 lish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes 
 us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we 
 converse, and to Him whom we wxre made to 
 please. — I. 
 
 No. 385.] Thursday, May 22, 1712. 
 
 — Thesea pectora juncta fide.— Ovid, i Trist. iii, d^. 
 
 Breasts that with sympathizing: ardor glow'd, 
 And holy friendship, such as Theseus vovv'd. 
 
 I INTEND the paper for this day as a loose essay 
 upon friendship, in which I shall throw my observa- 
 tions together without any set form, that I may avoid 
 repeating what has been often said on this subject. 
 
278 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 385. 
 
 Friendship is a strong and habitual indination in 
 two persons to promote the good and happiness of 
 one another. Though the pleasures and advantages 
 of friendship have been largely celebrated by the 
 best moral writers, and are considered by all as great 
 ingredients of human happiness, we very rarely meet 
 with the practice of this virtue in the world. 
 
 Every man is ready to give in a long catalogue of 
 those virtues and good quahties he expects to find in 
 the person of a friend, but very few of us are careful 
 to cultivate them in ourselves. 
 
 Love and esteem are the first principles of friend- 
 ship, which always is imperfect where either of these 
 two is wanting. 
 
 As, on the one hand, we are soon ashamed of lov- 
 ing a man whom we cannot esteem ; so, on the other, 
 though we are truly sensible of a man's abilities, we 
 can never raise ourselves to the warmths of friendship, 
 without an affectionate good-will toward his person. 
 
 Friendship immediately banishes envy under all its 
 disguises. A man who can once doubt whether he 
 should rejoice in his friend's being happier than him- 
 self, may depend upon it that he is an utter stranger 
 to this virtue. 
 
 There is something in friendship so very great and 
 noble, that in those fictitious stories which are in- 
 vented to the honor of any particular person, the 
 authors have thought it as necessary to make their 
 hero a friend as a lover. Achilles has his Patroclus, 
 and ^neas his Achates. In the first of these in- 
 stances we may observe, for the reputation of the 
 subject I am treating of, that Greece was almost 
 ruined by the hero's love, but was preserved by his 
 friendship. 
 
 The character of Achates suggests to us an ob- 
 servation we may often make on the intimacies of 
 
No. 385.] THE SPECTATOR, 279 
 
 great men, who frequently choose their companions 
 rather for the quahties of the heart than those of the 
 head, and prefer fideKty in an easy, inoffensive, com- 
 plying temper, to those endowments which make a 
 much greater figure among mankind. I do not re- 
 member that Achates, who is represented as the first 
 favorite, either gives his advice, or strikes a blow, 
 through the whole ^neid. 
 
 A friendship which makes the least noise is very 
 often most useful ; for which reason 1 should prefer 
 a prudent friend to a zealous one. 
 
 Atticus, one of the best men of ancient Rome, was 
 a very remarkable instance of what I am here speak- 
 ing. This extraordinary person, amid the civil wars 
 of his country, when he saw the designs of all parties 
 equally tended to the subversion of liberty, by con- 
 stantly preserving the esteem and affection of both 
 the competitors, found means to serve his friends 
 on either side : and, while he sent money to young 
 Marius, whose father was declared an enemy to the 
 commonwealth, he was himself one of Sylla's chief 
 favorites, and always near that general. 
 
 During the war between Caesar and Pompey, he 
 still maintained the same conduct. After the death 
 of Caesar, he sent money to Brutus in his troubles, 
 and did a thousand good offices to Antony's wife and 
 friends when that party seemed ruined. Lastly, even 
 in that bloody war between Antony and Augustus, 
 Atticus still kept his place in both their friendships : 
 insomuch that the first, says Cornelius Nepos, when- 
 ever he was absent from Rome in any part of the 
 empire, wrote punctually to him what he was doing, 
 what he read, and whither he intended to go ; and 
 the latter gave him constantly an exact account of 
 all his affairs. 
 
 A likeness of incHnations in every particular is so 
 
28o THE SPECTATOR. [No. 385. 
 
 far from being requisite to form a benevolence in two 
 minds toward each other, as it is generally imagined, 
 that I believe we shall find some of the firmxest friend- 
 ships to have been contracted between persons of 
 different humors ; the mind being often pleased with 
 those perfections which are new to it, and which it 
 does not find among its own accomplishments. Be- 
 side that a man in some measure supplies his own 
 defects, and fancies himself at second-hand possessed 
 of those good qualities and endowments which are in 
 the possession of him who in the eye of the world is 
 looked on as his other self. 
 
 The most difficult province in friendship is the 
 letting a man see his faults and errors, which should, 
 if possible, be so contrived, that he may perceive our 
 advice is given him not so much to please ourselves 
 as for his own advantage. The reproaches therefore 
 of a friend should always be strictly just, and not too 
 frequent. 
 
 The violent desire of pleasing in the person re- 
 proved, may otherwise change into a despair of doing 
 it, while he finds himself censured for faults he is not 
 conscious of. A mind that is softened and human- 
 ized by friendship cannot bear frequent reproaches ; 
 either it must quite sink under the oppression, or 
 abate considerably of the value and esteem it had for 
 him who bestows them. 
 
 The proper business of friendship is to inspire life 
 and courage ; and a soul thus supported outdoes it- 
 self ; whereas, if it be unexpectedly deprived of these 
 succors, it droops and languishes. 
 
 We are in some measure more inexcusable if we 
 violate our duties to a friend than to a relation ; since 
 the former arises from a voluntary choice, the latter 
 from a necessity to which we could not give our own 
 consent. 
 
No. 386.] THE SPECTATOR. 281 
 
 As it ha^ been said on one side, that a man ought 
 not to break with a faulty friend, that he may not 
 expose the weakness of his choice ; it wall doubtless 
 hold much stronger with respect to a w^orthy one, 
 that he may never be upbraided for having lost so 
 valuable a treasure v/hich was once in his posses- 
 sion. — X. 
 
 No. 386.] Friday, May 23, 171 2. 
 
 Cum tristibus severe, cum remissis jucunde, cum senibus gravitcr, cum 
 juventute comiter vivere.— Tull. 
 
 The piece of Latin on the head of this paper is 
 part of a character extremely vicious, but I have set 
 down no more than may fall in with the rules of jus- 
 tice and honor. Cicero spoke it of Catiline, who, he 
 said, '' lived with the sad severely, with the cheerful 
 agreeably, with the old gravely, with the young pleas- 
 antly ; " he added, '' with the wicked boldly, with 
 the wanton lasciviously." The two last instances of 
 his complaisance I forbear to consider, having k- in 
 my thoughts at present only to speak of obsequious 
 behavior as it sits upon a companion in pleasure, not 
 a man of design and intrigue. To vary with every 
 humor in this manner cannot be agreeable, except it 
 comes from a man's own temper and natural com- 
 plexion ; to do it out of an ambition to excel that 
 way, is the most fruitless and unbecoming prostitution 
 imaginable. To put on an artful part to obtain no 
 other end but an unjust praise from the undiscerning, 
 is of all endeavors the most despicable. A man must 
 be sincerely pleased to become pleasure, or not to 
 interrupt that of others ; for this reason it is a most 
 calamitous circumstance, that many people who want 
 to be alone, or should be so, will come into conversa- 
 tion. It is certain that all men, who are the least 
 
282 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 386. 
 
 given to reflection, are seized with an inclination that 
 way : when, perhaps, they had rather be incHned to 
 company ; but indeed they had better go home and 
 be tired with themselves, than force themselves upon 
 others to recover their good humor. In all this, the 
 case of communicating to a friend a sad thought or 
 difficulty, in order to reheve a heavy heart, stands 
 excepted ; but what is here meant is, that a man 
 should always go with inchnation to the turn of the 
 company he is going into, or not pretend to be of 
 the party. It is certainly a very happy temper to be 
 able to live with all kinds of dispositions, because it 
 argues a mind that hes open to receive what is pleas- 
 ing to others, and not obstinately bent on any partic- 
 ularity of his own. 
 
 This is it which makes me pleased with the char- 
 acter of my good acquaintance Acasto. You meet 
 him at the tables and conversations of the wise, the 
 impertinent, the grave, the frohc, and the witty ; and 
 yet his own character has nothing in it that can make 
 him particularly agreeable to any one sect of men ; 
 but Acasto has natural good sense, good nature, and 
 discretion, so that every man enjoys himself in his 
 company ; and though Acasto contributes nothing to 
 the entertainment, he never was at a place where he 
 was not welcome a second time. Without the sub- 
 ordinate good quahties of Acasto, a man of wit and 
 learning would be painful to the generahty of man- 
 kind, instead of being pleasing. Witty men are apt 
 to imagine they are agreeable as such, and by that 
 means grow the worst companions imaginable ; they 
 deride the absent or rally the present in a wrong 
 manner, not knowing that if you pinch or tickle a 
 man till he is uneasy in his seat, or ungracefully dis- 
 tinguished from the rest of the company, you equally 
 hurt him. 
 
No. 386.] THE SPECTATOR, 283 
 
 I was going to say, the true art of being agreeable 
 in company (but there can be no such thing as art in 
 it) is to appear well pleased with those you are en- 
 gaged with, and rather to seem well entertained, than 
 to bring entertainment to others. A man thus dis- 
 posed is not indeed what we ordinarily call a good 
 companion, but essentially is such, and in all the parts 
 of his conversation has something friendly in his be- 
 havior, w^hich conciliates men's minds more than the 
 highest saUies of wit or starts of humor can possibly 
 do. The feebleness of age in a man of this turn has 
 something which should be treated w^ith respect even 
 in a man no otherwise venerable. The forwardness 
 of youth, when it proceeds from alacrity and not 
 insolence, has also its allowances. The companion 
 who is formed for such by nature, gives to every 
 character of life its due regards, and is ready to 
 account for their imperfections, and receive their 
 accomplishments as if they were his own. It must 
 appear that you receive law from, and not give it, to 
 your company, to make you agreeable. 
 
 I remember Tully, speaking, I think, of Antony, 
 says, that, /;/ eo facetic^ erant^ qiice 7iiilla arte tradi 
 possunt : ''He had a witty mirth, w^hich could be 
 acquired by no art." This quaHty must be of the 
 kind of which I am now speaking ; for all sorts of 
 behavior which depend upon observation and knowl- 
 edge of life are to be acquired ; but that which no 
 one can describe, and is apparently the act of nature, 
 must be everywhere prevalent, because everything it 
 meets is a fit occasion to exert it : for he who follows 
 nature can never be improper or unseasonable. 
 
 How unaccountable then must their behavior be, 
 who, without any manner of consideration of what 
 the company they have just now entered are upon, 
 give themselves the air of a messenger, and make as 
 
284 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 387. 
 
 distinct relations of the occurrences they last met 
 with, as if they had been dispatched from those they 
 talk to, to be punctually exact in a report of those 
 circumstances! It is unpardonable to those who are 
 met to enjoy one another that a fresh man shall pop 
 in, and give us only the last part of his own life, and 
 put a stop to ours during the history. Jf such a man 
 comes from 'Change, whether you will or not, you 
 must hear how the stocks go : and, though you are 
 never so intently employed on a graver subject, a 
 young fellow of the other end of the town will take 
 his place and tell you, Mrs. Such-a-one is charmingly 
 handsome, because he just now saw her. But I think 
 I need not dwell on this subject, since I have ac- 
 knowledged there can be no rules made for excelhng 
 this way ; and precepts of this kind fare like rules 
 for writing poetry, which, it is said, may have pre- 
 vented ill poests, but never made good ones. — T. 
 
 No. 387.] Saturday, May 24, 171 2. 
 
 Quid pure tranquillet Hor. i Ep. xviii, 102. 
 
 What calms the breast, and makes the mind serene ? 
 
 In my last Saturday's paper I spoke of cheerfulness 
 as it is a moral habit of the mind, and accordingly 
 mentioned such moral motives as are apt to cherish 
 and keep alive this happy temper in the soul of man : 
 I shall now consider cheerfulness in its natural state, 
 and reflect on those motives to it, which are indiffer- 
 ent either as to virtue or vice. 
 
 Cheerfulness is, in the first place, the best promoter 
 of health. Repinings, and secret murmurs of heart, 
 give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibers of 
 
No. 387.] THE SPECTATOR, 285 
 
 which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the 
 machine insensibly : not to mention those violent 
 ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those 
 irregular disturbed motions which they raise in the 
 animal spirits. I scarce remember, in my own ob- 
 servation, to have met with many old men, or with 
 such, who (to use our English phrase) wear well, that 
 had not at least a certain indolence in their humor, 
 if not a more than ordinary gayety and cheerfulness 
 of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness 
 mutually beget each other ; with this difference, that 
 we seldom meet with a great degree of health which 
 is not attended with a certain cheerfulness, but very 
 often see cheerfulness where there is no great degree 
 of health. 
 
 Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the 
 mind as to the body. It banishes all anxious care 
 and discontent, soothes and composes the passions, 
 and keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. But having 
 already touched on this last consideration, I shall 
 here take notice, that the world in which we are 
 placed is filled with innumerable objects that are 
 proper to raise and keep alive this happy temper of 
 mind. 
 
 If we consider the world in its subserviency to 
 man, one would think it was made for our use ; but 
 if we consider it in its natural beauty and harmony, 
 one would be apt to conclude it was made for our 
 pleasure. The sun, which is as the great soul of the 
 universe, and produces all the necessaries of life, has 
 a particular influence in cheering the mind of man, 
 and making the heart glad. 
 
 Those several living creatures which are made for 
 our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill 
 the woods with their music, furnish us with game, or 
 raise pleasing ideas in us by the dehghtfulness of their 
 
286 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 387. 
 
 appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as re- 
 freshing to the imagination, as to the soil through 
 which they pass. 
 
 There are writers of great distinction, who have 
 made it an argument for Pro^ndence. that the whole 
 earth is covered with green rather than with any other 
 color, as being such a right mixture of hght and 
 shade, that it comforts and strengthens the eye, in- 
 stead of weakening or grie\-ing it. For this reason 
 several painters have a green cloth hanging near 
 them, to ease the eye upon, after too great an apph- 
 cation to their coloring. A famous modem philos- 
 opher* accounts for it in the follo\NTng manner. All 
 colors that are more luminous, overpower and dissi- 
 pate the animal spirits which are employed in sight ; 
 on the contrary, those that are more obscure do not 
 give the animal spirits a sufficient exercise ; whereas 
 the rays that produce in us the idea of green, fall upon 
 the eye in such a due proportion, that they give the 
 animal spirits their proper play, and, by keeping up 
 the struggle in a just balance, excite a very pleasing 
 and agreeable sensation. Let the cause be what it 
 will, the effect is certain ; for which reason, the poets 
 ascribe to this particular color the epithet of cheerful 
 
 To consider further this double end in the works of 
 nature, and how they are at the same time both use- 
 ful and entertaining, we tind that the most important 
 parts in the vegetable world are those which are the 
 most beautiful. These are the seeds by which the 
 several races of plants are propagated and continued, 
 and which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. 
 Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be 
 industrious in making the eanh gay and delightful, 
 while she is carr^-ing on her great work, and intent 
 
 * Sir Isaac Xewion. 
 
No. 387.] THE SPECTATOR. 287 
 
 upon her own preservation. The husbandman, after 
 the same manner, is employed in laying out the whole 
 country into a kind of garden or landscape, and mak- 
 ing everything smile about him, while in reality he 
 thinks of nothing but of the harvest, and the increase 
 which is to arise from it. 
 
 We may further observe how Providence has taken 
 care to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, 
 by having formed it after such a manner, as to make 
 it capable of conceiving delight from several objects 
 which seem to have very little use in them ; as from 
 the wildneas of rocks and deserts, and the like gro- 
 tesque parts of nature. Those who are versed in 
 philosophy may still carry this consideration higher, 
 by observing, that if matter had appeared to us en- 
 dov/ed only with those real qualities which it actually 
 possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and 
 uncomfortable figure : and why has Providence given 
 it a power of producing in us such imaginary quali- 
 ties, as tastes and colors, sounds and smells, heat and 
 cold, but that man, while he is conversant in the 
 lower stations of natiu-e, might have his mind cheered 
 and delighted with agreeable sensations? In short, 
 the whole universe is a kind of theater, filled with 
 objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement, 
 or admiration. 
 
 The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the 
 vicissitude of day and night, the change of seasons, 
 with all that variety of scenes which diversify the face 
 of nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual succes- 
 sion of beautiful and pleasing images. 
 
 I shall not here mention the several entertainments 
 of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, con- 
 versation, and other accidental versions of life, be- 
 cause I would only take notice of such incitements to 
 a cheerful temper as offer themselves to persons of all 
 
288 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 387. 
 
 ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently show 
 us that Providence did not design this world should 
 be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart 
 of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy. 
 
 I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, 
 as it is a virtue in which our countrymen are observed 
 to be more deficient than any other nation. Melan- 
 choly is a kind of demon that haunts our island, and 
 often conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A 
 celebrated French novelist, in opposition to those 
 who begin their romances with the flowery season of 
 the year, enters on his story thus : '' In the gloomy 
 month of November, when the people of England 
 hang and drown themselves, a disconsolate lover 
 walked out into the fields," etc. 
 
 Every one ought to fence against the temper of his 
 climate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in 
 himself those considerations which may give him a 
 serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheer- 
 fully against those little evils and misfortunes which 
 are common to human nature, and which, by a right 
 improvement of them, will produce a satiety of joy, 
 and an uninterrupted happiness. 
 
 At the same time that I would engage my reader 
 to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I 
 must own there are many evils which naturally spring 
 up amidst the entertainments that are provided for 
 us ; but these, if rightly considered, should be far from 
 overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that 
 cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommend- 
 ing. This interspersion of evil with good, and pain 
 with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly as- 
 cribed by Mr. Locke, in his Essay on Human Under- 
 standing to a moral reason, in the following words : — 
 
 ^' Beyond all this we m.ay find another reason why 
 God hath scattered up and down several degrees of 
 
No. 391.] THE SPECTATOR, 289 
 
 pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and 
 affect us, and blended them together, in almost all 
 that our thoughts and senses have to do with ; that 
 we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of 
 complete happiness, in all the enjoyments which the 
 creature can afford us, might be led to seek it in the 
 enjoyment of Him ' with whom there is fullness of 
 joy, and at whose right-hand are pleasures for ever- 
 more.' " — L. 
 
 No. 391.] Thursday, May 29, 1712, 
 
 -Non tu prece poscis emaci, 
 
 Quae nisi seductis nequeas committere divis. 
 
 At bona pars procerum tacita libabit acerra, 
 
 Hand cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros ; 
 
 Tollere de templis : et aperto vivere voto. 
 
 Mens bona, fama, fides ; hsec clare, et ut audiat hospea. 
 
 Ilia sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat. O si 
 
 Ebullit patrui praeclarum funus ! Et, O si 
 
 Sub rastro crepet argenti mihi seria dextro. 
 
 Hercule ! pupillumve utinam, quern proximus haeres 
 
 Impello, expungam !— Pers. Sat. ii, v. 3. 
 
 Thou know'st to join ' 
 
 No bribe unballow'd to a prayer of thine ; 
 Thine, which can ev'ry ear's iuU test abide, 
 Nor need be mutter'd to the gods aside ! 
 No, thou aloud may'st thy petitions trust ! 
 Thou need'st not whisper ; other great ones must ; 
 For few, my friend, few dare like thee be plain, 
 And pray'r's low artifice at shrines disdain. 
 Few from their pious mumblings dare depart, 
 And make profession of their inmost heart, 
 Keep me, indulgent Heaven, through life sincere. 
 Keep my mind sound, my reputation clear. 
 These wishes they can speak, and we can hear. 
 Thus far their wants are audibly exprest ; 
 Then sinks the voice, and muttering groans the rest, 
 *' Hear, hear at length, good Hercules, my vow ! 
 O chink some pot of gold beneath my plow ! 
 Could I, O could I, to my ravished eyes 
 See my rich uncle's pompous funeral rise ; 
 Or could I once my ward's cold corpse attend, 
 Then all were mine ! " 
 
 Where Homer represents Phoenix, the tutor of 
 Achilles, as persuading his pupil to lay aside his re- 
 sentments, and give himself up to the entreaties of 
 
290 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 391. 
 
 his countrymen, the poet, in order to make him speak 
 in character, ascribes to him a speech full of those 
 fables and allegories, which old men take delight in 
 relating, and which are very proper for instruction. 
 '' The gods," says he, " suffer themselves to be pre- 
 vailed upon by entreaties. When mortals have 
 offended them by their transgressions, they appease 
 them by vows and sacrifices. You must know, 
 Achilles, that prayers are the daughters of Jupiter. 
 They are crippled by frequent kneeling, have their 
 faces full of cares and wrinkles, and their eyes always 
 cast toward heaven. They are constant attendants 
 on the goddess Ate, and march behind her. This 
 goddess walks forward with a bold and haughty air ; 
 and, being very light of foot, runs through the whole 
 earth grieving and afflicting the sons of men. She 
 gets the start of Prayers, who always follow her, in 
 order to heal those persons whom she wounds. He 
 who honors these daughters of Jupiter, when they 
 draw near to him, receives great benefit from them : 
 but as for him who rejects them, they entreat their 
 father to give his orders to the goddess Ate, to punish 
 him for his hardness of heart." This noble allegory 
 needs but httle explanation ; for, whether the god- 
 dess Ate signifies injury, as some have explained it ; 
 or guilt in general, as others ; or divine justice, as I 
 am more apt to think ; the interpretation is obvious 
 enough. 
 
 I shall produce another heathen fable, relating to 
 prayers, which is of a more diverting kind. One 
 would think, by some passages in it, that it was com- 
 posed by Lucian, or at least by some author who has 
 endeavored to imitate his way of writing ; but as dis- 
 sertations of this nature are more curious than useful, 
 I shall give my reader the fable, without any further 
 inquiries after the author. 
 
No. 39i-_ THE SPECTATOR, 291 
 
 "• Menippus, the philosopher, was a second time 
 taken up into heaven by Jupiter, when, for his enter- 
 tainment,- he hfted up a trap-door that was placed by 
 his footstool. At its rising, there issued through it 
 such a din of cries as astonished the philosopher. 
 Upon his asking what they meant, Jupiter told him 
 they were the prayers that were sent up to him from 
 the earth. Menippus, amid the confusion of voices, 
 which was so great that nothing less than the ear of 
 Jove could distinguish them, heard the words, ' riches, 
 honor,' and ' long life,' repeated in several different 
 tones and languages. When the first hubbub of 
 sounds was over, the trap-door being left open, the 
 voices came up more separate and distinct. The 
 first prayer was a very odd one ; it came from 
 Athens, and desired Jupiter to increase the wisdom 
 and the beard of his humble supplicant. Menippus 
 knew it by the voice to be the prayer of his friend 
 Licander, the philosopher. This was succeeded by 
 the petition of one who had just laden a ship, and 
 promised Jupiter, if he took care of it, and returned 
 it home again full of riches, he would make him an 
 offering of a silver cup. Jupiter thanked him for 
 nothing ; and, bending down his ear more attentively 
 than ordinary, heard a voice complaining to him of 
 the cruelty of an Ephesian widow, and begged him to 
 breed compassion in her heart. ' This,' says Jupiter, 
 'is a very honest fellow. I have received a great 
 deal of incense from him : I will not be so cruel to 
 him as to hear his prayers.' He was then inter- 
 rupted with a whole volley of vows which were made 
 for the health of a tryannical prince by his subjects 
 who prayed for him in his presence. Menippus was 
 surprised, after having listened to prayers offered up 
 with so much ardor and devotion, to hear low 
 whispers from the same assembly, expostulating with 
 
292 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 391. 
 
 Jove for suffering such a tyrant to live, and asking 
 him how his thunder could lie idle? Jupiter was so 
 offended with these prevaricating rascals, that he 
 took down the ffrst vows, and puffed away the last. 
 The philosopher seeing a great cloud mounting up- 
 ward, and making its way directly to the trap-door, 
 inquired of Jupiter what it meant. * This,' says Jupi- 
 ter, ' is the smoke of a whole hecatomb that is offered 
 me by the general of an army, who is very importu- 
 nate with me to let him cut off a hundred thousand 
 men that are drawn up in array against him. What 
 does the impudent wretch think I see in him, to be- 
 Heve that I will make a sacrifice of so many mortals 
 as good as himself, and all this to his glory forsooth? 
 But hark ! ' says Jupiter, * there is a voice I never 
 hear but in time of danger : 'tis a rogue that is ship- 
 wrecked in the Ionian sea. I saved him on a plank 
 but three days ago, upon his promise to mend his 
 manners ; the scoundrel is not worth a groat, and 
 yet has the impudence to offer me a temple, if I will 
 keep him from sinking. — But yonder,' says he, 'is a 
 special youth for you ; he desii'es me to take his 
 father, who keeps a great estate from him, out of the 
 miseries of human life. The old fellow shall live till 
 he makes his heart ache, I can tell him that for his 
 pains.' This was followed by the soft voice of a 
 pious lady, desiring Jupiter that she might appear 
 amiable and charming in the sight of her emperor. 
 As the philosopher was reflecting on this extraordi- 
 nary petition, there blew a gentle wind through the 
 trap-door, which he at first mistook for a gale of 
 Zeph\TS, but afterw^ard found it to be a breeze of 
 sighs. They smelt strong of flowers and incense, 
 and were succeeded by most passionate complaints 
 of wounds and torments, fires and arrows, cruelty, 
 despair, and death. Menippus fancied that such 
 
No. 391.] THE SPECTATOR. 293 
 
 lamentable cries arose from some general execution, 
 or from wretches lying under the torture ; but Jupiter 
 told him that they came up to him from the isle of 
 Paphos, and that he every day received complaints 
 of the same nature from that whimsical tribe of mor- 
 tals who are called lovers. ' I am so trifled with,' 
 says he, ' by this generation of both sexes, and find 
 it so impossible to please them, whether I grant or 
 refuse their petitions, that I shall order a western 
 wind for the future to intercept them in their passage, 
 and blow them at random upon the earth.' The last 
 petition I heard w^as from a very aged man, of near 
 a hundred years old, begging but for one year more 
 life, and then promising to die contented. ' This is 
 the rarest old fellow ! ' says Jupiter ; ^ he has made 
 this prayer to me for above twenty years together. 
 When he was but fifty years old, he desired only that 
 he might live to see his son settled in the w^orld. I 
 granted it. He then begged the same favor for his 
 daughter, and afterward that he might see the edu- 
 cation of a grandson. When all this was brought 
 about, he puts up a petition, that he might live to 
 finish a house he was building. In short, he is an 
 unreasonable old cur, and never wants an excuse ; I 
 will hear no more of him.' Upon which he flung 
 down the trap-door in a passion, and was resolved to 
 give no more audiences that day." 
 
 Notwithstanding the levity of this fable, the moral 
 of it very well deserves our attention, and is the same 
 with that which has been inculcated by Socrates and 
 Plato, not to mention Juvenal and Persius, who have 
 each of them made the finest satire in their whole 
 works upon this subject. The vanity of men's 
 wishes, which are the natural prayers of the mind, as 
 well as many of those secret devotions which they 
 offer to the Supreme Being, are sufficiently exposed 
 
294 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 399. 
 
 by it. Among other reasons for set forms of prayer, 
 I have often thought it a very good one, that by this 
 means the folly and extravagance of men's desires 
 may be kept within due bounds, and not break out 
 in absurd and ridiculous petitions on so great and 
 solemn an occasion. — I. 
 
 No. 399.] Saturday, June 7, 1712. 
 
 Ut nemo in sese tentat descendere ! — Pers. Sat. iv, 23. 
 
 None, none descends into himself to find 
 
 The secret imperfections of his mind. — Dryden. 
 
 Hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town is 
 very different from hypocrisy in the city. The mod- 
 ish hypocrite endeavors to appear more vicious than 
 he really is, the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous. 
 The former is afraid of everything that has the show 
 of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in 
 many criminal gallantries and amours which he is not 
 guilty of. The latter assumes a face of sanctity, and 
 covers a multitude of vices under a seeming religious 
 deportment. 
 
 But there is another kind of hypocrisy, which 
 differs from both these, and which I intend to make 
 the subject of this paper, I mean that hypocrisy, by 
 which a man does not only deceive the world, but 
 very often imposes on himself ; that hypocrisy which 
 conceals his own heart from him, and makes him 
 believe he is more virtuous than he really is, and 
 either not attend to his vices, or mistake either his 
 vices for virtues. It is this fatal hypocrisy, and self- 
 deceit, which is taken notice of in those words, '' Who 
 can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from 
 secret faults." 
 
No. 399-] THE SPECTATOR. 295 
 
 If the open professors of impiety deserve the ut- 
 most apphcation and endeavors of moral writers to 
 recover them from vice and folly, how much more 
 may those lay a claim to their care and compassion, 
 who are walking in the paths of death, while they 
 fancy themselves engaged in a course of virtue ! I 
 shall endeavor, therefore, to lay down some rules for 
 the discovery of those vices that liurk in the secret 
 comers of the soul, and to show my reader those 
 methods by which he may arrive at a true and im- 
 partial knowledge of himself. The usual means pre- 
 scribed for this purpose are, to examine ourselves by 
 the rules which are laid down for oiu* direction in 
 sacred writ, and to compare our lives with the life of 
 that person who acted up to the perfection of human 
 nature, and is the standing example, as well as the 
 great guide and instructor, of those who receive his 
 doctrines. Though these two heads cannot be too 
 much insisted upon, I shall but just mention them, 
 since they have been handled by many great and 
 eminent writers. 
 
 I would therefore propose the following methods 
 to the consideration of such as would find out their 
 secret faults, and make a true estimate of them- 
 selves : — 
 
 In the first place, let them consider well what are 
 the characters which they bear among their enemies. 
 Our friends very often flatter us, as much as our own 
 hearts. They either do not see our faults, or conceal 
 them from us, or soften them by their representations, 
 after such a manner that we think them too trivial to 
 be taken notice of. An adversary, on the contrary, 
 makes a stricter search into us, discovers every flaw 
 and imperfection in our tempers ; and though his 
 mahce may set them in too strong a Hght, it has gen- 
 erally some ground for what it advances. A friend 
 
296 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 399. 
 
 exaggerates a man's ^'i^ues, an enemy inflames his 
 crimes. A wise man should give a just attention to 
 both of them, so far as they may tend to the improve- 
 ment of the one, and diminution of the other. Plu- 
 tarch has written an essay on the benefits which a 
 man may receive from his enemies, and among the 
 good fruits of enmit}-, mentions this in particular, that 
 by the reproaches which it casts upon us we see the 
 worst side of ourselves, and open our eyes to several 
 blemishes and defects in our lives and conversations, 
 which we should not have observ-ed without the help 
 of such ill-natured monitors. 
 
 In order like^^ise to come at a true knowledge of 
 ourselves, we should consider on the other hand how 
 far we may deserve the praises and approbations 
 which the world bestows upon us ; whether the actions 
 they celebrate proceed from laudable and worthy 
 motives ; and how far we are really possessed of the 
 \'irtues which gain us applause among those with 
 whom we converse. Such a reflection is absolutely 
 necessary, if we consider how apt we are either to 
 value or condemn ourselves by the opinions of others, 
 and to sacrifice the report of our ot^ti hearts to the 
 judgment of the world. 
 
 In the next place, that we may not deceive our- 
 selves in a point of so much importance, we should 
 not lay too great a stress on any supposed \'irtues we 
 possess that are of a doubtful nature : and such we 
 may esteem all those in which multitudes of men dis- 
 sent from us. who are as good and wise as ourselves. 
 We should always act with great cautiousness and 
 circmnspection in points where it is not impossible 
 that we may be deceived. Intemperate zeal. bigotr\', 
 and persecution for any part}' or opinion, how praise- 
 worthy soever they may appear to weak men of our 
 own principles, produce infinite calamities among 
 
No. 399.] THE SPECTATOR. 297 
 
 mankind, and are highly criminal in their own nature ; 
 and yet how many persons eminent for piety suffer 
 such monstrous and absurd principles of action to 
 take root in their minds under the color of virtues ! 
 For my own part, I must own I never yet knew any 
 party so just and reasonable, that a man could follow 
 it in its height and violence, and at the same time be 
 innocent. 
 
 We should likewise be very apprehensive of those 
 actions which proceed from natural constitution, 
 favorite passions, particular education, or whatever 
 promotes our worldly interest and advantage. In 
 these and the like cases, a man's judgment is easily 
 perverted, and a wrong bias hung upon his mind. 
 These are the inlets of prejudice, the unguarded 
 avenues of the mind, by which a thousand en"ors and 
 secret faults find admission, without being observed 
 or taken notice of. A wise man. will suspect those 
 actions to which he is directed by something beside 
 reason, and always apprehend some concealed evil 
 in every resolution that is of a disputable nature, when 
 it is conformable to his particular temper, his age, or 
 way of life, or when it favors his pleasure or his profit. 
 
 There is nothing of greater importance to us than 
 thus diligently to sift our thoughts, and examine all 
 these dark recesses of the mind, if we should establish 
 our souls in such a solid and substantial virtue, as 
 will turn to account in that great day when it must 
 stand the test of infinite wisdom and justice. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with observing that the 
 two kinds of hypocrisy I have here spoken of, namely, 
 that of deceiving the world, and that of imposing on 
 ourselves, are touched with wonderful beauty in the 
 hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. The folly of the 
 first kind of hypocrisy is there set forth by reflections 
 on God's omniscience and omnipresence, which are 
 
298 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 408. 
 
 celebrated in as noble strains of poetry as any other 
 I ever met with, either sacred or profane. The other 
 kind of hypocrisy, whereby a man deceives himself, 
 is intimated in the two last verses, where the Psalmist 
 addresses himself to the great Searcher of hearts in 
 that emphatical petition, '' Try me, O God! and seek 
 the ground of my heart : prove me, and examine my 
 thoughts. Look well if there be any way of wicked- 
 ness in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." — L. 
 
 No. 408.] Wednesday, June 18, 171 2. 
 
 Decet affectus animi neque se nimmm erigere, nee subjacere serviliter. 
 — TuLL. de Finibus. 
 
 The affections of the heart ought not to be too much indulged, nor ser- 
 vilely depressed. 
 
 '' Mr. Spectator, 
 
 *^ I have always been a very great lover of your 
 speculations, as well in regard to the subject as to 
 your manner of treating it. Human nature I always 
 thought the most useful object of human reason, and 
 to make the consideration of it pleasant and enter- 
 taining, I always thought the best employment of 
 human wit : other parts of philosophy may perhaps 
 make us wiser, but this not only answers that end, 
 but makes us better too. Hence it was that the 
 oracle pronounced Socrates the wisest of all men liv- 
 ing, because he judiciously made choice of human 
 nature for the object of his thoughts ; an inquiry into 
 which as much exceeds all other learning, as it is of 
 more consequence to adjust the true nature and 
 measures of right and wrong, than to settle the dis- 
 tances of the planets, and compute the times of their 
 circumvolutions. 
 
No. 4o8.] THE SPECTATOR. 299 
 
 ''One good effect that will immediately arise from 
 a near observation of human nature is, that we shall 
 cease to wonder at those actions which men are used 
 to reckon wholly unaccountable ; for, as nothing is 
 produced without a cause, so, by observing the nature 
 and course of the passions, we shall be able to trace 
 every action from its first conception to its death. 
 We shall no more admire at the proceedings of Cati- 
 line or Tiberius, when we know the one was actuated 
 by a cruel jealousy, the other by a furious ambition! 
 for the actions of men follow their passions as natu- 
 rally as Hght does heat, or as any other effect flows 
 from its cause ; reason must be em.ployed in adjusting 
 the passions, but they must ever remain the principles 
 of action. 
 
 '' The strange and absurd variety that is so apparent 
 in men's actions, shows plainly they can never proceed 
 immediately from reason ; so pure a fountain emits 
 no such troubled waters. They must necessarily 
 arise from the passions, which are to the mind as the 
 winds to a ship ; they only can move it, and they too 
 often destroy it ; if fair and gentle, they guide it into 
 the harbor : if contrary and furious, they overset it 
 in the waves. In the same manner is the mind 
 assisted or endangered by the passions ; reason must 
 then take the place of pilot, and can never fail of 
 securing her charge if she be not wanting to herself. 
 The strength of the passions will never be accepted 
 as an excuse for complying with them ; they were 
 designed for subjection ; and if a man suffers them 
 to get the upper hand, he then betrays the liberty of 
 his own soul. 
 
 *'As nature has framed the several species of beings 
 as it were in a chain, so man seems to be placed as 
 the middle link between angels and brutes. Hence 
 he participates both of flesh and spirit by an admi- 
 
300 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 408. 
 
 rable tie, which in him occasions a perpetual war of 
 passions; and as a man incHnes to the angelic or 
 brute part of his constitution, he is then denominated 
 good or bad, virtuous or wicked ; if love, mercy, and 
 good-nature prevail, they speak him of the angel : if 
 hatred, cruelty, and envy predominate, they declare 
 his kindred to the brute. Hence it was, that some 
 of the ancients imagined, that as men in this life in- 
 clined more to the angel or the brute, so after their 
 tieath they should transmigrate into the one or the 
 other ; and it would be no unpleasant notion to con- 
 sider the several species of brutes, into which we may 
 imagine that tyrants, misers, the proud, malicious, 
 and ill-natured, might be changed. 
 
 *'As a consequence of this original, all passions are 
 in all men, but all appear not in all ; constitution, 
 education, custom of the country, reason, and the 
 like causes, may improve or abate the strength of 
 them ; but still the seeds remain, which are ever ready 
 to sprout forth upon the least encouragement. I 
 have heard a story of a good religious man, who, 
 having been bred with the milk of a goat, was very 
 modest in public by a careful reflection he made on 
 his actions : but he frequently had an hour in secret, 
 wherein he had his frisks and capers : and if we had 
 an opportunity of examining the retirement of the 
 strictest philosophers, no doubt, but we should find 
 perpetual returns of those passions they so artfully 
 conceal from the pubhc. I remember Machiavel 
 observes, that every state should entertain a perpetual 
 jealousy of its neighbors, that so it should never be 
 unprovided when an emergency happens ; in like 
 manner, should the reason be perpetually on its guard 
 against the passions, and never suffer them to carry 
 on any design that may be destructive of its security : 
 yet at the same time it must be careful that it do not 
 
No. 4o8.] THE SPECTATOR. 301 
 
 SO far break their strength as to render them con- 
 temptible, and consequently itself unguarded. 
 
 '' The understanding being of itself too slow and 
 lazy to exert itself into action, it is necessary it should 
 be put in motion by the gentle gales of the passions, 
 which may preserve it from stagnating and cor- 
 ruption ; for they are as necessary to the health of 
 the mind, as the circulation of the animal spirits is to 
 the health of the body : they keep it in life, and 
 strength, and vigor ; nor is it possible for the mind 
 to perform its offices without their assistance. These 
 motions are given us with our being ; they are little 
 spirits that are born and die with us ; to some they 
 are mild, easy, and gentle ; to others wayward and 
 unruly, yet never too strong for the reins of reason 
 and the guidance of judgment. 
 
 '' We may generally observe a pretty nice propor- 
 tion between the strength of reason and passion ; the 
 greatest geniuses have commonly the strongest affec- 
 tions, as, on the other hand, the weaker understand- 
 ings have generally the weaker passions ; and it is fit 
 the fury of the coursers should not be too great for 
 the strength of the charioteer. Young men, whose 
 passions are not a little unruly, give small hopes of 
 their ever being considerable ; the fire of youth will 
 of course abate, and is a fault, if it be a fault, that 
 mends every day ; but surely, unless a man has fire 
 in youth, he can hardly have warmth in old age. 
 We must therefore be very cautious, lest, while we 
 think to regulate the passions, we should quite extin- 
 guish them, which is putting out the light of the soul ; 
 for to be without passion, or to be hurried away with 
 it, makes a man equally blind. The extraordinary 
 severity used in most of our schools has this fatal 
 effect, it breaks the spring of the mind, and most 
 certainly destroys more good geniuses than it can 
 
302 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 409. 
 
 possibly improve. And surely it is a mighty mistake 
 that the passions should be so entirely subdued : for 
 little irregularities are sometimes not only to be borne 
 with, but to be cultivated too, since they are fre- 
 quently attended with the greatest perfections. All 
 great geniuses have faults mixed with their virtues, 
 and resemble the flaming bush w^hich has thorns 
 among Hghts. 
 
 ^^ Since, therefore, the passions are the principles 
 of human actions, we must endeavor to manage them 
 so as to retain their vigor, yet keep them under strict 
 command ; we must govern them rather hke free 
 subjects than slaves, lest, while we intend to make 
 them obedient, they become abject, and unfit for 
 those great purposes to w^hich they were designed. 
 For my part, I must confess, I could never have any 
 regard to that sect of philosophers who so much in- 
 sisted upon an absolute indifference and vacancy 
 from all passion : for it seems to me a thing very 
 inconsistent, for a man to divest himself of humanity 
 in order to acquire tranquillity of mind ; and to eradi- 
 cate the very principles of action, because it is possi- 
 ble they may produce ill effects. 
 
 '' I am, Sir, your affectionate Admirer, 
 
 Z. ^^T. B.'^ 
 
 No. 409.] Thursday, June 19, 1712. 
 
 Musaeo contingere ciincta lepore. — Lucr. i, 933. 
 
 To grace each subject with enliv'ning wit. 
 
 Gratian very often recommends fine taste as the 
 utmost perfection of an accomplished man. 
 
 As this word arises very often in conversation, I 
 shall endeavor to give some account of it, and to lay 
 
No. 409.] THE SPECTATOR, 303 
 
 down rules how we may know whether we are pos- 
 sessed of it, and how we may acquire that fine taste 
 of writing which is so much talked of among the 
 polite world. 
 
 Most languages make use of this metaphor, ta 
 express that faculty of the mind which distinguishes 
 all the most concealed faults and nicest perfections 
 in writing. We may be sure this metaphor would 
 not have been so general in all tongues, had there 
 not been a very great conformity between that mental 
 taste, which is the subject of this paper, and that sen- 
 sitive taste, which gives us a rehsh of every differ- 
 ent flavor that affects the palate. Accordingly we 
 find there are as many degrees of refinement in the 
 intellectual faculty as in the sense which is marked 
 out by this common denomination. 
 
 I knew a person who possessed the one in so great 
 a perfection, that, after having tasted ten different 
 kinds of tea, he would distinguish, without seeing the 
 color of it, the particular sort which was offered him ; 
 and not only so, but any two sorts of them that were 
 mixed together in an equal proportion ; nay, he has 
 carried the experiment so far, as, upon tasting the 
 composition of three different sorts, to name the par- 
 cels from whence the three several ingredients were 
 taken. A man of a fine taste in writing will discern, 
 after the same manner, not only the general beauties 
 and imperfections of an author, but discover the sev- 
 eral ways of thinking and expressing himself, which 
 diversify him from all other authors, with the several 
 foreign infusions of thought and language, and the 
 particular authors from whom they were borrowed. 
 
 After having thus far explained what is generally 
 meant by a fine taste in writing, and shown the pro- 
 priety of the metaphor which is used on this occa- 
 sion, I think I may define it to be "" that faculty of 
 
304 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 409. 
 
 the soul, which discerns the beauties of an author 
 with pleasure, and the imperfections with dislike." 
 If a man would know whether he is possessed of this 
 faculty, I would have him read over the celebrated 
 works of antiquity, which have stood the test of so 
 many different ages and countries, or those works 
 among the moderns which have the sanction of 
 the pohter part of our cotemporaries. If, upon the 
 perusal of such writings, he does not find himself 
 delighted in an extraordinary manner, or if, upon 
 reading the admired passages in such authors, he 
 finds a coldness and indifference in his thoughts, he 
 ought to conclude, not (as is too usual among taste- 
 less readers) that the author wants those perfections 
 which have been admired in him, but that he himself 
 wants the faculty of discovering them. 
 
 He should, in the second place, be very careful to 
 observe, whether he tastes the distinguishing perfec- 
 tions, or, if I may be allowed to call them so, the 
 specific qualities of the author whom he peruses ; 
 whether he is particularly pleased with Livy for his 
 manner of telling a story, with Sallust for his entering 
 into those internal principles of action which arise 
 from the characters and manners of the persons he 
 describes, or with Tacitus for displaying those out- 
 ward motives of safety and interest which gave birth 
 to the whole series of transactions which he relates. 
 
 He may likewise consider how differently he is 
 affected by the same thought which presents itself in 
 a great writer, from what he is when he finds it de- 
 livered by a person of an ordinary genius ; for there 
 is as much difference in apprehending a thought 
 clothed in Cicero's language, and that of a common 
 author, as in seeing an object by the light of a taper, 
 or by the light of the sun. 
 
 It is very difficult to lay down rules for the acquire- 
 
No. 409-] THE SPECTATOR. 305 
 
 ment of such a taste as that I am here speaking of. 
 The faculty must, in some degree, be born with us : 
 and it very often happens, that those who have other 
 quahties in perfection, are wholly void of this. One 
 of the most eminent mathematicians of the age has 
 assured me, that the greatest pleasure he took in 
 reading Virgil was in examining yEneas's voyage by 
 the map ; as I question not but many a modern com- 
 piler of history would be dehghted with little more in 
 that divine author than the bare matter of fact. 
 
 But, notwithstanding this faculty must in some 
 measure be born with us, there are several methods 
 for cultivating and improving it, and without which 
 it will be very uncertain, and of little use to the person 
 that possesses it. The most natural method for this 
 purpose is to be conversant among the wTitings of 
 the most polite authors. A man who has any relish 
 for fine writing, either discovers new beauties, or re- 
 ceives stronger impressions, from the masterly strokes 
 of a great author, every time he peruses him ; beside 
 that he naturally wears himself into the same manner 
 of speaking and thinking. 
 
 Conversation with men of a polite genius is another 
 method for improving our natural taste. It is im- 
 possible for a man of the greatest parts to consider 
 anything in its whole extent, and in all its variety of 
 lights. Every man, beside those general observations 
 which are to be made upon an author, forms several 
 reflections that are peculiar to his own manner of 
 thinking ; so that conversation will naturally furnish 
 us with hints which we did not attend to, and make 
 us enjoy other men's parts and reflections as well as 
 our own. This is the best reason I can give for the 
 observation which several have made, that men of 
 great genius in the same way of writing seldom rise 
 up singly, but at certain periods of time appear to- 
 
3o6 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 409. 
 
 gether, and in a body ; as they did at Rome in the 
 reign of Augustus, and in Greece about the age of 
 Socrates. I cannot think that Corneille, Racine, 
 Mohere, Boileau, La Fontaine, Bruyere, Bossu, or the 
 Daciers, would have written so well as they have 
 done, had they not been friends and cotemporaries. 
 
 It is likewise necessary for a man who would form 
 to himself a finished taste of good writing, to be well 
 versed in the works of the best critics, both ancient 
 and modern. I must confess that I could wish there 
 were authors of this kind, who, beside the mechanical 
 rules, which a man of very little taste may discourse 
 upon, would enter into the very spirit and soul of fine 
 writing, and show us the several sources of that pleas- 
 iu"e which rises in the mind upon the perusal of a 
 noble work. Thus, although in poetry it be abso- 
 lutely necessary that the unities of time, place, and 
 action, with other points of the same nature, should 
 be thoroughly explained and understood, there is still 
 something more essential to the art, something that 
 elevates and astonishes the fancy, and gives a great- 
 ness of mind to the reader, which few of the critics 
 beside Longinus have considered. 
 
 Our general taste in England is for epigram, turns 
 of w^it, and forced conceits, which have no manner of 
 influence either for the bettering or enlarging the 
 mind of him who reads them, and have been carefully 
 avoided by the greatest writers both among the 
 ancients and moderns. I have endeavored, in several 
 of my speculations, to banish this Gothic taste which 
 has taken possession among us. I entertained the 
 town for a week together with an essay upon wit, in 
 which I endeavored to detect several of those false 
 kinds which have been admired in the different ages 
 of the world, and at the same time to show wherein 
 the nature of true wit consists. I afterward gave an 
 
No. 411.] THE SPECTATOR, 307 
 
 instance of the great force which Hes in a natural 
 simphcity of thought to affect the mind of the reader, 
 from such vulgar pieces as have little else beside this 
 single qualification to recommend them. I have like- 
 wise examined the works of the greatest poet which 
 oiu- nation, or perhaps any other, has produced, and 
 particularized most of those rational and manly beau- 
 ties which give a value to that divine work. I shall 
 next Saturday enter upon an essay on '' The Pleas- 
 lures of the Imagination," which, though it shall con- 
 sider that subject at large, will perhaps suggest to the 
 reader what it is that gives a beauty to many passages 
 of the finest writers both in prose and verse. As an 
 undertaking of this nature is entirely new, I question 
 not but it will be received with candor. — O. 
 
 No. 411.] Saturday, June 21, 1712. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The perfection of our sight above our other senses. The pleasures of 
 the imagination arise originalU" from sight. The pleasures of the 
 imagination divided under two heads. The pleasures of the imagin- 
 ation in some respects equal to those of the understanding. The 
 extent of the pleasures of the imagination. The advantages a man 
 receives from a relish of these pleasures. In what respect they are 
 preferable to those of the understanding. 
 
 Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante 
 Trita solo : juvat integros accedere fontes, 
 Atque haurire Lucr. i. 925. 
 
 In wild unclear'd, to Muses a retreat, 
 O'er ground untrod before, I dsvious roam, 
 And deep enamor'd into latent springs 
 Presume to peep at coy virgin Naiads. 
 
 Our sight is the most perfect and most delightful 
 of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest 
 variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the 
 
308 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 411. 
 
 greatest distance, and continues the longest in action 
 without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoy- 
 ments. The sense of feehng can indeed give us a 
 notion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that 
 enter at the eye, except colors ; but at the same time 
 it is very much straitened, and confined in its opera- 
 tions to the number, bulk, and distance of its particu- 
 lar objects. Our sight seems designed to supply all 
 these defects, and may be considered as a more deh- 
 cate and diffusive kind of touch, that spreads itself 
 over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the 
 largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the 
 most remote parts of the universe. 
 
 It is this sense which furnishes the imagination 
 with its ideas ; so that by '' the pleasures of the im- 
 agination," or '''fancy " (which I shall use promiscu- 
 ously), I here mean such as arise from visible ob- 
 jects, either when we have them actually in our view, 
 or when we call up their ideas into our minds by 
 painting, statues, descriptions, or any the like occa- 
 sion. We cannot indeed have a single image in the 
 fancy that did not make its first entrance through 
 the sight ; but we have the power of retaining, alter- 
 ing, and compounding those images which we have 
 once received, into all the varieties of picture and 
 vision that are most agreeable to the imagination : 
 for by this faculty, a man in a dungeon is capable of 
 entertaining himself with scenes and landscapes more 
 beautiful than any that can be found in the whole 
 compass of nature. 
 
 There are few words in the English language which 
 are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed 
 sense than those of the fancy and the imagination. I 
 therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine 
 the notion of these two words, as I intend to make 
 use of them in the thread of my following specula- 
 
No. 411.] THE SPECTATOR. 309 
 
 tions, that the reader may conceive rightly what is 
 the subject which I proceed upon. I must therefore 
 desire him to remember, that by " the pleasures of the 
 imagination," I mean only such pleasures as arise 
 originally from sight, and that I divide these pleas- 
 ures into two kinds : my design being first of all to 
 discourse of those primary pleasrues of the imagina- 
 tion, which entirely proceed from such objects as are 
 before our eyes ; and in the next place to speak of 
 those secondary pleasures of the imagination which 
 flow from the ideas of visible objects, when the ob- 
 jects are not actually before the eye, but are called 
 up into our memories, or formed into agreeable visions 
 of things that are either absent or fictitious. 
 
 The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full 
 extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so re- 
 fined as those of the understanding. The last are 
 indeed more preferable, because they are founded on 
 some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of 
 man ; yet it must be confessed, that those of the im- 
 agination are as great and as transporting as the other. 
 A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a 
 demonstration ; and a description in Homer has 
 charmed more readers than a chapter in Aristotle. 
 Beside, the pleasures of the imagination have this ad- 
 vantage above those of the understanding, that they 
 are more obvious and more easy to be acquired. It 
 is but opening the eye, and the scene enters. The 
 colors paint themselves on the fancy, with very little 
 attention of thought or apphcation of mind in the 
 beholder. We are struck, we know not how, with 
 the symmetry of anything we see, and immediately 
 assent to the beauty of an object, without inquiring 
 into the particular causes and occasions of it. 
 
 A man of a polite imagination is let into a great 
 many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of re- 
 
3IO THE SPECTATOR. [No. 411. 
 
 ceiving. He can converse with a picture, and find an 
 agreeable companion in a statue. He meets with a 
 secret refreshment in a description, and often feels a 
 greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and mead- 
 ows, than another does in the possession. It gives 
 him, indeed, a kind of property in everything he sees, 
 and makes the most rude uncultivated parts of 
 nature administer to his pleasures ; so that he looks 
 upon the world as it were in another light, and dis- 
 covers in it a multitude of charms, that conceal them- 
 selves from the generality of mankind. 
 
 There are indeed but very few w^ho know how to 
 be idle and innocent, or have a rehsh of any pleasures 
 that are not criminal ; every diversion they take is at 
 the expense of some one virtue or another, and their 
 ver}^ first step out of business is into vice or folly. A 
 man should endeavor, therefore, to make the sphere of 
 his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may 
 retire into them with safety, and find in them such a 
 satisfaction as a wise man would not blush to take. 
 Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do 
 not require such a bent of thought as is necessary to 
 oiu- more serious employments, nor, at the same time, 
 suffer the mind to sink into that negligence and re- 
 missness, which are apt to accompany our more sen- 
 sual delights, but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, 
 awaken them from sloth and idleness, without putting 
 them upon any labor or difficulty. 
 
 We might here add, that, the pleasures of the fancy 
 are more conducive to health than those of the under- 
 standing, which are worked out by dint of thinking, 
 and attended with too violent a labor of the brain. 
 Dehghtful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or 
 poetry, have a kindly influence on the body as well 
 as the mind : and not only serve to clear and brighten 
 the imagination, but are able to disperse grief and 
 
No. 412.] THE SPECTATOR. 311 
 
 melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing 
 and agreeable motions. For this reason, Sir Francis 
 Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, has not thought it 
 improper to prescribe to his reader a poem or a 
 prospect, where he particularly dissuades him from 
 knotty and subtile disquisitions, and advises him to 
 pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and 
 illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contem- 
 plations of nature. 
 
 I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled 
 the notion of those pleasures of the imagination which 
 are the subject of my present undertaking, and en- 
 deavored, by several considerations, to recommend to 
 my reader the pursuit of those pleasures. I shall in 
 my next paper examine the several sources from 
 whence these pleasures are derived. — O. 
 
 No. 412.] Monday, June 23, 1712. 
 
 PAPER II. 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Three sources of all the pleasures of the imagination, in our survey of 
 outward objects. How what is great pleases the imagination. How 
 what is new pleases the imagination. How what is beautiful in our 
 species pleases the imagination. How what is beautiful in general 
 pleases the imagination. What other accidental causes may con- 
 tribute to the heightening of those pleasures. 
 
 Divisum sic breve fiat opus.— Mart. Ep. iv, 83. 
 
 The work, divided aptly, shorter grows. 
 
 I SHALL first consider those pleasures of the imag- 
 ination which arise from the actual view and survey 
 of outward objects : and these, I think, all proceed 
 from the sight of what is great, uncommon, or beau- 
 tiful. There may, indeed, be something so terrible 
 
312 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 412. 
 
 or offensive, that the horror or loathsomeness of an 
 object may overbear the pleasure which results from 
 its greatness, novelty, or beauty ; but still there will 
 be such a mixture of delight in the ver}^ disgust it gives 
 us, as any of these three qualifications are most con- 
 spicuous and prevaihng. 
 
 By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any 
 single object, but the largeness of a whole view, con- 
 sidered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of 
 an open champaign country, a vast uncultivated des- 
 ert of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and preci- 
 pices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are not 
 struck with the novelty or beauty of the sight, but 
 with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in 
 many of these stupendous works of nature. Our im- 
 agination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp 
 at anything that is too big for its capacity. We are 
 flung into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded 
 views, and feel a delightful stillness and amazement 
 in the soul at the apprehension of them. The mind 
 of man naturally hates everything that looks hke a 
 restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a 
 sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a 
 narrow compass, and shortened on every side by the 
 neighborhood of walls or mountains. On the contrary, 
 a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the 
 eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large 
 on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself amid 
 the variety of objects that offer themselves to its ob- 
 servation. Such wide and undetermined prospects 
 are as pleasing to the fancy as the speculations of 
 eternity or infinitude are to the understanding. But 
 if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with 
 this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven 
 adorned with stars and meteors, or a spacious land- 
 scape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows. 
 
No. 412.] THE SPECTATOR. 313 
 
 the pleasure still grows upon us, as it arises from 
 more than a single principle. 
 
 Everything that is new or uncommon raises a 
 pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the soul 
 with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and 
 gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. 
 We are indeed so often conversant with one set of 
 objects, and tired out with so many repeated show^s 
 of the same things, that whatever is new or uncom- 
 mon contributes a little to vary human life, and to 
 divert our minds for a while with the strangeness of 
 its appearance. It serves us for a kind of refreshment, 
 and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain 
 of, in our usual and ordinary entertainments. It is 
 this that bestows charms on a monster, and makes 
 even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this 
 that recommends variety, where the mind is every 
 instant called off to something new, and the attention 
 not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on any 
 particular object. It is this, likewise, that improves 
 what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind 
 a double entertainment. Groves, fields, and meadows, 
 are at any season of the year pleasant to look upon, but 
 never so much as in the opening of the spring, when 
 they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon 
 them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar 
 to the eye. For this reason there is nothing that 
 more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls 
 of water, where the scene is perpetually shifting, and 
 entertaining the sight every moment v/ith something 
 that is new. We are quickly tired with looking upon 
 hills and valleys, where everything continues fixed 
 and settled in the same place and posture, but find 
 our thoughts a Httle agitated and reheved at the sight 
 of such objects as are ever in motion, and shding 
 away from beneath the eye of the beholder. 
 
314 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 412. 
 
 But there is nothing that makes its way more di- 
 rectly to the soul than beauty, which immediately 
 diffuses a secret satisfaction and complacency through 
 the imagination, and gives a finishing to ever}^thing 
 that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery 
 of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads 
 a cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties. 
 There is not perhaps any real beauty or deformity 
 more in one piece of matter than another, because we 
 might have been so made, that whatsoever now ap- 
 pears loathsome to us might have shown itself agree- 
 able ; but we find by experience that there are sev- 
 eral modifications of matter, which the mind, w^ithout 
 any previous consideration, pronounces at first sight 
 beautiful or deformed. Thus we see that every dif- 
 ferent species of sensible creatures has its different 
 notions of beauty, and that each of them is most 
 affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is 
 nowhere more remarkable than in birds of the same 
 shape and proportion, where we often see the male 
 determined in his courtship by the single grain or 
 tincture of a feather, and never discovering any 
 charms but in the color of its species. 
 
 Scit thalamo servare fidem, sanctasque veretur 
 Connubii leges ; non ilium in pectore candor 
 Solicitat niveus ; neque pravum accendit amorem 
 Splendida lanugo, vel honesta in vertice crista, 
 Purpureusve nitor pennarum ; ast agniina late 
 Foeminea explorat cautus, maculasque requirit 
 Cognatas, paribusque interlita corpora guttis ; 
 Ni faceret, pictis sylvam circum undique monstris 
 Confusam aspiceres vulgo partusque biformes, 
 Et genus ambiguum, et veneris monumenta nefandse. 
 
 Hinc merula in nigro se oblectat nigra marito ; 
 Hinc socium lasciva petit Philomela canorum, 
 Agnoscitque pares sonitus ; hinc noctua tetram 
 Canitiem alarum, et glaucos miratur ocellos 
 Nempe sibi semper constat, crescitque quotannis 
 
No. 412.] THE SPECTATOR. 315 
 
 Lucida progenies, castos confessa parentes ; 
 Dum virides inter saltus lucosque sonoros 
 Vere novo exultat, plumasque decora juventus 
 Explicat ad solem patriisque coloribus ardet.* 
 
 The feather'd husband, to his partner true, 
 Preserves connubial rites inviolate. 
 With cold indifference every charm he sees, 
 The milky whiteness of the stately neck, 
 The shining down, proud crest, and purple wings : 
 But cautious, with a searching eye explores 
 The female tribes, his proper mate to find. 
 With kindred colors mark'd; did he not so, 
 The grove with painted monsters would abound ; 
 Th' ambiguous product of unnatural love. 
 The blackbird hence selects her sooty spouse ; 
 The nightingale her musical compeer, 
 Lur'd by the well-knowTi voice, the bird of night, 
 Smit with his dusky wings and greenish eyes. 
 Wooes his dun paramour. The beauteous race 
 Speak the chaste loves of their progenitors ; 
 When, by the Spring invited, they exult 
 In woods and fields, and to the sun unfold 
 Their plumes, that with paternal colors glow. 
 
 There is a second kind of beauty that we find in 
 the several products of art and nature, which does 
 not work in the imagination with that warmth and 
 violence as the beauty that appears in our proper 
 species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret de- 
 light, and a kind of fondness for the places or objects 
 in which we discover it. This consists either in the 
 gayety or variety of colors, in the symmetry and pro- 
 portion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition 
 of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of 
 all together. Among these several kinds of beauty 
 the eye takes most delight in colors. We nowhere 
 meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in na- 
 
 * It would seem, from his manner of introducing them, that 
 Mr. Addison was himself the author of these fine verses. 
 
3i6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 412. 
 
 ture, than what appears in the heavens at the rising 
 and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of 
 those different stains of light that show themselves in 
 the clouds of a different situation. For this reason 
 wx find the poets, who are always addressing them- 
 selves to the imagination, borrowing more of their 
 epithets from colors, than from any other topic. 
 
 As the fancy dehghts in everything that is great, 
 strange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased the 
 more it finds of these perfections in the same object, 
 so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by 
 the assistance of another sense. Thus, any contin- 
 ued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, 
 awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, 
 and makes him more attentive to the several beau- 
 ties of the place that he before him. Thus, if there 
 arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten 
 the pleasures of the imagination, and make even the 
 colors and verdure of the landscape appear more 
 agreeable ; for the ideas of both senses recommend 
 each other, and are pleasanter together than Avhen 
 they enter the mind separately ; as the different 
 colors of a picture, where they are well disposed, set 
 off one another, and receive an additional beauty 
 from the advantage of their situation. — O. 
 
No. 4i6.] THE SPECTATOR. 317 
 
 No. 416.] Friday, June 27, 1712. 
 
 PAPER VI. 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The secondary pleasures of the ima^nation. The several sources of 
 these pleasures (statuary, painting, description, and music) com- 
 pared together. The final cause of our receiving pleasure from these 
 several sources. Of descriptions in particular. The power of words 
 over the imagination. Why one reader is more pleased with de- 
 scriptions than another. 
 
 Quatenus hoc simile est oculis, quod mente videmus. — Lucr. ix. 754. 
 
 So far as what we see with our minds, bears similitude to what we 
 see with our eyes. 
 
 I AT first divided the pleasures of the imagination 
 into such as arise from objects that are actually be- 
 fore our eyes, or that once entered into our eyes, and 
 are afterward called up into the mind either barely 
 by its own operations, or on occasion of something 
 without us, as statues or descriptions. We have al- 
 ready considered the first division, and shall therefore 
 enter on the other, which, for distinction sake, I have 
 called " The Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination." 
 When I say the ideas we receive from statues, descrip- 
 tions, or such-like occasions, are the same that were 
 once actually in our view, it must not be understood 
 that we have once seen the very place, action, or per- 
 son, that are carved or described. It is sufficient 
 that we have seen places, persons, or actions in gen- 
 eral, which bear a resemblance, or at least some remote 
 analogy, with what we find represented ; since it is in 
 the power of the imagination, when it is once stocked 
 with particular ideas, to enlarge, compound, and vary 
 •them at her own pleasure. 
 
 Among the different kinds of representation, statu- 
 ary is the most natural, and shows us something likest 
 the object that is represented. To make use of a 
 
3i« THE SPECTATOR. [Not 416L 
 
 common instance : Lee one who is bom blmd take an 
 image hn \m hands, and trace out with his fingers the 
 ditterent furrows and impressions of the chisel, and he 
 will easily conceive how the shape of a man, or beast 
 may be represented by it ; but should he draw his 
 hand over a picture, where alx is sm^ooth and uniform, 
 he would ncTcr be able to imagme how the several 
 {MTonuneiices and depie^ons <^ a hmnan body should 
 be shown on a plain piece of canvas, that has in it 
 no nnerenness or irregularity. Description runs yet 
 farther from the things it represents than painting ; 
 for a picture bears a real resemblance to the original, 
 niiich letters and syllables are wholly void of. Colors 
 speak all languages, but words are understood only 
 by such a pec^le or nation. For this reason, tfaoug^i 
 men's necessities quickly put them on finding out 
 ^)eedi, writing k probably of a later invention than 
 painting ; particulaily we are told that in America, 
 when the ^)aniards first arrived there, espresses were 
 sent to the Emperor of Mexico in paint, and the news 
 of his country delineated by the strokes of a pencil, 
 whidi was a mc»re natural way than that of writing, 
 though at the same time much more imperfect, be- 
 cause it is impossible to draw the httle connections of 
 speech, or to give the picture of a conjunction or an 
 adverb. It would yet be more strange to represent 
 visible objects by sounds that have no ideas annexed 
 to them, and to make something like description in 
 music. Yet it is certain, there may be confused, im- 
 perfect notions of this nature raised in the imagination 
 by an artificial composition of notes : and we find that 
 great masters of the art are able, sometimes to set their 
 hearers in the heat and hurry of a batde, to overcast 
 their minds with melancholy scenes and apprdiensions 
 of deaths and funerals, or to lull them into pleasing 
 dreams of groves and dysiums. 
 
No. 4i6.] THE SPECTATOR. 319 
 
 In all these instances, this secondary pleasiire of 
 the imagination proceeds from that action of the mind 
 which compares the ideas arising from the original ob- 
 jects with the ideas we receive from the statue, picture, 
 description or sound, that represents them. It is im- 
 possible for us to give the necessary reason why this 
 operation of the mind is attended with so much pleas- 
 ure, as I have before observed on the same occasion ; 
 but we find a great variety of entertainments derived 
 from this single principle ; for it is this that not only 
 gives us a relish of statuary, painting, and description, 
 but makes us delight in all the actions and arts of 
 mimicry. It is this that makes the several kinds of 
 wit pleasant, which consists, as I have formerly shown, 
 in the affinity of ideas : and we may add, it is this also 
 that raises the little satisfaction we sometimes find in 
 the different sorts of false wit ; whether it consists in 
 the affinity of letters, as an anagram, acrostic ; or of 
 syllables, as in doggerel rhymes, echoes ; or of words, 
 as in puns, quibbles ; or of a whole sentence or poem, 
 as wings and altars. The final cause, probably of an- 
 nexing pleasure to this operation of the mind, was to 
 quicken and encourage us in our searches after truth, 
 since the distinguishing one thing from another, and 
 the right discerning betwixt our ideas, depend wholly 
 upon our comparing them together, and observing 
 the congruity or disagreement that appears among the 
 several works of nature. 
 
 But I shall here confine myself to those pleasures of 
 the imagination which proceed from ideas raised by 
 words, because most of the observations that agree 
 with descriptions are equally applicable to painting 
 and statuary. 
 
 Words, when well chosen, have so great a force in 
 them, that a description often gives us more lively 
 ideas than the sight of things themselves. The reader 
 
320 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 416. 
 
 finds a scene drawn in strong colors, and painted 
 more to the life in his imagination, by the help of 
 words, than by an actual survey of the scenes which 
 they describe. In this case, the poet seems to get 
 the better of nature : he takes, indeed, the landscape 
 after her, but gives it more vigorous touches, heightens 
 its beauty, and so enlivens the whole piece, that the 
 images which flow from the objects themselves appear 
 weak and faint, in comparison of those that come from 
 the expressions. The reason, probably, may be, be- 
 cause in the survey of any object, we have only so 
 much of it painted on the imagination as comes in at 
 the eye ; but in its description, the poet gives us as free 
 a view of it as he pleases, and discovers to us several 
 parts, that either we did not attend to, or that lay out 
 of our sight w^hen we first beheld it. As we look on 
 any object, our idea of it is, perhaps, made up of two 
 or three simple ideas ; but when the poet represents 
 it, he may either give us a more complex idea of it, 
 or only raise in us such ideas as are most apt to af- 
 fect the imagination. 
 
 It may be here worth our while to examine how it 
 comes to pass that several readers, who are all ac- 
 quainted with the same language, and know the 
 meaning of the words they read, should nevertheless 
 have a different rehsh of the same descriptions. We 
 find one transported with a passage, which another 
 runs over with coldness and indifference ; or finding 
 the representation extremely natural, where another 
 can perceive nothing of likeness and conformity. 
 This different taste must proceed either from the per- 
 fection of imagination in one more than in another, 
 or from the different ideas that several readers afiix to 
 the same words. For, to have a true relish and form 
 a right judgment of a description, a man should be 
 born with a good imagination, and must have well 
 
No. 422.] THE SPECTATOR. 321 
 
 weighed the force and energy that he in the several 
 words of a language, so as to be able to distinguish 
 which are most significant and expressive of their 
 proper ideas, and what additional strength and beauty 
 they are capable of receiving from conjunction with 
 others. The fancy must be warm, to retain the print 
 of those images it hath received from outward objects, 
 and the judgment discerning, to know what expres- 
 sions are most proper to clothe and adorn them to the 
 best advantage. A man who is deficient in either of 
 these respects, though he may receive the general 
 notion of a description, can never see distinctly all its 
 particular beauties ; as a person with a weak sight may 
 have the confused prospect of a place that hes before 
 him, without entering into its several parts, or dis- 
 cerning the variety of its colors in their full glory and 
 perfection.— O.. 
 
 No. 422.] Friday, July 4, 1712. 
 
 Haec scrips! non otii abundantia, sed amoris erga te. — Tull. Epist. 
 
 I have written this, not out of the abundance of leisure, but of my 
 affection toward you. 
 
 I DO not know anything which gives greater dis- 
 turbance to conversation, than the false notion some 
 people have of raillery. It ought, certainly, to be the 
 first point to be aimed at in society, to gain the good- 
 will of those with whom you converse ; the way to 
 that is, to show you are well inclined toward them. 
 What then can be more absurd than to set up for be- 
 ing extremely sharp and biting, as the term is, in your 
 expressions to your famihars? A man who has no 
 good quality but courage, is in a very ill way toward 
 making an agreeable figure in the world, because that 
 
322 THE SFECTA TOR. [No. 422. 
 
 which he has superior to other people cannot be ex- 
 erted without raising himself an enemy. Your gentle- 
 man of a satirical vein is in the like condition. To 
 say a thing which perplexes the heart of him you 
 speak to, or brings blushes into his face, is a degree 
 of murder ; and it is, I think, an unpardonable offense 
 to show a man you do not care whether he is pleased 
 or displeased. But will you not then take a jest? — 
 Yes : but pray let it be a jest. It is no jest to put 
 me, who am so unhappy as to have an utter aver- 
 sion to speaking to more than one man at a time, 
 under a necessity to explain myself in much com- 
 pany, and reducing me to shame and derision, ex- 
 cept I perform what my infirmity of silence disables 
 me to do. 
 
 Cadisthenes has great wit, accompanied with that 
 quality v/ithout which a man can have no wit at all 
 — a sound judgment. This gentleman rallies the best 
 of any man I know ; for he forms his ridicule upon a 
 circumstance which you are, in yom* heart, not un- 
 w^illing to grant him ; to wit, that you are guilty of 
 an excess in something which is in itself laudable. 
 He very well understands what you would be, and 
 needs not fear your anger for declaring you are a little 
 too much that thing. The generous will bear being 
 reproached as lavish, and the valiant as rash, without 
 being provoked to resentment against their monitor. 
 What has been said to be a mark of a good writer 
 will fall in with the character of a good companion. 
 The good writer makes his reader better pleased with 
 himself, and the agreeable man makes his friends en- 
 joy themselves, rather than him, w^hile he is in their 
 company. Calisthenes does this with inimitable 
 pleasantry. He whispered a friend the other day, 
 so as to be overheard by a young officer who gave 
 symptoms of cocking upon the company, '' That gen- 
 
No. 422.] THE SPECTATOR, 323 
 
 tleman has very much of the air of a general officer." 
 The youth immediately put on a composed behavior, 
 and behaved himself suitably to the conceptions he 
 believed the company had of him. It is to be al- 
 lowed that Calisthenes will make a man run into im- 
 pertinent relations to his own advantage, and express 
 the satisfaction he has in his own dear self, till he is 
 very ridiculous ; but in this case the man is made a 
 fool by his own consent, and not exposed as such 
 whether he will or no. I take it, therefore, that to 
 make raillery agreeable, a man must either not know 
 he is rallied, or think never the worse of himself if he 
 sees he is. 
 
 Acetus is of a quite contrary genius, and is more 
 generally admired than Calisthenes, but not with 
 justice. Acetus has no regard to the modesty or 
 weakness of the person he rallies ; but if his quality 
 or humility gives him any superiority to the man he 
 would fall upon, he has no mercy in making the on- 
 set. He can be pleased to see his best friend out of 
 countenance, while the laugh is loud in his own ap- 
 plause. His raillery always puts the company into 
 little divisions and separate interests, while that of 
 Calisthenes cements it, and makes every man not 
 only better pleased with himself, but also with all the 
 rest in the conversation. 
 
 To rally well, it is absolutely necessary that kind- 
 ness must run through all you say ; and you must 
 never preserve the character of a friend to support 
 your pretensions to be free with a man. Acetus 
 ought to be banished human society, because he raises 
 his mirth upon giving pain to the person upon whom 
 he is pleasant. Nothing but the malevolence which 
 is too general toward those who excel could make his 
 company tolerated ; but they with whom he converses 
 are sure to see some man sacrificed wherever he is 
 
324 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 422. 
 
 admitted ; and all the credit he has for wit, is owing 
 to the gratification it gives to other men's ill-nature. 
 
 iSlinutius has a wit that conciliates a man's love, at 
 the same time that it is exerted against his faults. 
 He has an art of keeping the person he ralHes in 
 countenance, by insinuating that he himself is guilty 
 of the same imperfection. This he does with so 
 much address, that he seems rather to bewail himself, 
 than fall upon his friend. 
 
 It is really monstrous to see how unaccountably it 
 prevails among men to take the liberty of displeasing 
 each other. One would think sometimes that the 
 contention is who shall be most disagreeable. Allu- 
 sions to past foUies, hints which revive what a man 
 has a mind to forget forever, and deser^-es that all the 
 rest of the world should, are commonly brought forth 
 even in company of men of distinction. They do not 
 thrust wnth the skill of fencers, but cut up with the bar- 
 barity of butchers. It is, methinks, below the char- 
 acter of men of humanity and good-manners to be 
 capable of mirth while there is any of the company in 
 pain and disorder. They who have the true taste of 
 conversation, enjoy themselves in a communication 
 of each other's excellencies, and not in a triumph over 
 their imperfections. Fortius would have been reck- 
 oned a wit if there had never been a fool in the 
 world ; he wants not foils to be a beauty, but has that 
 natural pleasure in observing perfection in others, 
 that his own faults are overlooked, out of gratitude, 
 by all his acquaintance. 
 
 After these several characters of men who succeed 
 or fail in raillery, it may not be amiss to reflect a httle 
 further w^hat one takes to be the most agreeable kind 
 of it ; and that to me appears when the satire is di- 
 rected against vice, with an air of contempt of the 
 fault, but no ill-will to the criminal. Mr. Congreve's 
 
No. 424.] THE SPECTATOR, 325 
 
 Doris is a masterpiece in this kind. It is the char- 
 acter of a woman utterly abandoned ; but her impu- 
 dence, by the finest piece of raillery, is made only 
 generosity. * * * 
 
 No. 424.] Monday, July 7, 171 2. 
 
 Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit sequus. 
 
 HoR. I Ep. xi. 30. 
 
 *Tis not the place disgust or pleasure brings : 
 From our own mind our satisfaction springs. 
 
 '' Mr. Spectator, London, June 24. 
 
 '^ A MAN who has it in his power to choose his own 
 company, would certainly be much to blame, should 
 he not, to the best of his judgment, take such as are 
 of a temper most suitable to his own ; and where that 
 choice is wanting, or where a man is mistaken in his 
 choice, and yet under a necessity of continuing in 
 the same company, it will certainly be his interest to 
 carry himself as easily as possible. 
 
 ^' In this I am sensible I do but repeat what has 
 been said a thousand times, at which, however, I 
 think nobody has any title to take exception, but 
 they who never fail to put this in practice. Not to 
 use any longer preface, this being the season of the 
 year in which great numbers of all sorts of people 
 retire from this place of business and pleasure to 
 country sohtude, I think it not improper to advise 
 them to take with them as great a stock of good hu- 
 mor as they can ; for though a country life is de- 
 scribed as the most pleasant of all others, and though 
 it may in truth be so, yet it is so only to those who 
 know how to enjoy leisure and retirement. 
 
 '' As for those who cannot live without the constant 
 helps of business or company, let them consider, that 
 
326 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 424. 
 
 in the countr}^ there is no exchange, there are no play- 
 houses, no variety of coffee-houses, nor many of those 
 other amusements which serve here as so many reh'efs 
 from the repeated occurrences in their own famihes ; 
 but that there the greatest part of their time must be 
 spent within themselves, and consequently it behooves 
 them to consider how agreeable it will be to them 
 before they leave this dear town. 
 
 '* I remember, Mr. Spectator, we were ver\' well 
 entertained, last year, with the advices you gave us 
 from Sir Roger's country-seat ; which I the rather 
 mention, because it is almost impossible not to live 
 pleasantly, where the master of a family is such a one 
 as you there describe your friend, who cannot, there- 
 fore (I mean as to his domestic character) be too often 
 recommended to the imitation of others. How amia- 
 ble is that affability and benevolence with which he 
 treats his neighbors, and ever\' one, even the meanest 
 of his own family I and yet how seldom imitated ! In- 
 stead of which we commonly meet with ill-natured 
 
 expostulations, noise, and chidings And this I 
 
 hinted, because the humor and disposition of the head 
 is what chiefly influences all the other parts of a 
 family. 
 
 '' An agreement and kind correspondence between 
 friends and acquaintance is the greatest pleasiu-e of 
 hfe. This is an undoubted truth ; and yet any man 
 who judges from the practice of the world will be 
 almost persuaded to believe the contrary ; for how 
 can we suppose people should be so industrious to 
 make themselves uneasy? What can engage them 
 to entertain and foment jealousies of one another 
 upon every the least occasion? Yet so it is, there 
 are people who (as it should seem) delight in being 
 troublesome and vexatious, who (as Tully speaks) 
 mird sunt alacritate ad litiga?idum, ' have a certain 
 
No. 424.] THE SPECTATOR, 327 
 
 cheerfulness in wrangling.' And thus it happens, that 
 there are very few families in which there are not feuds 
 and animosities, though it is every one's interest, there 
 more particularly, to avoid them, because there (as I 
 would wiUingly hope) no one gives another uneasi- 
 ness without feeling some share of it. — But I am gone 
 beyond what I designed, and had almost forgot what 
 I chiefly proposed ; which w^as, barely to tell you how 
 hardly we, who pass most of our time in town, dis- 
 pense with a long vacation in the country ; how un- 
 easy we grow to ourselves, and to one another, when 
 our conversation is confined ; insomuch that, by Mi- 
 chaelmas, it is odds but we come to downright squab- 
 bling, and make as free with one another to our faces 
 as we do with the rest of the world behind their backs. 
 After I have told you this, I am to desire that you 
 would now and then give us a lesson of good humor, 
 a family-piece, which, since we are all very fond of 
 you, I hope may have some influence upon us. 
 
 '' After these plain observations, ^\\t me leave to 
 give you a hint of what a set of company of my ac- 
 quaintance, who are now gone into the country, and 
 have the use of an absent nobleman's seat, have set- 
 tled among themselves to avoid the inconveniences 
 above-mentioned. They are a collection of ten or 
 twelve, of the same good inclination toward each 
 other, but of very different talents and inclinations ; 
 from hence they hope that the variety of their tem- 
 pers will only create variety of pleasures. But as 
 there always will arise, among the same people, either 
 for want of diversity of objects, or the Hke causes, a 
 certain satiety, which may grow into ill-humor or dis- 
 content, there is a large wing of the house which they 
 design to employ in the nature of an infirmary. Who- 
 ever says a peevish thing, or acts anything which 
 betrays a sourness or indisposition to company, is 
 
328 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 427. 
 
 immediately to be conveyed to his chambers in the 
 infirmary ; from whence he is not to be relieved till 
 by his manner of submission, and the sentiments ex- 
 pressed in his petition for that purpose, he appears to 
 the majority of the company to be again fit for so- 
 ciety. You are to understand, that all ill-natured 
 words or uneasy gestures are sufficient cause for ban- 
 ishment ; speaking impatiently to servants, making 
 a man repeat what he says, or anything that betrays 
 inattention or dishumor, are also criminal without re- 
 prieve. But it is provided, that whoever observes 
 the ill-natured fit coming upon himself, and volun- 
 tarily retires, shall be received at his return from 
 the infirmary with the highest marks of esteem. By 
 these and other wholesome methods, it is expected 
 that, if they cannot cure one another, yet at least 
 they have taken care that the ill-humor of one shall 
 not be troublesome to the rest of the company. 
 There are many other tules which the society have 
 established for the preservation of their ease and tran- 
 quilhty, the effects of which, with the incidents that 
 arise among them, shall be communicated to you 
 from time to time, for the public good, by 
 
 " Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 T. ''R. O." 
 
 No. 427.] Thursday, July 10, 171 2. 
 
 Quantum a rerum turpitudine abes, tan turn te a verborum libertate 
 sejungas. — Tull. 
 
 We should be as careful of our words as our actions ; and as far from 
 speaking as from doing ill. 
 
 It is a certain sign of an ill heart to be inclined 
 to defamation. They who are harmless and innocent 
 can have no gratification that way ; but it ever arises 
 
No. 4270 THE SPECTATOR. ' 329 
 
 from a neglect of what is laudable in a man's self, 
 and an impatience of seeing it in another. Else why- 
 should virtue provoke ? Why should beauty displease 
 in such a degree, that a man given to scandal never 
 lets the mention of either pass by him, without offer- 
 ing something to the diminution of it? A lady, the 
 other day, at a visit, being attacked somewhat rudely 
 by one whose own character has been very roughly 
 treated, answered a great deal of heat and intemper- 
 ance very calmly, "^ Good madam, spare me, who am 
 none of yoiu* match : I speak ill of nobody, and it is 
 a new thing to me to be ill spoken of." Little minds 
 think fame consists in the number of votes they have 
 on their side among the multitude, whereas it is really 
 the inseparable follower of good and worthy actions. 
 Fame is as natural a follower of merit, as a shadow is 
 of a body. It is true, when crowds press upon you, 
 this shadow cannot be seen ; but when they separate 
 from around you, it will again appear. The lazy, the 
 idle, and the forward, are the persons who are most 
 pleased with the little tales which pass about the 
 town to the disadvantage of the rest of the world. 
 Were it not for the pleasure of speaking ill, there are 
 numbers of people who are too lazy to go out of their 
 own houses, and too ill-natured to open their lips in 
 conversation. It was not a little diverting the other 
 day, to observe a lady reading a post-letter, and at 
 these words, '' After all her airs, he has heard some 
 story or other, and the match is broke off ; " give 
 orders in the midst of her reading, '^ Put to the 
 horses." That a young woman of merit has missed 
 an advantageous settlement was news not to be de- 
 layed, lest somebody else should have given her ma- 
 licious acquaintance that satisfaction before her. The 
 unwillingness to receive good tidings is a quahty as 
 inseparable from a scandal-bearer, as the readiness 
 
330 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 427. 
 
 to divulge bad. But, alas ! how wretchedly low and 
 contemptible is that state of mind, that cannot be 
 pleased but by what is the subject of lamentation. 
 This temper has ever been, in the highest degree, 
 odious to gallant spirits. The Persian soldier, who 
 was heard reviling Alexander the Great, was well 
 admonished by his officer, '' Sir, you are paid to fight 
 against Alexander, and not to rail at him." 
 
 Cicero, in one of his pleadings, defending his cli- 
 ent from general scandal, says very handsomely, and 
 with much reason, '' There are many who have par- 
 ticular engagements to the prosecutor; there are 
 many who are known to have ill-will to him for whom 
 I appear ; there are many who are naturally addicted 
 to defamation, and envious of any good to any man 
 who may have contributed to spread reports of this 
 kind : for nothing is so swift as scandal, nothing is 
 more easily sent abroad, nothing received with more 
 welcome, nothing diffuses itself so universally. I 
 shall not desire that if any report to our disadvantage 
 has any ground for it, you would overlook or extenu- 
 ate it : but if there be anything advanced, without a 
 person who can say whence he had it, or which is at- 
 tested by one who forgot who told him of it, or who 
 had it from one of so httle consideration that he did 
 not then think it worth his notice, all such testimo- 
 nies as these, I know, you will think too sUght to have 
 any credit against the innocence and honor of your 
 fellow-citizens." When an ill report is traced, it very 
 often vanishes among such as the orator has here re- 
 cited. And how despicable a creature must that be 
 who is in pain for what passes among so frivolous a 
 people ! There is a town in Warwickshire, of good 
 note, and formerly pretty famous for much animosity 
 and dissension, the chief famihes of which have now 
 turned all their whisperings, backbitings, envies, and 
 
No. 427-] THE SPECTATOR. 331 
 
 private malices, into mirth and entertainment, by 
 means of a peevish old gentlewoman, known by the 
 title of Lady Bluemantle. This heroine had, for 
 many years together, outdone the whole sisterhood of 
 gossips in invention, quick utterance, and unprovoked 
 malice. This good body is of a lasting constitu- 
 tion, though extremely decayed in her eyes, and de- 
 crepid in her feet. The two circumstances of being 
 always at home from her lameness, and very attentive 
 from her blindness, make her lodgings the receptacle 
 of all that passes in town, good or bad ; but for the 
 latter she seems to have the better memory. There is 
 another thing to be noted of her, which is, that as it 
 is usual with old people, she has a liveher memory of 
 things which passed when she was very young than of 
 late years. Add to all this, that she does not only not 
 love anybody, but she hates everybody. The statue 
 in Rome* does not serve to vent malice half so well 
 as this old lady does to disappoint it. She does not 
 know the author of anything that is told her, but can 
 readily repeat the matter itself ; therefore, though she 
 exposes all the whole town, she offends no one in it. 
 She is so exquisitely restless and peevish, that she 
 quarrels with all about her, and sometimes in a freak 
 will instantly change her habitation. To indulge this 
 humor she is led about the grounds belonging to the 
 same house she is in ; and the persons to whom she is 
 to remove, being in the plot, are ready to receive her 
 at her own chamber again. At stated times the gen- 
 tlewoman at whose house she supposes she is at the 
 time, is sent for to quarrel with, according to her 
 common custom. When they have a mind to drive 
 the jest, she is immediately urged to that degree, that 
 
 * A statue of Pasquin in that city, on which sarcastic re- 
 marks were pasted, and thence called Pasquinades. 
 
332 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 438. 
 
 she will board in a family with which she has never 
 yet been ; and away she will go this instant, and tell 
 them all that the rest have been saying of them. By 
 this means, she has been an inhabitant of ever}' house 
 in the place, without stirring from the same habitation : 
 and the many stories which ever}'body furnishes her 
 with, to favor that deceit, make her the general intel- 
 hgencer of the town of all that can be said by one 
 woman against another. Thus groundless stories 
 die away, and sometimes truths are smothered under 
 the general word, when they have a mind to discoun- 
 tenance a thing, ''Oh, this is in my Lady Bluemantle's 
 Memoirs." 
 
 Whoever receives impressions to the disadvantage 
 of others, without examination, is to be had in no 
 other credit for intelligence than this good Lady 
 Bluemantle, who is subjected to have her ears im- 
 posed upon for want of other helps to better informa- 
 tion. Add to this, that other scandal-bearers suspend 
 the use of these faculties which she has lost, rather 
 than apply them to do justice to their neighbors : and 
 I think, for the ser^'ice of my fair readers, to acquaint 
 them, that there is a voluntar}^ Lady Bluemantle at 
 every visit in town. — T. 
 
 Xo. 438.1 Wednesday, July 23, 1712. 
 
 Animum rege. qui, nisi paret, 
 
 Imperat Hok. i Ep. ii. 62. 
 
 -Curb thy soul, 
 
 And check thy rage, which must be rul'd or rule. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 It is a ver\^ common expression that such a 
 one is very good-natured but ver}- passionate. The 
 expression, indeed, is very good-natured, to allow pas- 
 
No. 438.] THE SPECTATOR. 333 
 
 sionate people so much quarter : but I think a pas- 
 sionate man deserves the least indulgence imaginable. 
 It is said, it is soon over; that is, all the mischief 
 he does is quickly dispatched, which, I think, is no 
 great recommendation to favor. I have known 
 one of these good-natured passionate men say in a 
 mixed company, even to his own wife or child, such 
 things as the most inveterate enemy of his family 
 would not have spoken, even in imagination. It is 
 certain that quick sensibility is inseparable from a 
 ready understanding ; but why should not that good 
 understanding call to itself all its force on such oc- 
 casions, to master that sudden inclination to anger? 
 One of the greatest souls now in the world * is the 
 most subject by nature to anger, and yet so famous, 
 from a conquest of himself this way that he is the 
 known example when you talk of temper and com- 
 mand of a man's self. To contain the spirit of an- 
 ger, is the worthiest discipline we can put ourselves 
 to. When a man has made any progress this way, 
 a frivolous fellow in a passion is to him as contempt- 
 ible as a froward child. It ought to be the study of 
 every man for his own quiet and peace. When he 
 stands combustible and ready to flame upon every- 
 thing that touches him, life is as uneasy to himself as 
 it is to all about him. Syncropius leads, of all men 
 living, the most ridiculous life ; he is ever offending 
 and begging pardon. If his man enters the room 
 without what he was sent for — -'' That blockhead," 
 begins he — ''Gentlemen, I ask your pardon, but ser- 
 vants now-a-days " — . The wrong plates are laid, 
 they are thrown into the middle of the room ; his wife 
 stands by in pain for him, which he sees in her face, 
 and answers as if he had heard all she was thinking : 
 
 * Lord Somers. 
 
334 ^-^^ SPECTATOR. [No. 438. 
 
 — '' Why, what the de\'il ! Why don't you take care 
 to give orders in these things ? " His friends sit down 
 to a tasteless plenty of everything^ every minute ex- 
 pecting new insults from his impertinent passions. In 
 a word, to eat with, or visit Syncropius, is no other 
 than going to see him exercise his family, exercise 
 their patience, and his own anger. 
 
 It is monstrous that the shame and confusion in 
 which this good-natured angr}' man must needs 
 behold his friends, while he thus lays about him, 
 does not give him so much reflection, as to create an 
 amendment. This is the most scandalous disuse of 
 reason imaginable : all the harmless part of him is no 
 more than that of a bulldog, they are tame no longer 
 than they are not offended. One of these good- 
 natured angry men shall, in an instant, assemble to- 
 gether so many allusions to secret circumstances, as 
 are enough to dissolve the peace of all the families 
 and friends he is acquainted with in a quarter 
 of an hour, and yet the next moment be the 
 best-natured man in the whole world. If you 
 could see passion in its piuity, without mixture of 
 reason, behold it represented in a mad hero, drawn 
 by a mad poet. Nat. Lee makes his Alexander 
 say thus : 
 
 Away I begone I and give a whirlwind room, 
 
 Or I will blow you up like dust I Avaunt I 
 
 Madness but meanly represents my toil. 
 
 Eternal discord I 
 
 Fury I revenge I disdain and indignation! 
 
 Tear my swoll'n breast, make way for fire and tempest! 
 
 My brain is burst, debate and reason quench'd ; 
 
 The storm is up, and my hot bleeding heart 
 
 Splits with the rack ; while passions, like the wind, 
 
 Rise up to h©av'n, and put out all the stars. 
 
 Every passionate fellow in town talks half the day 
 
No. 438.] THE SPECTATOR, 335 
 
 with as little consistency, and threatens things as 
 much out of his power. 
 
 The next disagreeable person to the outrageous 
 gentleman, is one of a much lower order of anger, 
 and he is what we commonly call a peevish fellow. 
 A peevish fellow is one who has some reason in him- 
 self for being out of humor, or has a natural inca- 
 pacity for delight, and therefore distiu-bs all who are 
 happier than himself with pishes and pshaws, or other 
 well-bred interjections, at everything that is said or 
 done in his presence. There should be physic mixed 
 in the food of all which these fellows eat in good 
 company. This degree of anger passes, forsooth, for 
 a delicacy of judgment, that will not admit of being 
 easily pleased ; but none above the character of wear- 
 ing a peevish man's livery ought to bear with his 
 ill-manners. All things among men of sense and 
 condition should pass the censure, and have the 
 protection, of the eye of reason. 
 
 No man ought to be tolerated in an habitual hu- 
 mor, whim, or particularity of behavior, by any who 
 do not wait upon him for bread. Next to the peevish 
 fellow is the snarler. This gentleman deals mightily 
 in what we call the irony ; and as those sort of people 
 exert themselves most against those below them, you 
 see their humor best in their talk to their servants. 
 *' That is so like you ; You are a fine fellow ; Thou 
 art the quickest head-piece ; " and the like. One 
 would think the hectoring, the storming, the sullen, 
 and all the different spepies and subordinations of the 
 angry, should be cured, by knowing they hve only 
 as pardoned men ; and how pitiful is the condition of 
 being only suffered ! But I am interrupted by the 
 pleasantest scene of anger and the disappointment of 
 it that I have ever known, which happened while I 
 was yet writing, and I overheard as I sat in the back- 
 
33^ THE SPECTATOR. [No. 438. 
 
 room at a French bookseller's. There came into the 
 shop a very learned man with an erect solemn air ; 
 and though a person of great parts otherwise, slow in 
 understanding anything which makes against himself. 
 The composure of the faulty man, and the whimsical 
 perplexity of him that was justly angry, is perfectly 
 new. After turning over many volumes, said the 
 seller to the buyer, '' Sir, you know I have long asked 
 you to send me back the first volume of the French 
 Sermons I formerly lent you." — '' Sir," said the chap- 
 man, '' I have often looked for it, but cannot find it ; 
 it is certainly lost, and I know not to whom I lent it, 
 it is so many years ago." — ''Then, Sir, here is the 
 other volume ; I'll send you home that, and please to 
 pay for both." — '' My friend," replied he, '' canst thou 
 be so senseless as not to know that one volume is as 
 imperfect in my library as in your shop? " — '' Yes, Sir, 
 but it is you have lost the first volume ; and, to be 
 shoirt, I will be paid." — '' Sir," answered the chapman, 
 *' you are a young man, your book is lost ; and learn 
 by this little loss to bear much greater adversities, 
 which you must expect to meet with." — ''Yes, Sir, 
 but I'll bear when I must, but I have not lost now, 
 for I say you have it, and shall pay me." — " Friend, 
 you grow warm ; I tell you the book is lost ; and I 
 foresee, in the course even of a prosperous life, that 
 you will meet afflictions to make you mad, if you can- 
 not bear this trifle." — " Sir, there is in this case no need 
 of bearing, for you have the book."—" I say. Sir, I 
 have not the book ; but your passion will not let you 
 hear enough to be informed that I have it not. 
 Learn resignation of yourself to the distresses of this 
 life : nay, do not fret and fume ; it is my duty to tell 
 you, that you are of an impatient spirit, and an im- 
 patient spirit is never without woe." — " Was ever any- 
 thing hke this?" — "Yes, Sir, there have been many 
 
No. 441.] THE SPECTATOR, 337 
 
 things like this : the loss is but a trifle ; but yoiu" tem- 
 per is wanton, and incapable of the least pain ; there- 
 fore, let me advise you, be patient ; the book is lost, 
 but do not you for that reason lose yourself." T.* 
 
 No. 441.] Saturday, July 26, 1712. 
 
 Si fractus illabatur orbis, 
 Impavidum ferient ruinse. — Hor. 3 Od. iii. 7. 
 
 Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 
 
 In ruin and confusion hurl'd. 
 He, unconcern'd, would hear the mighty crack, 
 
 And stand secure amidst a falling world.— Anon. 
 
 Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless and a 
 very wretched being. He is subject every moment to 
 the greatest calamities and misfortunes. He is beset 
 with dangers on all sides ; and may become unhappy 
 by numberless casualties, which he could not foresee, 
 nor have prevented had he foreseen them. 
 
 It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so 
 many accidents, that we are under the care of One 
 who directs contingencies, and has in his hands the 
 management of everything that is capable of annoy- 
 ing or offending us ; who knows the assistance we 
 stand in need of, and is always ready to bestow it on 
 those who ask it of him. 
 
 The natural homage which such a creature bears 
 to so infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reli- 
 ance on him for the blessings and conveniences of 
 life, and a habitual trust in him for deliverance out of 
 all such dangers and difficulties as may befall us. 
 
 * This scene passed in the shop of Mr. Vaillant, afterward 
 Messrs. Payne and Mackinlay's, in the strand; and the sub- 
 ject of it was (for it is still in remembrance) a volume of Mas- 
 sillon's Sermons. 
 
33^ THE SPECTATOR, [No. 441. 
 
 The man who always lives in this disposition of 
 mind, has not the same dark and melancholy views 
 of human nature, as he who considers himself ab- 
 stractedly from this relation to the Supreme Being. 
 At the same time that he reflects upon his own w^eak- 
 ness and imperfection, he comforts himself with the 
 contemplation of those divine attributes which are 
 employed for his safety and his welfare. He finds his 
 want of foresight made up by the Omniscience of him 
 who is his support. He is not sensible of his own 
 want of strength ; when he knows that his helper is 
 almighty. In short, the person who has a firm trust 
 on the Supreme Being, is powerful in his power, wise 
 by his wisdom, happy by his happiness. He reaps 
 the benefit of every divine attribute, and loses his own 
 insufiiciency in the fullness of infinite perfection. 
 
 To make oiu* lives more easy to us, we are com- 
 manded to put our trust in him, who is thus able to re- 
 lieve and succor us : the divine goodness having made 
 such a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should 
 have been miserable had it been forbidden us. 
 
 Among several motives which might be made use 
 of to recommend this duty to us, I shall only take 
 notice of these that follow: — 
 
 The first and strongest is, that we are promised he 
 will not fail those who put their trust in him. 
 
 But, without considering the supernatural blessing 
 which accompanies this duty, w^e may observe that 
 it has a natural tendency to its own reward, or, in 
 other words, that this firm trust and confidence in the 
 great Disposer of all things, contributes very much to 
 the getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing it 
 manfully. A person who believes he has his succor 
 at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, 
 often exerts himself beyond his abilities, and does 
 wonders that are not to be matched by one who 
 
No. 441.] THE SPECTATOR. 339 
 
 is not animated with such a confidence of success. 
 I could produce instances from history, of generals, 
 who, out of a belief that they were under the pro- 
 tection of some invisible assistant, did not only en- 
 courage their soldiers to do their utmost, but have 
 acted themselves beyond what they would have done 
 had they not been inspired by such a belief. I might 
 in the same manner show how^ such a trust in the as- 
 sistance of an Almighty Being naturally produces 
 patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions 
 of the mind that alleviate those calamities which we 
 are not able to remove. 
 
 The practice of this virtue administers great com- 
 fort to the mind of man in times of poverty and 
 affliction, but most of all in the hour of death. When 
 the soul is hovering in the last moments of its sepa- 
 ration, when it is just entering on another state of 
 existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and 
 companions, that are altogether new, — what can sup- 
 port her under such trembhngs of thought, such fears, 
 such anxiety, such apprehensions, but the casting of 
 all her cares upon him who first gave her being, who 
 has conducted her through one stage of it, and will 
 be always with her, to guide and comfort her in her 
 progress through eternity? 
 
 David has very beautifully represented this steady 
 rehance on God Almighty in his twenty-third psalm, 
 which is a kind of pastoral hymn, and filled with 
 those allusions which are usual in that kind of writ- 
 ing. As the poetry is very exquisite, I shall present 
 my reader with the following translation of it : — 
 
 I. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with a shepherd's care; 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
 
340 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 447. 
 
 My noon-day walks he shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 II. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads 
 My weary, wand'ring steps he leads, 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall know no ill, 
 For thou, O Lord, art with me still ; 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way. 
 Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
 The barren wilderness shall smile 
 ^ With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 No. 447.] Saturday, August 2, 171 2. 
 
 Long exercise, my friend, inures the mind : 
 And what we once dislik'd we pleasing find. 
 
 There is not a common saying which has a better 
 turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the 
 mouths of the vulgar, that '' custom is a second nat- 
 ure." It is indeed able to form the man anew, and 
 to give him inchnations and capacities altogether dif- 
 ferent from those he was born with. Dr. Plot, in his 
 History of Staffordshire, tells us of an idiot, that 
 
No. 447.] THE SPECTATOR. 341 
 
 chancing to live within the sound of a clock, and 
 always amusing himself with counting the hour of the 
 day whenever the clock struck, the clock being spoiled 
 by some accident, the idiot continued to strike and 
 count the hour without the help of it, in the same 
 manner as he had done when it was entire. Though 
 I do not vouch for the truth of this story, it is very 
 certain that custom has a mechanical effect upon the 
 body, at the same time that it has a very extraordi- 
 nary influence upon the mind. 
 
 I shall, in this paper, consider one very remarkable 
 effect which custom has upon human nature, and 
 which, if rightly observed, may lead us into very use- 
 ful rules of life. What I shall here take notice of in 
 custom, is its wonderful efficacy in making everything 
 pleasant to us. A person who is addicted to play or 
 gaming, though he took but little dehght in it at first, 
 by degrees contracts so strong an inclination toward 
 it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems 
 the only end of his being. The love of a retired or 
 busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is 
 conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly 
 unqualified for relishing that to which he has been 
 for some time disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or 
 drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to pass away his 
 time without it ; not to mention how our dehght in 
 any particular study, art, or science, rises and im- 
 proves, in proportion to the application which we 
 bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, 
 becomes at length an entertainment. Our employ- 
 ments are changed into our diversions. The mind 
 grows fond of those actions she is accustomed to, 
 and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in 
 which she has been used to walk. 
 
 Not only such actions as were at first indifferent 
 to us, but even such as were painful, will by custom 
 
342 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 447. 
 
 and practice become pleasant. Sir Francis Bacon ob- 
 serves, in his Natural Philosophy, that our taste is 
 never pleased better than with those things which at 
 first created a disgust in it. He gives particular in- 
 stances, of claret, coffee, and other liquors, which the 
 palate seldom approves upon the first taste, but, when 
 it has once got a rehsh of them, generally retains it 
 for hfe. The mind is constituted after the same 
 manner, and after having habituated herself to any 
 particular exercise or employment, not only loses her 
 first aversion toward it, but conceives a certain fond- 
 ness and affection for it. I have heard one of the 
 greatest geniuses this age has produced,* who had 
 been trained up in all the pohte studies of antiquity, 
 assure me, upon his being obhged to search into sev- 
 eral rolls and records, that notwithstanding such an 
 employment was at first very dry and irksome to him, 
 he at last took an incredible pleasure in it, and pre- 
 ferred it even to the f eading of Virgil or Cicero. The 
 reader will observe, that I have not here considered 
 custom as it makes things easy, but as it renders 
 them delightful ; and though others have often made 
 the same reflections, it is possible they may not have 
 drawn those uses from it, with which I intend to fill 
 the remaining part of this paper. 
 
 If we consider attentively this property of human 
 nature, it may instruct us in very fine morahties. In 
 the first place, I would have no man discouraged 
 with that kind of life, or series of action, in which the 
 choice of others, or his own necessities, may have 
 engaged him. It may perhaps be very disagreeable 
 to him at first ; but use and application will certainly 
 render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satis- 
 factory. 
 
 * Dr. Attcrbury. 
 
No. 447-] THE SPECTATOR. 343 
 
 In the second place, I would recommend to every 
 one that admirable precept which Pythagoras is said to 
 have given to his disciples, and which that philosopher 
 must have drawn from the observation I have enlarged 
 upon, Optimum viice genus eligito^ nam co7isuetudo fa- 
 ciei jucundissimum : ^' Pitch upon that course of life 
 which is the most excellent, and custorn will render 
 it the most delightful." Men whose circumstances 
 will permit them to choose their owm way of life, are 
 inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their 
 judgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice 
 of reason is more to be regarded than the bent of 
 any present inclination, since, by the rule above-men- 
 tioned, inclination will at length come over to rea- 
 son, though we can never force reason to comply 
 with inclination. 
 
 In the third place, this observation may teach the 
 most sensual and irrehgious man to overlook those 
 hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage 
 him from the prosecution of a virtuous life. '' The 
 gods," said Hesiod, *' have placed labor before virtue ; 
 the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but 
 grows more smooth and easy the further you advance 
 in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness 
 and resolution, will, in a Httle time, find that ''her 
 ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths 
 are peace." 
 
 To enforce this consideration, we may further ob- 
 serve, that the practice of religion will not only be 
 attended with that pleasure which naturally accom- 
 panies those actions to which we are habituated, but 
 with those supernumerary joys of heart that rise from 
 the consciousness of such a pleasure, from the satis- 
 faction of acting up to the dictates of reason, and 
 from the prospect of a happy immortality. 
 
 In the fourth place, we may learn from this obser- 
 
344 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 447. 
 
 vation which we have made on the mind of man, to 
 take particular care when we are once settled in a 
 regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge 
 ourselves in any of the most innocent diversions and 
 entertainments ; since the mind may insensibly fall off 
 from the rehsh of virtuous actions, and, by degrees, 
 exchange that pleasure which it takes in the perform- 
 ance of its duty, for delights of a much more inferior 
 and unprofitable nature. 
 
 The last use which I shall make of this remarka,ble 
 property in human nature, of being delighted with 
 those actions to which it is accustomed, is to show 
 how absolutely neccessary it is for us to gain habits 
 of virtue in this life, if we w^ould enjoy the pleasures 
 of the next. The state of bliss we call heaven will 
 not be capable of affecting those minds which are not 
 thus qualified for it ; we must, in this world, gain a 
 relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste 
 that knowledge and perfection, which are to make us 
 happy in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys 
 and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the 
 soul to all eternity, must be planted in her during this 
 her present state of probation. In short, heaven is 
 not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the 
 natural effect of a religious life. 
 
 On the other hand, those evil spirits, who, by long 
 custom, have contracted in the body habits of lust 
 and sensuality, malice and revenge, and aversion to 
 everything that is good, just, or laudable, are natu- 
 rally seasoned and prepared for pain and misery. 
 Their torments have already taken root in them ; 
 they cannot be happy when divested of the body, 
 unless we may suppose that Providence will in a man- 
 ner create them anew, and work a miracle in the rec- 
 tification of their faculties. They may, indeed, taste 
 a kind of mahgnant pleasure in those actions to which 
 
No. 449-] ^-^^ SPECTATOR, 345 
 
 they are accustomed, while in this life ; but when 
 they are removed from all those objects which are 
 here apt to gratify them, they will naturally become 
 their own tormentors, and cherish in themselves those 
 painful habits of mind which are called, in Scripture 
 phrase, ''the worm which never dies." This notion 
 of heaven and hell is so very conformable to the hght 
 of nature, that it was discovered by several of the 
 most exalted heathens. It has been finely improved 
 by many eminent divines of the last age, as in par- 
 ticular by Archbishop Tillotson and Dr. Sherlock : 
 but there is none who has raised such noble specu- 
 lations upon it as Dr. Scott, in the first book of his 
 Christian Life, which is one of the finest and most 
 rational schemes of divinity that is written in our 
 tongue, or in any other. That excellent author has 
 shown how every particular custom and habit of vir- 
 tue will, in its own nature, produce the heaven, or a 
 state of happiness, in him who shall hereafter practice 
 it ; as, on the contrary, how every custom or habit of 
 vice will be the natural hell of him in whom it sub- 
 sists. — C. 
 
 No. 449.] Tuesday, August 5, 171 2. 
 
 Tibi scriptus, matrona, libellus.— Mart. iii. 68. 
 
 A book the chastest matron may peruse. 
 
 When I reflect upon my labors for the public, I 
 cannot but observe, that part of the species, of which 
 I profess myself a friend and guardian, is sometimes 
 treated with severity ; that is, there are in my writ- 
 ings many descriptions given of ill persons, and not 
 yet any direct encomium made on those who are 
 good. When I was convinced of this error, I could 
 not but immediately call to mind several of the fair 
 
346 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 449. 
 
 sex of my acquaintance, whose characters deserve to 
 be transmitted to posterity in ^\Titings which will long 
 outlive mine. But I do not think that a reason why 
 I should not give them their place in my diurnal as 
 long as it will last. For the service, therefore, of my 
 female readers, I shall single out some characters of 
 maids, wives and widows, which deserve the imita- 
 tion of the sex. She who shall lead this small illus- 
 trious number of heroines shall be the amiable Fideha. 
 Before I enter upon the particular parts of her 
 character, it is necessary to preface, that she is the 
 only child of a decrepid father, whose hfe is bound 
 up in hers. This gentleman has used Fideha from 
 her cradle with all the tenderness imaginable, and 
 has viewed her growing perfections with the partiahty 
 of a parent, that soon thought her accomphshed 
 above the children of all other men, but never thought 
 she was comie to the utmost improvement of which 
 she herself was capable. This fondness has had very 
 happy effects upon his own happiness ; for she reads, 
 she dances, she sings, uses her spinet and lute to the 
 utmost perfection ; and the lady's use of all these ex- 
 cellencies is to divert the old man in his easy chair, 
 when he is out of the pangs of a chronical distemper. 
 Fidelia is now in the twenty-third year of her age ; 
 but the appHcation of many lovers, her vigorous time 
 of hfe, her quick sense of all that is truly gallant and 
 elegant in the enjoyment of a plentiful fortune, are not 
 able to draw her from the side of her good old father. 
 Certain it is, that there is no kind of affection so pure 
 and angehc as that of a father to a daughter. He 
 beholds her both with and without regard to her sex. 
 In love to our wives there is desire, to our sons there 
 is ambition ; but in that to our daughters there is 
 something which there are no words to express. Her 
 life is designed wholly domestic, and she is so ready 
 
No. 449-] THE SPECTATOR, 347 
 
 a friend and companion, that everything that passes 
 about a man is accompanied with the idea of her 
 presence. Her sex also is naturally so much ex- 
 posed to hazard, both as to fortune and innocence, 
 that there is perhaps a new cause of fondness arising 
 from that consideration also. None but fathers can 
 have a true sense of these sort of pleasures and sen- 
 sations ; but my familiarity with the father of Fidelia 
 makes me let drop the words which I have heard 
 him speak, and observe upon his tenderness toward 
 her. 
 
 Fidelia, on her part, as I w^as going to say, as ac- 
 comphshed as she is, with all her beauty, wit, air, 
 and mien, employs her whole time \r\ care and attend- 
 ance upon her father. How have I been charmed to 
 see one of the most beauteous women the age has 
 produced, on her knees, helping on an old man's 
 slipper ! Her filial regard to him is what she makes 
 her diversion, her business, and her glory. When 
 she was asked by a friend of her deceased mother, to 
 admit of the courtship of her son, she answered that 
 she had a great respect and gratitude to her for the 
 overture in behalf of one so near to her, but that dur- 
 ing her father's life she would admit into her heart 
 no value for anything that should interfere with her 
 endeavor to make his remains of hfe as happy and 
 easy as could be expected in his circumstances. The 
 lady admonished her of the prime of life with a smile ; 
 which Fideha answered with a frankness that always 
 attends unfeigned virtue : '' It is true, Madam, there 
 are to be sure very great satisfactions to be expected 
 in the commerce of a man of honor, whom one ten- 
 derly loves ; but I find so much satisfaction in the 
 reflection how much I mitigate a good man's pains, 
 whose welfare depends upon my assiduity about him, 
 that I willingly exclude the loose gratifications of pas- 
 
348 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 449. 
 
 sion for the solid reflections of duty. I know not 
 whether any man's wife would be allowed, and 
 (what I still more fear) I know not whether I, a wife, 
 should be wilhng to be as officious as I am at present 
 about my parent." The happy father has her decla- 
 ration that she will not marr}' during his life, and the 
 pleasure of seeing that resolution not uneasy to her. 
 Were one to paint filial affection in its utmost beauty, 
 he could not have a more lively idea of it than in be- 
 holding Fidelia serving her father at his hours of ris- 
 ing, meals, and rest. 
 
 When the general crowd of female youth are con- 
 sulting their glasses, preparing for balls, assemblies, 
 or plays ; for a young lady who could be regarded 
 among the foremost in those places, either for her 
 person, wit, fortune, or conversation, and yet contemn 
 all these entertainments, to sweeten the heavy hours 
 of a decrepid parent, is a resignation truly heroic. 
 FideHa performs the duty of a nurse with all the 
 beauty of a bride ; nor does she neglect her person, 
 because of her attendance on him, when he is too ill 
 to receive company, to whom she may make an ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 Fideha, who gives him up her youth, does not think 
 it any great sacrifice to add to it the spoiling of her 
 dress. Her care and exactness in her habit convinces 
 her father of the alacrity of her mind ; and she has 
 of all women the best foundation for affecting the 
 praise of a seeming neghgence. What adds to the 
 entertainment of the good old man is, that Fideha, 
 where merit and fortune cannot be overlooked by 
 epistolary lovers, reads over the accounts of her con- 
 quests, plays on her spinet the gayest airs (and. while 
 she is doing so, you would think her formed only for 
 gallantry) to intimate to him the pleasures she de- 
 spises for his sake. 
 
No. 458.] THE SPECTATOR. 349 
 
 Those who think themselves the patterns of good- 
 breeding and gallantry would be astonished to hear 
 that, in those intervals when the old gentleman is at 
 ease, and can bear company, there are at his house, 
 in the most regular order, assembhes of people of the 
 highest merit ; where there is conversation without 
 mention of the faults of the absent, benevolence be- 
 tween men and women without passion, and the high- 
 est subjects of morality treated of as natural and 
 accidental discourse ; all of which is owing to the 
 genius of Fidelia, who at once makes her father's 
 way to another world easy, and herself capable of be- 
 ing an honor to his name in this. * * * 
 
 No. 458.] Friday, August 15, 171 2. 
 
 •Pudor malus Hor. 
 
 False modesty. 
 
 I COULD not but smile at the account that was 
 yesterday given me of a modest young gentleman, 
 who, being invited to an entertainment, though he 
 was not used to drink, had not the confidence to re- 
 fuse his glass in his turn, when on a sudden he grew 
 so flustered, that he took all the talk of tlie table 
 into his own hands, abused every one of the com- 
 pany, and flung a bottle at the gentleman's head who 
 treated him. This has given me occasion to reflect 
 upon the ill effects of a vicious modesty, and to re- 
 member the saying of Brutus, as it is quoted by Plu- 
 tarch, that '' the person has had but an ill education, 
 who has not been taught to deny anything." This 
 false kind of modesty has, perhaps, betrayed both 
 sexes into as many vices as the most abandoned im- 
 
3S0 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 458. 
 
 pudence ; and is the more inexcusable to reason, be- 
 cause it acts to gratify others rather than itself, and 
 is punished with a kind of remorse, not only hke 
 other vicious habits when the crime is over, but even 
 at the very time that it is committed. 
 
 Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and 
 nothing is more contemptible than the false. The 
 one guards virtue, the other betrays it. True mod- 
 esty is ashamed to do anything that is repugnant to 
 the rules of right reason : false modesty is ashamed to 
 do anything that is opposite to the humor of the 
 company. True modesty avoids everything that is 
 criminal, false modesty everything that is unfashion- 
 able. The latter is only a general undetermined 
 instinct ; the former is that instinct, limited and cir- 
 cumscribed by the rules of prudence and religion. 
 
 We may conclude that modesty to be false and 
 vicious which engages a man to do anything that is 
 ill or indiscreet, or which restrains him from doing any- 
 thing that is of a contrary nature. How many men, 
 in the common concerns of life, lend sums of money 
 which they are not able to spare, are bound for per- 
 sons w^hom they have but little friendship for, give 
 recommendatory characters of men whom they are not 
 acquainted with, bestow places on those whom they 
 do not esteem, live in such a manner as they them- 
 selves do not approve, and all this merely because 
 they have not the confidence to resist sohcitation, 
 importunity, or example ! 
 
 Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such 
 actions as are indiscreet, but very often to such as are 
 highly criminal. When Xenophanes was called timor- 
 ous because he would not venture his money in a 
 game of dice : '' I confess," said he, '' that I am ex- 
 ceeding timorous, for I dare not do an ill thing." 
 On the contrary, a man of vicious modesty complies 
 
No. 458.] THE SPECTATOR. 351 
 
 with everything, and is only fearful of doing what 
 may look singular in . the company where he is en- 
 gaged. He falls in with the torrent, and lets himself 
 go to every action or discourse, however unjustifiable 
 in itself, so it be in vogue among the present party. 
 This, though one of the most common, is one of the 
 most ridiculous dispositions in human nature, that 
 men should not be ashamed of speaking or acting in 
 a dissolute or irrational manner, but that one who is 
 in their company should be ashamed of governing 
 himself by the principles of reason and virtue. 
 
 In the second place, we are to consider false mod- 
 esty as it restrains a man from doing what is good 
 and laudable. My reader's own thoughts will sug- 
 gest to him many instances and examples under this 
 head. I shall only dwell upon one reflection, which 
 I cannot make without a secret concern. We have 
 in England a particular bashfulness in everything 
 that regards religion. A well-bred man is obhged 
 to conceal any serious sentiment of this nature, and 
 very often to appear a greater libertine than he is, 
 that he may keep himself in countenance among the 
 men of mode. Our excess of modesty makes us 
 shamefaced in all the exercises of piety and devotion. 
 This humor prevails upon us daily ; insomuch that, at 
 many well-bred tables, the master of the house is so 
 very modest a man, that he has not the confidence to 
 say grace at his own table : a custom which is not 
 only practiced by all the nations about us, but was 
 never omitted by the heathens themselves. English 
 gentlemen who travel into Roman Catholic countries 
 are not a little surprised to meet with people of the 
 best quality kneeling in their chiuches, and engaged 
 in their private devotions, though it be not at the 
 hours of public worship. An ofiicer of the army, or a 
 man of wit and pleasure, in those countries, would 
 
352 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 458. 
 
 be afraid of passing not only for an irreligious, but 
 an ill-bred man, should he be seen going to bed. or sit 
 down at table, without offering up his devotions on 
 such occasions. The same show of rehgion appears 
 in all the foreign reformed churches, and enters so 
 much into their ordinan- conversation, that an Engbsh- 
 man is apt to term them h\-pocritical and precise. 
 
 This htde appearance of a rehgious deportment in 
 our nation may proceed in some measure from that 
 modesty which is natural to us ; but the great occasion 
 of it is certainly this. Those swarms of sectaries that 
 overran the nation in the time of the great rebeUion 
 carried their h}-pocri^ so high, that they had con- 
 verted our whole language into a jargon of enthu- 
 siasm: insomuch that, upon the Restoration, men 
 thought they could not recede too far from the be- 
 ha\-ior and practice of those persons who had made 
 religion a cloak to so many ^-illainies. This led them 
 into the other extreme ; ever\- appearance of devotion 
 was looked upon as puritanical ; and falling into the 
 hands of the ** ridiculers " who flourished in that reign, 
 and attacked eventhing that was serious, it has ever 
 since been out of countenance among us. By this 
 means we are gradually fallen into that ^-icious mod- 
 esty which has in some measure worn out from among 
 us the appearance of Christianity in ordinary- life and 
 conversation, and which distinguishes us from all our 
 neighbors. 
 
 H\-pocrisy cannot indeed be too much detested, 
 but at the same time it is to be preferred to open im- 
 piety. They are both equally destructive to the per- 
 son who is possessed with them ; but, in regard to 
 others, h^-pocrisy is not so pernicious as barefaced 
 irrehgion. The due mean to be obser\ed is, " to be 
 sincerely \Trtuous, and at the same time to let the 
 world see that we are so." I do not know a more 
 
No. 459.] THE SPECTATOR. 353 
 
 dreadful menace in the holy writings than that which 
 is pronounced against those who have this perverted 
 modesty, to be ashamed before men in a particular of 
 such unspeakable importance. — C. 
 
 No. 459.] Saturday, August 16, 171 2. 
 
 Quicquid dignum sapiente bonoque est. 
 
 HoR. 1 Ep. iv, 5. 
 
 Whate'er befits the wise and good. — Creech. 
 
 Religion may be considered under two general 
 heads. The first comprehends what we are to be- 
 lieve, the other what we are to practice. By those 
 things which we are to believe, I mean whatever is 
 revealed to us in the holy writings, and which we 
 could not have obtained the knowledge of by the 
 light of nature ; by the things which we are to prac- 
 tice, I mean all those duties to which we are directed 
 by reason or natural rehgion. The first of these I 
 shall distinguish by the name of faith, the second by 
 that of morality. 
 
 If we look into the more serious part of mankind, 
 we find many who lay so great a stress upon faith 
 that they neglect morahty ; and many who build so 
 much upon morality, that they do not pay a due re- 
 gard to faith. The perfect man should be defective 
 in neither of these particulars, as will be very evident 
 to those who consider the benefits which arise from 
 each of them, and which I shall make the subject of 
 this day's paper. 
 
 Notwithstanding this general division of Christian 
 duty into morality and faith, and that they have both 
 their peculiar excellencies, the first has the pre-emi- 
 nence in several respects. 
 
354 ^^^ SPECTATOR. [No. 459. 
 
 First, Because the greatest part of morality (as I 
 have stated the notion of it) is of a fixed eternal 
 nature, and ^vill endure when faith shall fail, and be 
 lost in conviction. 
 
 Secondly, Because a person may be qualified to do 
 greater good to mankind, and become more beneficial 
 to the world, by morality without faith, than by faith 
 without morality. 
 
 Thirdly, Because morality gives a greater perfec- 
 tion to human nature, by quieting the mind, moder- 
 ating the passions, and advancing the happiness of 
 ever}' man in his private capacity. 
 
 Fourthly, Because the rule of morality is much more 
 certain than that of faith, all the ciWlized nations of 
 the world agreeing in the great points of morality, as 
 much as they differ in those of faith. 
 
 Fifthly, Because infidelity is not of so malignant a 
 natiu-e as immoraUty ; or, to put the same reason in 
 another hght, because it is generally owned, there 
 may be salvation for a virtuous infidel (particularly 
 in the case of invincible ignorance), but none for a 
 vicious believer. 
 
 Sixthly, Because faith seems to draw its principal, 
 if not all its excellency, from the influence it has 
 upon morality" ; as we shall see more at large, if we 
 consider wherein consists the excellency of faith, or 
 the belief of revealed rehgion ; and this, I think, is, 
 
 First, In explaining and carrying to greater heights 
 several points of morahty. 
 
 Secondly, In fiunishing new and stronger motives 
 to enforce the practice of morality. 
 
 Thirdly, In giving us more amiable ideas of the 
 Supreme Being, more endearing notions of one an- 
 other, and a truer state of ourselves, both in regard 
 to the grandeur and vileness of our natures. 
 
 Fourthly, By showing us the blackness and de- 
 
No. 459-] THE SPECTATOR. 355 
 
 formity of vice, which in the Christian system is so 
 very great, that he who is possessed of all perfection, 
 and the sovereign judge of it, is represented by 
 several of our divines as hating sin to the same de- 
 gree that he loves the sacred person who was made 
 the propitiation of it. 
 
 Fifthly, In being the ordinary and prescribed 
 method of making morality effectual to salvation. 
 
 I have only touched on these several heads, which 
 every one who is conversant in discourses of this nat- 
 ure will easily enlarge upon in his own thoughts, and 
 draw conclusions from them which may be useful to 
 him in the conduct of his life. One I am sure is so 
 obvious, that he cannot miss it, namely, that a man 
 cannot be perfect in his scheme of morality, who does 
 not strengthen and support it with that of the Chris- 
 tian faith. 
 
 Beside this, I shall lay down two or three other 
 maxims, which, I think, we may deduce from what 
 has been said : 
 
 First, That we should be particularly cautious of 
 making anything an article of faith, which does not 
 contribute to the confirmation or improvement of 
 morality. 
 
 Secondly, That no article of faith can be true and 
 authentic, which weakens or subverts the practical 
 part of religion, or what I have hitherto called mo- 
 rality. 
 
 Thirdly, That the greatest friend of morality and 
 natural religion cannot possibly apprehend any danger 
 from embracing Christianity, as it is preserved pure 
 and uncoiTupt in the doctrines of our national church.* 
 
 There is likewise another maxim which I think 
 may be drawn from the foregoing considerations, 
 
 * The Gospel. 
 
356 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 459. 
 
 which is this ; that we should, in all dubious points, 
 consider any ill consequences that may arise from 
 them, supposing they should be erroneous, before we 
 give up our assent to them. 
 
 For example, in that disputable point of per- 
 secuting men for conscience sake, beside the im- 
 bittering their minds with hatred, indignation, and 
 all the vehemence of resentment, and insnaring 
 them to profess what they do not believe we cut 
 them off from the pleasmxs and advantages of so- 
 ciety, afflict their bodies, distress their fortures, hurt 
 their reputations, ruin their famihes. make their 
 hves painful, or put an end to them. Sure when 
 I see such dreadful consequences rising from a 
 principle, I would be as fully convinced of the truth 
 of it, as of a mathematical demonstration, before I 
 would venture to act upon it, or make it a part of my 
 rehgion. 
 
 In this case the injur}' done our neighbor is plain 
 and e\'ident : the principle that puts us upon doing it, 
 of a dubious and disputable nature. Morahty seems 
 highly violated by the one : and whether or no a zeal 
 for what a man thinks the true system of faith may 
 justify it, is ver}' uncenain. I cannot but think, if 
 our rehgion produces charit}^ as well as zeal, it will 
 not be for showing itself bv such cruel instances. 
 But to conclude with the words of an excellent 
 author, '* We have just enough of rehgion to make 
 us hate, but not enough to make us love, one an- 
 other."— C. 
 
No. 463.1 THE SPECTATOR, 357 
 
 No. 463.] Thursday, August 21, 171 2. 
 
 Omnia quae sensu volvuntur vota diurno, 
 
 Pectore sopito reddit arnica quies. 
 Venator defessa toro cum membra reponit, 
 
 Mens tamen ad sylvas et sua lustra redit: 
 Judicibus lites, aurigis somnia currus, 
 
 Vanaque nocturnis meta cavetur equis. 
 Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti 
 
 Artibus assuetis sollicitare solet. — Claud. 
 
 In sleep, when fancy is let loose to play, . 
 
 Our dreams repeat the wishes of the day. 
 
 Though farther toil his tired limbs refuse, 
 
 The dreaming hunter still the chase pursues. 
 
 The judge abed dispenses still the laws, 
 
 And sleeps again o er the unfinished cause. 
 
 The dozing racer hears his chariot roll, 
 
 Smacks the vain whip, and shuns the fancied goal. 
 
 Me too the Muses, in the silent night. 
 
 With wonted chimes of jingling verse delight. 
 
 I WAS lately entertaining myself with comparing 
 Homer's balance, in which Jupiter is represented as 
 weighing the fates of Hector and Achilles, with a 
 passage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as 
 weighing the fates of Turnus and yEneas. I then 
 considered how the same way of thinking prevailed 
 in the eastern parts of the world, as in those noble 
 passages of Scripture, wherein we are told, that the 
 great king of Babylon, the day before his death, had 
 been ^^ weighed in the balance, and found wanting." 
 In other places of the holy writings, the Almighty is 
 described as weighing the mountains in scales, mak- 
 ing the weight for the winds, knowing the balancings 
 of the clouds ; and in others as weighing the actions 
 of men, and laying their calamities together in a bal- 
 ance. Milton, as I have observed in a former paper, 
 had an eye to several of these foregoing instances in 
 that beautiful description, wherein he represents the 
 archangel and the evil spirit as addressing themselves 
 for the combat, but parted by the balance which ap- 
 
358 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 463. 
 
 peared in the heavens, and weighed the consequences 
 of such a battle. 
 
 The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray. 
 Hung forth in heav'n his golden scales, yet seen 
 Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign ; 
 Wherein all things created first he weigh'd. 
 The pendulous round earth, with balanced air. 
 In counterpoise, now ponders all events, 
 Battles and realms ; in these he put two weights, 
 The sequel ^ich of parting and of fight. 
 The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam ; 
 Which Gabriel spying, thus bespoke the fiend : 
 
 ** Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine; 
 Neither our own, but giv'n. \Miat folly then 
 To boast what arms can do, since thine no more 
 Than heaven p)ermits ; nor mine, though doubled now 
 To trample thee as mire I For proof look up. 
 And read thy lot in yon celestial sign. 
 
 Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak. 
 If thou resist.*' The fiend looked up, and knew 
 His mounted scale aloft ; nor more ; but fled 
 Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night. 
 
 These several amusing thoughts, having taken 
 possession of my mind some time before I went to 
 sleep, and mingling themselves with my ordinary 
 ideas, raised in my imagination a very odd kind of 
 A^ision. I was. methought, replaced in my study, and 
 seated in my elbow-chair, where I had indulged the 
 foregoing speculations with my lamp burning by me 
 as usual. While I was here meditating on several 
 subjects of moraht}', and considering the nature of 
 many \'irtues and ^-ices, as materials for those dis- 
 courses with which I daily entenain the pubhc, I 
 saw, methought, a pair of golden scales hanging by a 
 chain of the same metal, over the table that stood be- 
 fore me ; when, on a sudden, there were great heaps 
 of weights thrown down on each side of them. I 
 found, upon examining these weights, they showed 
 
No. 463.] THE SPECTATOR, 359 
 
 the value of everything that is in esteem among men. 
 I made an essay of them, by putting the weight of 
 wisdom in one scale, and that of riches in another : 
 upon which the latter, to show its comparative light- 
 ness, immediately flew up and kicked the beam. 
 
 But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, 
 that these weights did not exert their natural gravity 
 till they were laid in the golden balance, insomuch 
 that I could not guess which was light or heavy while 
 I held them in my hand. This I found by several in- 
 stances : for upon my laying a weight in one of the 
 scales, which was inscribed with the word '' Eternity," 
 though I threw in that of Time, Prosperity, Affliction, 
 Wealth, Poverty, Interest, Success, with many other 
 weights which in my hand seemed very ponderous, 
 they were not able to stir the opposite balance ; nor 
 could they have prevailed, though assisted with the 
 weight of the Sun, the Stars, and the Earth. 
 
 Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and 
 honors, with Pomps, Triumphs, and many weights of 
 the like nature, in one of them ; and seeing a little 
 glittering weight lie by me, I threw it accidentally 
 into the other scale, when, to my great surprise, it 
 proved so exact a counterpoise, that it kept the bal- 
 ance in an equilibrium. This little glittering weight 
 was inscribed upon the edges of it with the word 
 ^' Vanity." I found there were several other weights 
 which were equally heavy, and exact counterpoise to 
 one another: a few of them I tried, as Avarice and 
 Poverty, Riches and Content, with some others. 
 
 There were likewise several weights that were of 
 the same figure, and seemed to correspond with each 
 other, but were entirely different when thrown into 
 the scales ; as Religion and Hypocrisy, Pedantry and 
 Learning, Wit and Vivacity, Superstition and Devo- 
 tion, Gravity and Wisdom, with many others. 
 
6o THE SPECTATOR, [No. 463. 
 
 I observed one particular weight lettered on both 
 sides : and, upon applying myself to the reading of 
 it, I found on one side TVTitten, '* In the dialect of 
 men," and underneath it, " Calamities ; " on the other 
 side was written, '* In the language of the gods," and 
 underneath. '' Blessings." I found the intrinsic value 
 of this weight to be much greater than I imagined, 
 for it overpowered Health, Wealth, Good-fortune, 
 and many other vreights, which were much more 
 ponderous in my hand than the other. 
 
 There is a saying among the Scotch, that an ounce 
 of mother-wit is worth a pound of clergy : I was sen- 
 sible of the truth of this saying, when I saw the dif- 
 ference between the weight of Xatiu-al Parts and that 
 of Learning. The obsen-ations which I made upon 
 these two weights opened to me a new field of dis- 
 coveries ; for, notwithstanding the weight of the Nat- 
 ural Parts was much heavier than that of Learning. I 
 observed that it weighed a hundred times heavier 
 than it did before, when I put Learning into the 
 same scale with it. I made the same obser^'ation 
 upon Faith and Morality ; for, notwithstanding the 
 latter outweighed the former separately, it received a 
 thousand times more additional weight from its con- 
 junction with the former, than what it had by itself. 
 This odd phenomenon showed itself in other particu- 
 lars, as in Wit and Judgment, Philosophy and Rehg- 
 ion, Justice and Humanity, Zeal and Charity, depth 
 of Sense and perspicuity of Style, with innumerable 
 other particulars too long to be mentioned in this 
 paper. 
 
 As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with 
 impertinence, mirth with gravity, methought I made 
 several other experiments of a more ludicrous nature, 
 by one of which I found that an English octavo was 
 ven' often heavier than a French folio ; and, bv an- 
 
No. 463.] THE SPECTATOR, 361 
 
 Other, that an old Greek or Latin author weighed 
 down a whole library of moderns. Seeing one of the 
 Spectators lying by me, I had it into one of the scales, 
 and flung a two-penny piece into the other. The 
 reader will not inquire into the event, if he remem- 
 bers the first trial which I have recorded in this paper. 
 I afterward threw both the sexes into the balance : 
 but, as it is not for my interest to disobhge either of 
 them, I shall desire to be excused from teUing the 
 result of this experiment. Having an opportunity of 
 this nature in my hands, I could not forbear throw- 
 ing into one scale the principles of a Tory, and into 
 the other those of a Whig ; but, as I have all along 
 declared this to be a neutral paper, I shall likewise 
 desire to be silent under this head also ; though, upon 
 examining one of the weights I saw the word '' tekel " 
 engraven on it in capital letters. 
 
 I made many other experiments ; and, though I 
 have not room for them all in this day's specula- 
 tion, I may perhaps reserve them for another. I 
 shall only add, that, upon my awaking, I was sorry 
 to find my golden scales vanished ; but resolved for 
 the future to learn this lesson from them, not to de- 
 spise or value any things for their appearances, but 
 to regulate my esteem and passions toward them ac- 
 cording to their real and intrinsic value. — C. 
 
3^2 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 464. 
 
 No. 464.] Friday, August 22, 1712. 
 
 Auream quisquis mediocritatem 
 Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti 
 Sordibus tecti. caret invidenda 
 
 Sobrius aula. — Hor. 2 Od. x, 5. 
 
 The golden mean, as she's too nice to dwell 
 
 Among the ruins of a filthy cell. 
 
 So is her modesty withal as grreat, 
 
 To balk the envy of a princely seat. — Nokris. 
 
 r 
 
 I AM wonderfully pleased when I meet with any 
 passage in an old Greek and Latin author that is 
 not blown upon, and which I have never met with in 
 a quotation. Of this kind is a beautiful saying in 
 Theognis : " Vice is covered by wealth, and \'irtue 
 by poverty ; " or, to ^\^ it in the verbal translation, 
 *' Among men there are some who have their vices 
 concealed by wealth, and others who have their vir- 
 tues concealed by poverty." Ever}' man's obser\'a- 
 tion will supply him with instances of rich men, who 
 have several faults and defects that are overlooked, 
 if not entirely hidden, by means of their riches ; and, 
 I think, we cannot find a more natural description of 
 a poor man, whose merits are lost in his poverty, 
 than that in the words of the wise man : *' There was 
 a little city, and few men within it, and there came a 
 great king against it, and besieged it, and built great 
 bulwarks against it. Now there was found in it a 
 poor wise man, and he, by his wisdom, delivered the 
 citv ; vet no man remembered that same poor man. 
 Then said I, wisdom is better than strength ; never- 
 theless, the poor man's wisdom is despised, and his 
 words are not heard." 
 
 The middle condition seems to be the most advan- 
 tageously situated for the gaining of wisdom. Pov- 
 erty turns our thoughts too much upon the supplying 
 of our wants, and riches upon enjoying our superflui- 
 
No. 464.] THE SPECTATOR, 363 
 
 ties ; and, as Cowley has said in another case, '^ It is 
 hard for a man to keep a steady eye upon truth, who 
 is always in a battle or a triumph." 
 
 If we regard poverty and wealth, as they are apt 
 to produce virtues or vices in the mind of man, one 
 may observe that there is a set of each of these grow- 
 ing out of poverty, quite different from that which 
 rises out of wealth. Humihty and patience, industry 
 and temperance, are very often the good quaHties of 
 a poor man. Humanity and good-nature, magna- 
 nimity and a sense of honor, are as often the qualifi- 
 cations of the rich. On the contrary, poverty is apt 
 to betray a man into envy, riches into arrogance. 
 Poverty is too often attended with fraud, vicious 
 compliance, repining, murmur, and discontent ; riches 
 expose a man to pride and luxury, a foolish elation 
 of heart, and too great a fondness for the present 
 world. In short, the middle condition is most eligi- 
 ble to the man who would improve himself in virtue ; 
 as I have before shown, it is the most advantageous 
 for the gaining of knowledge. It was upon this con- 
 sideration that Agur founded his prayer, which, for 
 the wisdom of it, is recorded in holy writ. ^' Two 
 things have I required of thee ; deny me them not 
 before I die. Remove far from me vanity and lies ; 
 give me neither poverty nor riches ; feed me with 
 food convenient for me : lest I be full and deny thee, 
 and say. Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor and 
 steal, and take the name of my God in vain." 
 
 I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a 
 very pretty allegory, which is wrought into a play by 
 Aristophanes, the Greek comedian. It seems origi- 
 nally designed as a satire upon the rich, though, in 
 some parts of it, it is, like the foregoing discourse, a 
 kind of comparison between wealth and poverty. 
 
 Chremylus, who was an old and a good man, and 
 
364 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 464. 
 
 withal exceeding poor, being desirous to leave some 
 riches to his son, consults the oracle of Apollo upon 
 the subject. The oracle bids him follow the first man 
 he should see upon his going out of the temple. The 
 person he chanced to see was to appearance an old, 
 blind, sordid man, but, upon his following him from 
 place to place, he at last found, by his own confes- 
 sion, that he was Plutus, the god of riches, and that 
 he was just come out of the house of a miser. Plu- 
 tus further told him, that when he was a boy, he used 
 to declare, that as soon as he came to age he would 
 distribute wealth to no one but virtuous and just men ; 
 upon which Jupiter, considering the pernicious conse- 
 quences of such a resolution, took his sight away from 
 him, and left him to stroll about the world in the blind 
 condition wherein Chremylus beheld him. With 
 much ado Chremylus prevailed upon him to go to his 
 house, where he met an old woman in a tattered rai- 
 ment, who had been his guest for many years, and 
 whose name was Poverty. The old woman refusing 
 to turn out so easily as he would have her, he threat- 
 ened to banish her not only from his own house, but 
 out of all Greece, if she made any more words upon 
 the matter. Poverty on this occasion pleads her 
 cause very notably, and represents to her landlord, 
 that, should she be driven out of the country, all their 
 trades, arts, and sciences, would be driven out with 
 her ; and that if every one was rich, they would never 
 be suppHed with those pomps, ornaments, and con- 
 veniences of life, which made riches desirable. She 
 likewise represented to him the several advantages 
 which she bestowed upon her votaries in regard to 
 their shape, their health, and their activity, by pre- 
 serving them from gouts, dropsies, unwieldiness, and 
 intemperance. But whatever she had to say for her- 
 self, she was at last forced to troop off. Chremylus 
 
No. 476.] THE SPECTATOR, 365 
 
 immediately considered how he might restore Plutus 
 to his sight ; and. in order to it, conveyed him to the 
 temple of ^sculapius, who was famous for cures and 
 miracles of this nature. By this means, the deity re- 
 covered his eyes, and began to make a right use of 
 them, by enriching every one that was distinguished 
 by piety toward the gods, and justice toward men ; 
 and at the same time by taking away his gifts from 
 the impious and undeserving. This produces several 
 merry incidents, till in the last act Mercury descends 
 with great complaints from the gods, that since the 
 good men were grown rich, they had received no 
 sacrifices ; which is confirmed by a priest of Jupiter, 
 who enters with a remonstrance, that since this late 
 innovation he was reduced to a starving condition, 
 and could not live upon his office. Chremylus, who 
 in the beginning of the play was religious in his pov- 
 erty, concludes it w^ith a proposal, which was relished 
 by all the good men who were now grown rich as 
 well as himself, that they should carry Plutus in a 
 solemn procession to the temple, and install him in 
 the place of Jupiter. This allegory instructed the 
 Athenians in two points ; first, as it vindicated the 
 conduct of Providence in its ordinary distributions of 
 wealth ; and in the next place, as it showed the great 
 tendency of riches to corrupt the morals of those w^ho 
 possessed them. — C. 
 
 No. 476.] Friday, September 5, 171 2. 
 
 Lucidus ordo. — Hor. Ars. Poet. 41. 
 
 Method gives light. 
 
 Among my daily papers which I bestow on the 
 public, there are some which are written with regu- 
 
366 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 476. 
 
 larity and method, and others that run out into the 
 wildness of those compositions which go by the name 
 of essays. As for the first, I have the whole scheme 
 of the discourse in my mind before I set my pen to 
 paper. In the other kind of ^\Titing, it is sufficient 
 that I have several thoughts on a subject, without 
 troubhng myself to range them in such order, that 
 they may seem to grow out of one another, and be 
 disposed under the proper heads. Seneca and Mon- 
 taigne are patterns for writing in this last kind, as 
 Tully and Aristotle excel in the other. When I read 
 an author of genius who wTites without method, I 
 fancy myself in a wood that aboimds with a great 
 many noble objects, rising among one another in the 
 greatest confusion and disorder. When I read a 
 methodical discourse. I am in a regular plantation, 
 and can place myself in its several centers, so as to 
 take a view of all the lines and walks that are struck 
 from them. You may ramble in the one a whole 
 day together, and every moment discover something 
 or other that is new to you ; but when you have done, 
 you will have but a confused imperfect notion of the 
 place : in the other your eye commands the whole 
 prospect, and gives you such an idea of it as is not 
 easily worn out of the memor\\ 
 
 Irregularity and want of method are only support- 
 able in men of great learning or genius, who are often 
 too full to be exact, and therefore choose to throw 
 down their pearls in heaps before the reader, rather 
 than be at the pains of stringing them. 
 
 Method is of advantage to a work, both in respect 
 to the wTiter and the reader. In regard to the first, 
 it is a great help to his invention. When a man has 
 planned his discoiu-se, he finds a great many thoughts 
 rising out of every head, that do not offer themselves 
 upon the general sun^ey of a subject. His thoughts 
 
No. 476.] THE SPECTATOR. 367 
 
 are at the same time more intelligible, and better dis- 
 cover their drift and meaning, when they are placed 
 in their proper lights and follow one another in a 
 regular series, than when they are thrown together 
 without order and connection. There is always an 
 obscurity in confusion ; and the same sentence that 
 would have enhghtened the reader in one part of a 
 discourse, perplexes him in another. For the same 
 reason, likewise, every thought in a methodical dis- 
 course shows itself in its greatest beauty, as the sev- 
 eral figures in a piece of painting receive new grace 
 from their disposition in the picture. The advan- 
 tages of a reader from a methodical discourse are cor- 
 respondent with those of the writer. He compre- 
 hends everything easily, takes it in with pleasure, and 
 retains it long. 
 
 Method is not less requisite in ordinary conversa- 
 tion than in writing, provided a man would talk to 
 make himself understood. I who hear a thousand 
 coffee-house debates every day, am very sensible of 
 this want of method in the thoughts of my honest 
 countrymen. There is not one dispute in ten which 
 is managed in those schools of politics, where, after 
 the three first sentences, the question is not entirely 
 lost. Our disputants put me in mind of the cuttle- 
 fish, that when he is unable to extricate himself, 
 blackens all the water about him until he becomes 
 invisible. The man who does not know how to 
 methodize his thoughts, has always, to borrow a 
 phrase from the Dispensary, '' a barren superfluity of 
 words ; " the fruit is lost amidst the exuberance of 
 leaves. 
 
 Tom Puzzle is one of the most eminent imme- 
 thodical disputants of any that has fallen under my 
 observation. Tom has read enough to make him 
 very impertinent : his knowedge is sufficient to raise 
 
368 THE SPECTA TOR. [Xo. 476. 
 
 doubts, but not to clear them. It is pity that he has 
 so much learning, or that he has not a great deal 
 more. With these qualifications, Tom sets up for a 
 freethinker, finds a great many things to blame in the 
 constitution of his country, and gives shrewd intim.a- 
 tions that he does not believe in another world. In 
 short, Puzzle is an atheist as much as his parts will 
 give him leave. He has got about half a dozen 
 common-place topics, into which he never fails to 
 turn the conversation, whatever was the occasion of it. 
 Though the matter in debate be about Douay or 
 Denain, it is ten to one but hah his discourse runs 
 upon the imreasonableness of bigotry and priestcraft. 
 This makes Mr. Puzzle the admiration of all those 
 who have less sense than himself, and the contempt 
 of all those who have more. There is none in town 
 whom Tom dreads so much as my friend Will Dr}\ 
 Will, who is acquainted with Tom's logic, when he 
 finds him running off the question, cuts him short 
 with a "What then? We allow all this to be true; 
 but what is it to our present purpose?" I have 
 kno^vn Tom eloquent half an hour together, and tri- 
 mnphing, as he thought, in the superiority of the ar- 
 gument, when he has been non-plused on a sudden 
 by Mr. Dry's desiring him to teU the company what 
 it was that he endeavored to prove. In short, Dry 
 is a man of clear methodical head, but few words, 
 and gains the same advantages over Puzzle, that a 
 small body of regular troops would gain over a num- 
 berless undiscipHned mihtia. 
 
No. 479.] THE SPECTATOR. 369 
 
 No. 479.] Tuesday, September 9, 1712. 
 
 Dare jura maritis. — Hor. Ars. Poet. 398. 
 
 To regulate the matrimonial life. 
 
 Many are the epistles I every day receive from 
 husbands Vv'ho complain of vanity, pride, but, above 
 all, ill-nature in their wives. I cannot tell how it is, 
 but I think I see in all their letters that the cause of 
 their uneasiness is in themselves ; and indeed I have 
 hardly ever observed the married condition unhappy, 
 but from want of judgment or temper in the man. 
 The truth is, we generally make love in a style and 
 with sentiments very unfit for ordinary Hfe : they are 
 half theatrical, half romantic. By this means, we raise 
 our imaginations to what is not to be expected in 
 human life ; and because we did not beforehand think 
 of the creature we are enamoured of, as subject to dis- 
 humor, age, sickness, impatience, or sullenness, but 
 altogether considered her as the object of joy ; hu- 
 man nature itself is often imputed to her as her par- 
 ticular imperfection, or defect. 
 
 I take it to be a rule, proper to be observed in all oc- 
 currences of life, but more especially in the domestic, 
 or matrimonial part of it, to preserve always a dispo- 
 sition to be pleased. This cannot be supported but by 
 considering things in their right light, and as nature 
 has formed them, and not as our. own fancies or appe- 
 tites would have them. * * * But the man who 
 brings his reason to support his passion, and beholds 
 what he loves, as liable to all the calamities of human 
 life, both in body and mind, and even at the best 
 what must bring upon him new cares and new rela- 
 tions ; such a lover, I say, will form himself accord- 
 ingly, and adapt his mind to the nature of his circum- 
 
370 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 479. 
 
 Stances. This latter person will be prepared to be a 
 father, a friend, an advocate, a steward for people 
 yet unborn, and has proper affections ready for every 
 incident in the marriage state. Such a man can hear 
 the cries of children ^^th pity instead of anger : and, 
 when they run over his head, he is not disturbed at 
 their noise, but is glad of their mirth and health. 
 Tom Trusty has told me, that he thinks it doubles his 
 attention to the most intricate affair he is about, to 
 hear his children, for whom all his cares are ap- 
 plied, make a noise in the next room : on the other 
 side, Will Sparkish cannot put on his periwig, or ad- 
 just his cravat at the glass, for the noise of those 
 damned nurses and squalling brats ; and then ends 
 with a gallant reflection upon the comforts of matri- 
 mony, runs out of the hearing, and drives to the 
 chocolate-house. 
 
 According as the husband has disposed m himself, 
 ever}" circimistance in his life is to give him torment 
 or pleasure. When the affection is well placed, and 
 is supported by the considerations of duty, honor, 
 and friendship, which are in the highest degree en- 
 gaged in this alliance, there can nothing rise in the 
 common course of life, or from the blows or favors 
 of fortune, in which a man will not find matters of 
 some delight unknown to a single condition. 
 
 He that sincerely loves his wife and family, and 
 studies to improve that affection in himself, conceives 
 pleasure from the most indifferent things ; while the 
 married man who has not bid adieu to the fashions 
 and false gallantries of the town, is perplexed with 
 eveiy thing around him. In both these cases men 
 cannot, indeed, make a sillier figtue, than in repeating 
 such pleasures and pains to the rest of the world : 
 but I speak of them only as they sit upon those who 
 are involved in them. As I \-isit all sorts of people, 
 
No. 479-] THE SPECTATOR, 371 
 
 I cannot indeed but smile, when the good lady tells 
 her husband what extraordinary things the child 
 spoke since he went out. No longer than yesterday 
 I was prevailed with to go home with a fond hus- 
 band ; and his wife told him, that his son, of his own 
 head, when the clock in the parlor struck two. said 
 papa would come home to dinner presently. While 
 the father has him in a rapture in his arms, and is 
 drowning him with kisses, the wife tells me he is but 
 just four years old. Then they both struggle for him, 
 and bring him up to me, and repeat his observation 
 of two o'clock. I was called upon, by looks upon 
 the child, and then at me, to say something : and I 
 told the father that this remark of the infant of his 
 coming home, and joining the time with it, was a cer- 
 tain indication that he would be a great historian and 
 chronologer. They are neither of them fools, yet re- 
 ceived my compliment with great acknowledgment 
 of my prescience. I fared very well at dinner, and 
 heard many other notable sayings of their heir, w^hich 
 would have given very little entertainment to one less 
 turned to reflection than I was : but it was a pleasing 
 speculation to remark on the happiness of a life, in 
 which things of no moment give occasion of hope, 
 self-satisfaction, and triumph. On the other hand, 
 I have known an ill-natured coxcomb, who has hardly 
 improved in anything but bulk, for want of this dispo- 
 sition, silence the whole family as a set of silly women 
 and children, for recounting things which were really 
 above his own capacity. 
 
 When I say all this, I cannot deny but there are 
 perverse jades that fall to men's lots, with whom it 
 requires more than common proficiency in philosophy 
 to be able to live. When these are joined to men of 
 warm spirits, without temper or learning, they are 
 frequently corrected with stripes ; but one of our fa- 
 
372 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 479. 
 
 mous lawyers * is of opinion that this ought to be used 
 sparingly ; as I remember, those are his very words ; 
 but as it is proper to draw some spiritual use out of 
 all afflictions, I should rather recommend to those 
 who are visited with women of spirit, to form them- 
 selves for the world by patience at home. Socrates, 
 who is by all accounts the undoubted head of the 
 sect of the henpecked, owned and acknowledged that 
 he owed great part of his virtue to the exercise which 
 his useful wife constantly gave it. There are several 
 good instructions may be drawn from his wise an- 
 swers to the people of less fortitude than himself on 
 her subject. A friend, with indignation, asked how 
 so good a man could live with so violent a creature? 
 He observed to him, that they who learn to keep a 
 good seat on horseback, mount the least manageable 
 they can get ; and, when they have mastered them, 
 they are sure never to be discomposed on the backs 
 of steeds less restive. At several times, to different 
 persons, on the same subject, he has said, '' My dear 
 friend, you are beholden to Xantippe, that I bear so 
 well your flying out in a dispute." To another, '' ]\Iy 
 hen clacks very much, but she brings me chickens. 
 They that live in a trading street are not disturbed at 
 the passage of carts." I would have, if possible, a 
 wise man be contented with his lot, even with a 
 shrew; for, though he cannot make her better, he 
 may, you see, make himself better by her means. 
 
 But, instead of pursuing my design of displaying 
 conjugal love in its natural beauties and attractions, 
 I am got into tales to the disadvantage of that state 
 of life. I must say, therefore, that I am verily per- 
 suaded, that whatever is delightful in human life is to 
 be enjoyed in greater perfection in the mamed than 
 
 * Bracton. 
 
No. 483.] THE SPECTATOR, 373 
 
 in the single condition. He that has this passion in 
 perfection, in occasions of joy, can say to himself, 
 beside his own satisfaction, ''How happy will this 
 make my wife and children ! " Upon occurrences of 
 distress or danger, can comfort himself, '' But all this 
 while my wife and children are safe." There is some- 
 thing in it that doubles satisfactions, because others 
 participate them ; and dispels afflictions because 
 others are exempt from them. All who are married 
 without this relish of their circumstance are in either 
 a tasteless indolence and neghgence which is hardly 
 to be attained, or else live in the hoiu-ly repetition of 
 sharp answers, eager upbraidings, and distracting re- 
 proaches. In a word, the married state, with and 
 without the affection suitable to it, is the completest 
 image of heaven and hell we are capable of receiving 
 in this life.— T. 
 
 No. 483.] Saturday, September 13, 1712. 
 
 Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 Incident Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 191. 
 
 Never presume to make a god appear, 
 
 But for a business worthy of a god. — Roscommon. 
 
 We cannot be guilty of a greater act of uncharita- 
 bleness than to interpret the afflictions which befall 
 our neighbors as punishments and judgments. It ag- 
 gravates the evil to him who suffers, when he looks 
 upon himself as the mark of Divine vengeance, and 
 abates the compassion of those toward him who re- 
 gard him in so dreadful a light. This humor, of turn- 
 ing every misfortune into a judgment, proceeds from 
 wrong notions of rehgion, which in its own nature 
 produces good-will toward men, and puts the mildest 
 construction upon every accident that befalls them: 
 
374 THE SPECTATOR, [Na 483. 
 
 In this case, therefore, it is not religion that sours a 
 man's temper, but it is his temper that sours his re- 
 Hgion. People of gloomy, uncheerful imaginations, 
 or of envious mahgnant tempers, whatever kind of 
 hfe they are engaged in, will discover their natural 
 tincture of mind in all their thoughts, words, and 
 actions. As the finest wines have often the taste of 
 the soil, so even the most religious thoughts often 
 draw something that is particular from the constitu- 
 tion of the mind in which they arise. When folly or 
 superstition strike in with this natural depravity of 
 temper, it is not in the power even of religion itself, 
 to preserve the character of the person who is pos- 
 sessed with it from appearing highly absurd and ridic- 
 ulous. 
 
 An old maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall con- 
 ceal under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest dis- 
 coverer of judgments that I have met with. She can 
 tell you what sin it was that set such a man's house 
 on fire, or blew down his barns. Talk to her of an 
 unfortunate young lady that lost her beauty by the 
 small-pox, she fetches a deep sigh, and tells you, that 
 when she had a fine face she was always looking on 
 it in her glass. Tell her of a piece of good fortune 
 that has befallen one of her acquaintance, and she 
 wishes it may prosper with her, but her mother used 
 one of her nieces very barbarously. Her usual remarks 
 turn upon people who had great estates, but never 
 enjoyed them by reason of some flaw in their own or 
 their father's behavior. She can give you the reason 
 why such a one died childless ; why such a one was 
 cut off in the flower of his youth ; why such a one 
 was unhappy in her marriage ; why one broke his leg 
 on such a particular spot of ground ; and why another 
 was killed with a back-sword, rather than with any 
 other kind of weapon. She has a crime for every 
 
No. 483.] THE SPECTATOR, 375 
 
 misfortune that can befall any of her acquaintance ; 
 and when she hears of a robbery that has been made, 
 or a murder that has been committed, enlarges more 
 on the guilt of the suffering person, than on that of 
 the thief, or the assassin. In short, she is so good 
 a Christian, that whatever happens to herself is a trial, 
 and whatever happens to her neighbors is a judgment. 
 The very description of this folly, in ordinary life, 
 is sufficient to expose it ; but, when it appears in a 
 pomp and dignity of style, it is very apt to amuse and 
 terrify the mind of the reader. Herodotus and Plu- 
 tarch very often apply their judgments as imperti- 
 nently as the old woman I have before mentioned, 
 though their manner of relating them makes the folly 
 itself appear venerable. Indeed, most historians, as 
 well Christian as Pagan, have fallen into this idle su- 
 perstition, and spoken of ill success, unforeseen dis- 
 asters, and terrible events, as if they had been let into 
 the secrets of Providence, and made acquainted with 
 that private conduct by which the world is governed. 
 One would think several of our own historians in par- 
 ticular had many revelations of this kind made to 
 them. Our old English monks seldom let any of 
 their kings depart in peace, who had endeavored to 
 diminish the power or wealth of which the ecclesias- 
 tics were in those times possessed. WiUiam the Con- 
 queror's race generally found their judgments in the 
 New Forest, where their father had pulled down 
 churches and monasteries. In short, read one of the 
 chronicles written by an author of this frame of mind, 
 and you would think you were reading a history of 
 the kings of Israel or Judah, where the historians were 
 actually inspired, and where, by a particular scheme 
 of Providence, the kings were distinguished by judg- 
 ments, or blessings, according as they promoted idola- 
 try, or the worship of the true God. 
 
376 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 483. 
 
 I cannot but look upon this manner of judging 
 upon misfortunes, not only to be ver}' uncharitable in 
 regard to the person on whom they fall, but very pre- 
 sumptuous in regard to him who is supposed to inflict 
 them. It is a strong argument for a state of retribu- 
 tion hereafter, that in this world viitMOus persons are 
 very often unfortunate, and vicious persons prosper- 
 ous ; which is wholly repugnant to the nature of a 
 Being who appears infinitely wise and good in all his 
 works, unless we may suppose that such a promiscu- 
 ous and undistinguishing distribution of good and 
 evil, which was necessar}- for carr}'ing on the designs 
 of Pro\'idence in this life, T\'ill be rectified, and made 
 amends for, in another. We are not therefore to ex- 
 pect that fire should fall from heaven in the ordinary 
 course of Providence ; nor, when we see triumphant 
 guilt .or depressed virtue in particular persons, that 
 Omnipotence will make bare his holy arm in the de- 
 fense of the one, or punishment of the other. It is 
 sufiicient that there is a day set apart for the hearing 
 and requiting of both, according to their respective 
 merits. 
 
 The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to any 
 particular crimes, may appear from several considera- 
 tions. I shall pnly mention two. First, that, gener- 
 ally speaking, there is no calamity or affliction, which 
 is supposed to have happened as a judgment to a 
 \acious man, which does not sometimes happen to 
 men of approved rehgion and virtue. When Diag- 
 oras the atheist was on board one of the Athenian 
 ships, there arose a very violent tempest ; upon which, 
 the mariners told him, that it was a just judgment 
 upon them for having taken so impious a man on 
 board. Diagoras begged them to look upon the rest 
 of the ships that were in the same distress, and asked 
 them whether or no Diagoras was on board every 
 
No. 483.] THE SPECTATOR, 377 
 
 vessel in the fleet. We are all involved in the same 
 calamities, and subject to the same accidents ; and 
 when we see any one of the species under any par- 
 ticular oppression, we should look upon it as arising 
 from the common lot of human nature, rather than 
 from the guilt of the person who suffers. 
 
 Another consideration, that may check our pre- 
 sumption in putting such a construction upon a mis- 
 fortune, is this ; that it is impossible for us to know 
 what are calamities and what are blessings. How 
 many accidents have passed for misfortunes, which 
 have tiu-ned to the welfare and prosperity of the per- 
 sons to whose lot they have fallen ! How many dis- 
 appointments have, in their consequences, saved a 
 man from ruin ! If we could look into the effects of 
 everything, we might be allowed to pronounce boldly 
 upon blessings and judgments ; but for a man to give 
 his opinion of what he sees but in part, and in its 
 beginnings, is an unjustifiable piece of rashness and 
 folly. The story of Biton and Clitobus, which was 
 in great reputation among the heathens (for w^e see 
 it quoted by all the ancient authors, both Greek and 
 Latin, who have written upon the immortality of the 
 soul), may teach us a caution in this matter. These 
 two brothers being the sons of a lady who was priest- 
 ess to Juno, drew their mother's chariot to the tem- 
 ple at the time of a great solemnity, the persons being 
 absent who, by their office, were to have drawn her 
 chariot on that occasion. The mother was so trans- 
 ported with this instance of filial duty, that she peti- 
 tioned her goddess to bestow upon them the greatest 
 gift that could be given to men ; upon which they 
 were both cast into a deep sleep, and the next morn- 
 ing found dead in the temple. This was such an 
 event as would have been construed into a judgment, 
 had it happened to the two brothers after an act of 
 
378 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 499. 
 
 i- ~ t :.i would doubtles- • f been repre- 
 
 Sr by any ancient in who had 
 given us an account of it. — O. 
 
 No. 499.] Thursday, October 2, 17 12. 
 
 r^KKS. Sat. i,40. 
 fir . — Dievum. 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb has told me, for above 
 this half-year, that he had a great mind to try his 
 hand at a Spectator, and that he would fain have one 
 of his writings in my works. This morning I received 
 from him the following letter, which, after having rec- 
 tified some Httle orthographical mistakes, I shall make 
 a present of to the pubUc : 
 
 " Dear Spec, 
 
 " I was about two nights ago in company with very 
 agreeable young people of both sexes, where, talking 
 of some of your papers which are written on conju- 
 gal love, there arose a dispute among ns, whether 
 there were not more bad husbands in the worid than 
 bad wives. A gendeman, who was advocate for the 
 ladies, took this occasion to tell us the story of a fa- 
 mous siege in Germany, which I have since found 
 related in my historical dictionary, after the following 
 manner : AMien the Emperor Conrade the Third had 
 besieged Guelphus, duke of >* Bavaria, in the city of 
 Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could 
 not possibly hold out long, petitioned the emperor 
 that they might depart out of it, with so much as each 
 of them could carry. The emperor, knowing that 
 
No. 499-] THE SPECTATOR, 379 
 
 they could not convey away many of their effects, 
 granted them their petition : when the women, to his 
 great sm'prise, came out of the place with every one 
 her husband upon her back. The emperor was so 
 moved with the sight, that he burst into tears ; and, 
 after having very much extolled the women for their 
 conjugal affection, gave the men to their wives, and 
 received the duke into his favor. 
 
 ''The ladies did not a little triumph at this story, 
 asking us at the same time, whether in our con- 
 sciences we believed that the men of any town in 
 Great Britain would, upon the same offer, and at the 
 same conjuncture, have laden themselves with their 
 wives ; or rather, whether they would not have been 
 glad of such an opportunity to get rid of them? To 
 this my very good friend, Toin Dapperwit, who took 
 upon him to be the mouth of our sex replied that they 
 would be very much to blame if they would not do 
 the same good office for the women, considering that 
 their strength would be greater and their burdens 
 lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with discourse 
 of this nature, in order to pass away the evening, 
 which now begins to grow tedious, we fell into that 
 laudable and primitive diversion of questions and com- 
 mands. I was no sooner vested with the regal au- 
 thority, but I enjoined all the ladies, under pain of 
 my displeasure, to tell the company ingenuously, in 
 case they had been in the siege above-mentioned, 
 and had the same offers made them as the good 
 women of that place, what every one of them would 
 have brought off with her, and have thought most 
 worth the saving? There were several meny an- 
 swers made to my question, which entertained us till 
 bed-time. This filled my mind with such a huddle 
 of ideas, that upon my going to sleep, I fell into the 
 following dream : 
 
38o THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 499, 
 
 '' I saw a town of this island, which shall be name- 
 less, invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so 
 straitened as to cry for quarter. The general refused 
 any other terms than those granted to the above-men- 
 tioned town of Hensberg, namely, that the married 
 women might come out with what they could bring 
 along with them. Immediately the city gates flew 
 open, and a female procession appeared, multitudes 
 of the sex following one another in a row, and stag- 
 gering under their respective burdens. I took my 
 stand upon an eminence in the enemy's camp, which 
 was appointed for the general rendezvous of these 
 female carriers, being very desirous to look into their 
 several ladings. The first of them had a huge sack 
 upon her shoulders, which she set down with great 
 care. Upon the opening of it, when I expected to 
 have seen her husband shot out of it, I found it was 
 filled with china-ware. The next appeared in a more 
 decent figure, carrying a handsome young fellow upon 
 her back : I could not forbear commending the young 
 woman for her conjugal affection, when, to my great 
 surprise, I found that she had left the good man at 
 home and brought away her gallant. I saw the third, 
 at some distance, with a httle withered face peeping 
 over her shoulder, whom I could not suspect for any 
 but her spouse, until, upon her setting him down, I 
 heard her call him dear pug, and found him to be her 
 favorite monkey. A fourth brought a huge bale of 
 cards along with her ; and the fifth a Bolonia lap- 
 dog ; for her husband, it seems, being a very burly 
 man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to 
 bring away little Cupid. The next was the wife of 
 a rich usurer, laden with a bag of gold ; she told us 
 that her spouse was very old, and by the course of 
 nature could not expect to live long ; and that to show 
 her tender regards for him, she had saved that which 
 
No. 499.] THE SPECTATOR, 381 
 
 the poor man loved better than his Hfe. The next 
 came toward us with her son upon her back, who, we 
 were told, was the greatest rake in the place, but so 
 much the mother's darling, that she left her husband 
 behind with a large family of hopeful sons and daugh- 
 ters, for the sake of this graceless youth. 
 
 " It would be endless to mention the several per- 
 sons, with their several loads, that appeared to me in 
 this strange vision. All the place about me was cov- 
 ered with packs of ribbons, brocades, embroidery, 
 and ten thousand other materials, sufficient to have 
 furnished a whole street of toy-shops. One of the 
 women, having a husband, who was none of the 
 heaviest, was bringing him off upon her shoulders, at 
 the same time that she carried a great bundle of Flan- 
 ders lace under her arm : but finding herself so over- 
 laden, that she could not save both of them, she 
 dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle. 
 In short, I found but one husband among this great 
 mountain of baggage, who was a lively cobbler, that 
 kicked and spurred all the while his wife was carrying 
 him on, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a day in 
 his life without giving her the discipline of the strap. 
 
 '' I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without 
 telling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I 
 saw, methought, a dozen women employed in bring- 
 ing off one man ; I could not guess who it should be, 
 until upon his nearer approach I discovered thy short 
 phiz. The women all declared that it was for the 
 sake of thy works, and not thy person, that they 
 brought thee off, and that it was on condition that 
 thou shouldst continue the Spectator. If thou think- 
 est this dream will make a tolerable one, it is at thy 
 service, from, dear Spec, 
 
 '^ Thine, sleeping and waking, 
 
 ''Will Honeycomb." 
 
THE SPECTATOR. [No. 
 
 DOD- 
 
 The ladies will see by this letter what I have often 
 told them, that Will is one of those old-fashioned men 
 of wit and pleasure of the town, that shows his parts 
 by raillery on marriage, and one who has often tried 
 his fortune that way without success. I cannot how- 
 ever dismiss his letter, without observing, that the true 
 story on which it is built does honor to the sex, and 
 that, in order to abuse them, the writer is obHged to 
 have recourse to dream and fiction. — O. 
 
 ^o- S3 5-] Thursday, November 13, 1712. 
 
 Spem longam reseces. Hor. i Od. xi, 7. 
 
 Cut short vain hope. 
 
 My four -hundred -and -seventy -first speculation 
 turned upon the subject of hope in general. I design 
 this paper as a speculation upon that vain and foohsh 
 hope, which is misemployed on temporal objects, and 
 produces many sorrows and calamities in human life. 
 
 It is a precept several times inculcated by Horace, 
 that we should not entertain a hope of anything in 
 life which hes at a great distance from us. The 
 shortness and uncertainty of our time here make such 
 a kind of hope unreasonable and absurd. The grave 
 lies unseen between us and the object which we reach 
 after. Where one man lives to enjoy the good he 
 has in view, ten thousand are cut off in the pursuit 
 of it. 
 
 It happens likewise unluckily, that one hope no 
 sooner dies in us but another rises up in its stead. 
 We are apt to fancy that we shall be happy and 
 satisfied if we possess ourselves of such and such 
 particular enjoyments; but either by reason of their 
 
^o. 535.] TII£ SPECTATOR, 383 
 
 emptiness, or the natural inquietude of the mind, we 
 have no sooner gained one point, but we extend our 
 hopes to another. We still find new inviting scenes 
 and landscapes lying behind those which at a dis- 
 tance terminated our view. 
 
 The natural consequences of such reflections are 
 these : that we should take care not to let our hopes run 
 out into too great a length ; that we should sufliciently 
 weigh the objects of our hope, whether they be such 
 as we may reasonably expect from them what we pro- 
 pose in their fruition, and whether they are such as 
 we are pretty sure of attaining, in case our life ex- 
 tend itself so far. If we hope for things which are 
 at too great a distance from us, it is possible that we 
 may be intercepted by death in our progress toward 
 them. If we hope for things of which we have not 
 thoroughly considered the value, our disappoint- 
 ment will be greater than our pleasure in the fruition 
 of them. If we hope for what we are not likely to 
 possess, we act and think in vain, and make life a 
 greater dream and shadow than it really is. 
 
 Many of the miseries and misfortunes of life pro- 
 ceed from our want of consideration, in one or all of 
 these particulars. They are the rocks on which the 
 sanguine tribe of lovers split, and on which the bank- 
 rupt, the politician, the alchemist, and projector, are 
 cast away in every age. Men of warm imaginations 
 and towering thoughts are apt to overlook the goods 
 of fortune which are near them, for something that 
 ghtters in the sight at a distance ; to neglect solid 
 and substantial happiness, for what is showy and su- 
 perficial ; and to contemn that good which lies within 
 their reach, for that which they are not capable of 
 attaining. Hope calculates its schemes for a long 
 and durable life ; presses forward to imaginary points 
 of bliss ; grasps at impossibilities ; and consequently 
 
384 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 535. 
 
 xtry often ensnares men into beggary, ruin, and dis- 
 honor. 
 
 What I have here said may serve as a model to an 
 Arabian fable, which I find translated into Fiench by 
 Monsieur Galland. The fable has in it such a wild 
 but natural simplicity that I question not but my 
 reader Y>dll be as much pleased with it as I have been, 
 and that he will consider himself, if he reflects on the 
 several amusements of hope which have sometimes 
 passed in his mind, as a near relation to the Persian 
 glassman. 
 
 Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow 
 that never would set his hand to any business during 
 his father's life. When his father died, he left him to 
 the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian money. 
 Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out 
 in glasses, bottles, and the finest earthenware. These 
 he piled up in a large open basket, and, having made 
 choice of a very little shop, placed the basket at his 
 feet ; and leaned his back upon the wall in expecta- 
 tion of customers. As he sat in this posture, with 
 his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing 
 train of thought, and was overheard by one of his 
 neighbors, as he talked to himself in the following 
 manner : '' This basket," says he, '* cost me at the 
 wholesale merchant's a hundred drachmas, which is 
 all I have in the world. I shall quickly make two 
 hundred of it by selling it in retail. These two hun- 
 dred drachmas will in a very little while rise to four 
 hundred, which of course will amount in time to 
 four thousand. Four thousand drachmas cannot fail 
 of making eight thousand. As soon as by this 
 means I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside 
 my trade of a glassman, and turn- jew^eler. I shall 
 then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts of rich 
 stones. When I have got together as much wealth 
 
No. 535-] THE SPECTATOR. 385 
 
 as I well can desire, I will make a purchase of the 
 finest house I can find, with lands, slaves, eunuchs, 
 and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy myself, and 
 make a noise in the world. I will not, however, stop 
 there, but still continue my trafiic, until I have got 
 together a hundred thousand drachmas. When I 
 have thus made myself master of a hundred thousand 
 drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the foot of 
 a prince, and will demand the grand vizier's daughter 
 in marriage, after having represented to that minister 
 the information which I have received of the beauty, 
 wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his 
 daughter possesses. I will let him know, at the same 
 time, that it is my intention to make him a present of 
 a thousand pieces of gold on our marriage night. As 
 soon as I have married the grand vizier's daughter, I 
 will buy her ten black eunuchs, the youngest and the 
 best that can be got for money. I must afterward 
 make my father-in-law a visit, with a great train and 
 equipage. And when I am placed at his right hand, 
 which he will do of course, if it be only to honor his 
 daughter, I will give him the thousand pieces of gold 
 which I promised him ; and afterward, to his great 
 surprise, will present him another purse of the same 
 value, with some short speech : as, ' Sir, you see I 
 am a man of my word : I always give more than I 
 promise.' 
 
 '' When I have brought the princess to my house, 
 I shall take particular care to breed in her a due re- 
 spect for me before I ^\y^ the reins to love and dal- 
 Hance. To this end, I shall confine her to her own 
 apartm.ent, make a short visit, and talk but httle to 
 her. Her women will represent to me, that she is in- 
 consolable by reason of my unkindness, and beg me 
 with tears to caress her, and let her sit down by me ; 
 but I shalT still remain inexorable, and will turn my 
 
386 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 569. 
 
 back upon her all the first night. Her mother will 
 then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am 
 seated upon my sofa. The daughter, with tears in 
 her eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg of me 
 to receive her into my favor. Then t^oII I, to im- 
 print in her a thorough veneration for my person, 
 draw up my legs and spurn her from me with my 
 foot, in such a manner that she shall fall down several 
 paces from the sofa." 
 
 Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chi- 
 merical vision, and could not forbear acting with his 
 foot what he had in his thoughts ; so that unluckily 
 striking his basket of brittle ware, which was the 
 foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked his glasses 
 to a great distance from him into the street, and 
 broke them into a thousand pieces. — O. 
 
 Xo. 569.] Monday, July 19, 17 14. 
 
 Re^es dicuntur multis urgere culiillis, 
 
 Et torquere mero, quem perspexisse laborent. 
 
 An sit amicitia dignus. — = Hor. Ars Poet, ver, 434. 
 
 Wise were the kings who never chose a friend 
 Tin with full cups they had unmask'd his soul. 
 And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts. — Roscomsion. 
 
 No >'ices are so incurable as those which men are 
 apt to glor\' in. One would wonder how drunken- 
 ness should have the good luck to be of this number. 
 Anacharsis, being invited to a match of drinking at 
 Corinth, demanded the prize very humorously, be- 
 cause he was drunk before any of the rest of the com- 
 panv ; " for," says he, " when we run a race, he who 
 arrives at the goal first is entitled to the reward : " on 
 the contrar\% in this thirsty generation, the honor 
 falls upon him who carries off the greatest quantity 
 
No. 569.] THE SPECTATOR. 387 
 
 of liquor, and knocks down the rest of the company. 
 I was the other day with honest Will Funnel, the 
 West Saxon, who was reckoning up how much liquor 
 had passed through him in the last twenty years 
 of his life, which, according to his computation, 
 amounted to twenty-three hogsheads of October, four 
 tons of port, half a kilderkin of small beer, nineteen 
 barrels of cider, and three glasses of champagne ; be- 
 side which he had assisted at four hundred bowls of 
 punch, not to mention sips, drams, and whets with- 
 out number. I question not but every reader's mem- 
 ory will suggest to him several ambitious young men 
 who are as vain in this particular as Will Funnel, 
 and can boast of as glorious exploits. 
 
 Our modern philosophers observe, that there is a 
 general decay of moisture in the globe of the earth. 
 This they chiefly ascribe to the growth of vegetables, 
 which incorporate into their own substance many 
 fluid bodies that never return again to their former 
 nature ; but with submission, they ought to throw 
 into their own account those innumerable rational 
 beings which fetch their nourishment chiefly out of 
 liquids ; especially when we consider that men, com- 
 pared with their fellow-creatures, drink much more 
 than comes to their share. 
 
 But, however highly this tribe of people may think 
 of themselves, a drunken man is a greater monster 
 than any that is to be found among all the creatures 
 which God has made ; as indeed there is no character 
 which appears more despicable and deformed, in the 
 eyes of all reasonable persons, than that of a drunk- 
 ard. Bonosus, one of our own countrymen, who was 
 addicted to this vice, having set up for a share in the 
 Roman empire, and being defeated in a great battle, 
 hanged himself. When he was seen by the army in 
 this melancholy situation, notwithstanding he had be- 
 
38S THE SPECTATOR. [No. 569. 
 
 haved himself ver}' bravely, the conimon jest was, 
 that the thing they saw hanging upon the tree before 
 them was not a man, but a bottle. 
 
 This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the 
 body, and fortune, of the person who is devoted to it. 
 
 In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers ever}^ 
 flaw in it. The sober man, by the strength of reason, 
 may keep under and subdue ever\' vice or folly to 
 which he is most inclined ; but wine makes every 
 latent seed sprout up in the soul, and show itself ; it 
 gives fury to the passions, and force to those objects 
 which are apt to produce them. \\Tien a young fel- 
 low complained to an old philosopher that his ^ife 
 was not handsome, " Put less water in your wine," 
 says the philosopher, " and you will quickly make her 
 so." Wine heightens indifference into love, love into 
 jealousy, and jealousy into madness. It often tiums 
 the good-natured man into an idiot, and the choleric 
 into an assassin. It gives bitterness to resentment, it 
 makes vanity insupportable, and displays ever\^ little 
 spot of the soul in its utmost deformity. 
 
 Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults of 
 a man, and show them in the most odious colors, but 
 often occasions faults to which he is not naturally 
 subject. There is more of turn than of truth in a 
 saying of Seneca, that drunkenness does not produce 
 but discover faults. Common experience teaches us 
 the contrar}' . Wine throws a man out of himself, and 
 infuses qualities into the mind which she is a stranger 
 to in her sober moments. The person you converse 
 with after the third bottle, is not the same man who 
 at first sat down at table with you. Upon this maxim 
 is founded one of the prettiest sayings I ever met 
 with, which is ascribed to Pubhus S}tus, ''Qui ebrium 
 ludijicat Icedit absentemy "He who jests upon the 
 man -that is drunk, injures the absent." 
 
No. 574.] THE SPECTATOR. 389 
 
 Thus does drunkenness act in direct contradiction 
 to reason, whose business it is to clear the mind of 
 every vice which is crept into it, and to guard it 
 against all the approaches of any that endeavors to 
 make its entrance. But beside these ill effects which 
 this vice produces in the person who is actually under 
 its dominion, it has also a bad influence on the mind 
 even in its sober moments, as it insensibly weakens 
 the understanding, impairs the memory, and makes 
 those faults habitual which are produced by frequent 
 excesses. 
 
 I should now proceed to show the ill effects which 
 this vice has on the bodies and fortunes of men ; but 
 these I shall reserve for the subject of some future 
 paper. 
 
 No. 574.] Friday, July 30, 1714. 
 
 Non possidentem multa vocaveris 
 Recte beatum. Rectius occupat 
 
 Nomen beati, qui Deorum 
 
 Muneribus sapienter uti. 
 Duramque call^ pauperiem pati. 
 
 HoR. 4 Od. ix, 45. 
 
 Believe not those that lands possess, 
 And shining" heaps of useless ore, 
 The only lords of happiness ; 
 
 But rather those that know 
 
 For what kind fates bestow, 
 And have the heart to use the store, 
 That have the generous skill to bear 
 The hated weight of poverty. — Creech. 
 
 I WAS once engaged in discourse with a Rosicrucian 
 about ''the great secret." As this kind of men (I 
 mean those of them who are not professed cheats) 
 are overrun with enthusiasm and philosophy, it was 
 very amusing to hear this religious adept descanting 
 on his pretended discovery. He talked of the secret 
 as of a spirit which lived within an emerald, and con- 
 
390 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 574. 
 
 verted evemhing that was near it to the highest per- 
 fection it is capable of. " It gives a luster," says he, 
 " to the sun, and water to the diamond. It irradiates 
 ever\' metal, and enriches lead with all the properties 
 of gold. It heightens smoke into flame, flame into 
 Hght, and hght into glor\'." He further added, " that 
 a single ray of it dissipates pain, and care, and mel- 
 ancholy, from the person on whom it falls. In short/' 
 says he, " its presence naturally changes ever\' place 
 into a kind of heaven." After he had gone on for 
 some time in this uninteUigible cant, I found that he 
 jumbled natural and moral ideas together in the same 
 discourse, and that his great secret was nothing else 
 but content. 
 
 This virtue does indeed produce, in some measure, 
 all those effects which the alchemist usually ascribes 
 to what he calls the philosophers stone ; and if it 
 does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by 
 banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove 
 the disquietudes arising out of a man's mind, body, 
 or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has 
 indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in re- 
 spect of ever}' being to whom he stands related. It 
 extinguishes all miuruur, repining, and ingratitude, 
 toward that Being who has allotted him his part to 
 act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, 
 and everv' tendency to corruption, with regard to the 
 community wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness 
 to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Among the many methods which might be made 
 use of for the acquiring of this \Trtue, I shall only 
 mention the two following. First of all, a man 
 should always consider how much he has more than 
 he wants : and secondly, how much more unhappy 
 he might be than he really is. 
 
No. 574.] THE SPECTATOR, 391 
 
 First of all, a man should always consider how 
 much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully 
 pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one 
 who condoled him upon the loss of a farm : '^ Why," 
 said he, '' I have three farms still, and you have but 
 one ; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you 
 than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are 
 more apt to consider what they have lost than what 
 they possess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who 
 are richer than themselves, rather than on those who 
 are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures 
 and conveniences of hfe lie in a narroAv compass ; 
 but it is the humor of mankind to be always looking 
 forward and straining after one who has got the start 
 of them in wealth and honor. For this reason, as 
 there are none can be properly called rich w^ho have 
 not more than they w^ant, there are few rich men in 
 any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort 
 of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, 
 and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. 
 Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid 
 poverty, and are perpetually wanting, because, instead 
 of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they en- 
 deavor to outvie one another in shadows and appear- 
 ances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a 
 great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing 
 over their heads, and, by contracting their desii*es, 
 enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are al- 
 ways in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase 
 after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently ex- 
 posed, as it is the great source of those evils which 
 generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what 
 it will, he is a poor man if he does not live within it, 
 and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can 
 give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death 
 of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was 
 
392 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 574. 
 
 offered a great sum of money by the King of Lydia, 
 he thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had 
 ah*eady more by half than he knew what to do with. 
 In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury 
 to poverty ; or, to give the thought a more agreeable 
 turn, '' Content is natural wealth," says Socrates ; to 
 which I shall add, " Luxury is artificial poverty." I 
 shall therefore recommend to the consideration of 
 those who are always aiming after superfluous and 
 imaginary enjo\Tnents, and will not be at the trouble 
 of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of 
 Bion, the philosopher: namely, that '* no man has so 
 much care as he who endeavors after the most hap- 
 piness." 
 
 In the second place, every one ought to reflect 
 how much more unhappy he might be than he really 
 is. The former consideration took in all those who 
 are sufficiently provided with the means to make them- 
 selves easy ; this regards such as actually He under 
 some pressure or misfortune. These may receive 
 great elevation from such a comparison as the un- 
 happy person may make between himself and others, 
 or between the misfortune which he suffers, and 
 greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. 
 
 I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon 
 breaking his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the 
 standers-by, it was a great mercy that it was not his 
 neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, 
 give me leave to add the saying of an old philoso- 
 pher, who, after having invited some of his friends 
 to dine with him, was ruflled by his wife, that came 
 into the room in a passion, and threw doT;\Ti the table 
 that stood before them : *' Every one," says he, "has 
 his calamity, and he is a happy man that has no 
 greater than this." We find an instance to the same 
 purpose in the Life of Doctor Hammond, written by 
 
No. 574.] THE SPECTATOR. 393 
 
 Bishop Fell. As this good man was troubled with a 
 complication of distempers, when he had the gout 
 upon him he used to thank God that it was not the 
 stone ; and when he had the stone, that he had not 
 both these distempers on him at the same time. 
 
 I cannot conclude this essay, without observing 
 that there was never any system beside that of Chris- 
 tianity which could effectually produce in the mind 
 of man the virtue I have hitherto been speaking of. 
 In order to make us content with our present con- 
 dition, many of the ancient philosophers tell us that 
 our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being 
 able to make any alteration in our circumstances ; 
 others, that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us 
 by fatal necessity, to which the gods themselves are 
 subject ; while others very gravely tell the man who 
 is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so to 
 keep up the harmony of the universe, and that the 
 scheme of Providence would be troubled and per- 
 verted were he otherwise. These, and the like con- 
 siderations, rather silence than satisfy a man. They 
 may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, 
 but are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They 
 rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a 
 man might reply to one of these comforters, as Au- 
 gustus did to his friend who advised him not to grieve 
 for the death of a person whom he loved, because his 
 grief could not fetch him again : '' It is for that very 
 reason," said the emperor, " that I grieve." 
 
 On the contrary, religion bears a more tender re- 
 gard to human nature. It prescribes to every miser- 
 able man the means of bettering his condition ; nay, 
 it shows him that the bearing of his afflictions as he 
 ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of 
 them ; it makes him easy here, because it can make 
 him happy hereafter. 
 
394 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 594. 
 
 Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest 
 blessing a man can enjoy in this world ; and if in the 
 present life his happiness arises from the subduing of 
 his desires, it vr^ arise in the next from the gratifica- 
 tion of them. 
 
 Xo. 594.] Wednesday. September 15. 17 14. 
 
 Absentem qui rodit amicum. 
 
 Qui Don defeudit. alio culpante ; solutos 
 Qui captat risus hominum, famamque dicacis 
 Fingere qui non visa potest : commissa tacere 
 
 Qui nequit : hie n'.ger est ; huuc tu, Romane. c^aveto. 
 
 HoR. I Sat. i\-, 81. 
 
 He that shall rail againsc his absent friends. 
 
 Or hears ihem scandaliz'd. and not defends ; 
 
 Sports ^ith their fame, and speaks whate'er he can. 
 
 And only to be thought a witty man ; 
 
 Tells tales, and brings his friends in disesteem ; 
 
 Tb&t man's a knave^ — be sure beware of him. — Creech. 
 
 AVere all the vexations of hfe put together, we 
 should find that a great part of them proceed from 
 those calumnies and reproaches which we spread 
 abroad concerning one another. 
 
 There is scarce a man m-ing, who is not, in some 
 degree, guilty of this offense : though at the same 
 time, however we treat one another, it must be con- 
 fessed, that we all consent in speaking ill of the per- 
 sons who are notorious for this practice. It generally 
 takes its rise either from an ill-will to mankind, a pri- 
 vate inclination to make ourselves esteemed, an os- 
 tentation of wit. and vanity of being thought in the 
 secrets of the world : or from a desire of gratifying 
 any of these dispositions of mind in those persons 
 with whom we converse. 
 
 The publisher of scandal is more or less odious to 
 mankind, and criminal in himself, as he is influenced 
 bv anv one or more of the foregoing motives. But, 
 
No. 594.] THE SPECTATOR, 395 
 
 whatever may be the occasion of spreading these false 
 reports, he ought to consider that the effect of them 
 is equally prejudicial and pernicious to the person 
 at whom they are aimed. The injury is the same, 
 though the principle from whence it proceeds may be 
 different. 
 
 As every one looks upon himself with too much 
 indulgence when he passes a judgment on his own 
 thoughts or actions, and as very few would be thought 
 guilty of this abominable proceeding, which is so uni- 
 versally practiced, and at the same time so universally 
 blamed, I shall lay down three rules, by which I 
 would have a man examine and search into his own 
 heart, before he stands acquitted to himself of that 
 evil disposition of mind which I am here mentioning. 
 
 First of all. Let him consider whether he does not 
 take delight in hearing the faults of others. 
 
 Secondly, Whether he is not too apt to believe such 
 ^little blackening accounts, and more incHned to be 
 credulous on the uncharitable than on the good-nat- 
 ured side. 
 
 Thirdly, Whether he is not ready to spread . and 
 propagate such reports as tend to the disreputation of 
 another. 
 
 These are the several steps by which this vice pro- 
 ceeds and grows up into slander and defamation. 
 
 In the first place, a man who takes dehght in hear- 
 ing the faults of others, shows sufficiently that he has 
 a true rehsh of scandal, and consequently the seeds 
 of this vice within him. If his mind is gratified with 
 hearing the reproaches which are cast on others, he 
 will find the same pleasure in relating them, and be 
 the more apt to do it, as he will naturally imagine 
 every one he converses with is delighted in the same 
 manner with himself. A man should endeavor, there- 
 fore, to wear out of his mind this criminal curiosity, 
 
39^ THE SPECTATOR. [No. 594. 
 
 which is perpetually heightened and inflamed by Kst- 
 ening to such stories as tend to the disreputation of 
 others. 
 
 In the second place, a man should consult ins own 
 heart whether he be not apt to beheve such little 
 blackening accoimts, and more inclined to be credu- 
 lous on the uncharitable than on the good-natured 
 side. 
 
 Such a creduHtv' is ver\' \-icious in itself, and gen- 
 erally arises from a man's consciousness of his own 
 secret corruptions. It is a pretty sapng of Thales, 
 *' Falsehood is just as far distant from truth as the 
 ears are from the eyes." * By which he would inti- 
 mate, that a wise man should not easily give credit 
 to the reports of actions which he has not seen. I 
 shall, under this head, mention two or three remark- 
 able rules to be obsened by the members of the cele- 
 brated Abbey de la Trappe, as they are pubhshed in 
 a little French book.f 
 
 The fathers are there ordered never to give an ear 
 to any accounts of base or criminal actions : to turn 
 off all such discourse if possible : but, in case they 
 hear amthing of this nature, so well attested that they 
 cannot disbeUeve it,* they are then to suppose that 
 the criminal acrion may have proceeded from a good 
 intention in him who is guilty of it. This is, per- 
 haps, carr^-ing charity to an extravagance : but it is 
 certainly much more laudable than to suppose, as 
 the iU-natured part of the world does, that indifferent 
 and even good actions proceed from bad principles 
 and wrong intentions. 
 
 * Stobaei Serm. 61. 
 
 t Felibien, Description de I'Abbaye de la Trappe, Paris, 
 1671 : reprinted in 1682. It is a letter of M. Felibien to the 
 Dnchess of Liancourt. 
 
No. 598.] THE SPECTATOR. 397 
 
 In the third place, a man should examine his heart, 
 whether he does not find in it a secret inclination to 
 propagate such reports as tend to the disreputation 
 of another. 
 
 When the disease of the mind, which I have 
 hitherto been speaking of, arises to this degree of 
 malignity, it discovers itself in its worst symptom, 
 and is in danger of becoming incurable. I need not, 
 therefore, insist upon the guilt in this last particular, 
 which every one cannot but disapprove, who is not 
 void of humanity, or even common discretion. I 
 shall only add, that whatever pleasure any man may 
 take in spreading whispers of this nature, he will find 
 an infinitely greater satisfaction in conquering the 
 temptation he is under, by letting the secret die within 
 his OT\m breast. 
 
 No. 598.] Friday, September 24, 17 14. 
 
 Jamne igitur laudas. quod de sapientibus alter 
 Ridebat, quoties a limine moverat unum 
 Protuleratque pedem : flebat contrarius alter ? 
 
 Juv. Sat. X, 28. 
 
 Will ye not now the pair of sages praise, 
 
 Who the same end pursu'd by several ways ? 
 
 One pitied, one condemn'd, the woful times; 
 
 One laugh'd at follies, one lamented crimes. — Dryden. 
 
 Mankind may be divided into the merry and the 
 serious, who both of them make a very good figure 
 \n the species, so long as they keep their respective 
 humors from degenerating into the neighboring ex- 
 treme ; there being a natural tendency in the one to 
 a melancholy moroseness, and in the other to a fan- 
 tastic levity. 
 
 The merry part of the world are very amiable,, 
 while they diffuse a cheerfulness through conversation. 
 
398 THE SPECTA TOR. [No. 598. 
 
 at proper seasons and on proper occasions ; but, on 
 the contrary, a great grievance to society when they 
 infect every discourse with insipid mirth, and turn 
 into ridicule such subjects as are not suited to it. For 
 though laughter is looked upon by the philosopher as 
 the property of reason, the excess of it has been al- 
 ways considered as the mark of folly. 
 
 On the other side, seriousness has its beauty while 
 it is attended with cheerfulness and humanity, and 
 does not come in unseasonably to pall the good-hu- 
 mor of those with whom we converse. 
 
 These two sets of men, notwithstanding that each 
 of them shine in their respective characters, are apt to 
 bear a natiual aversion and antipathy to one another. 
 
 What is more usual than to hear men of serious 
 tempers, and austere morals, enlarging upon the vani- 
 ties and follies of the young and gay part of the 
 species, while they look with a kind of hoiTor upon 
 such pomps and diversions as are innocent in them- 
 selves, and only culpable when they draw the mind 
 too much? 
 
 I could not but smile upon reading a passage in 
 the account which Mr. Baxter gives of his own life, 
 wherein he represents it as a great blessing that in 
 his youth he very narrovrly escaped getting a place 
 at coiut. 
 
 It must indeed be confessed that levity of temper 
 takes a man off his guard, and opens a pass to his 
 soul for anv temptation that assaults it. It favors all 
 the approaches of vice, and weakens all the resistance 
 of virtue ; for which reason a renowned statesman in 
 Queen Ehzabeth's days, after having retired from 
 court and public business, in order to give himself 
 up to the duties of rehgion, when any of his old 
 friends used to visit him, had still this word of advice 
 in his mouth, " Be serious." 
 
No. 598.] THE SPECTATOR. 399 
 
 An eminent Italian author of this cast of mind, 
 speaking of the great advantage of a serious and 
 composed temper, wishes very gravely, that for the 
 benefit of mankind, he had Trophonius's cave in his 
 possession ; which, says he, would contribute more to 
 the reformation of manners than all the workhouses 
 and bridewells in Europe. 
 
 We have a very particular description of this cave 
 in Pausanias, who tells us that it was made in the 
 form of a huge oven, and had many particular cir- 
 cumstances, which disposed the person who was in it 
 to be more pensive and thoughtful than ordinary ; 
 insomuch, that no man Avas ever observed to laugh 
 all his life after, who had once made his entry into 
 this cave. It was usual in those times, when any one 
 carried a more than ordinary gloominess in his feat- 
 ures, to tell him that he looked like one just come 
 out of Trophonius's cave. 
 
 On the other hand, writers of a more merry com- 
 plexion have been no less severe on the opposite 
 party ; and have had one advantage above them, that 
 they have attacked them with more turns of wit and 
 humor. 
 
 After all, if a man's temper were at his own dis- 
 posal, I think he would not choose to be of either of 
 these parties ; since the most perfect character is that 
 which is formed out of both of them. A man would 
 neither choose to be a hermit or a buffoon ; human 
 nature is not so miserable, as that we should be al- 
 ways melancholy ; nor so happy, as that we should be 
 always merry. In a word, a man should not live as 
 if there was no God in the world, nor, at the same 
 time, as if there were no men in it. 
 
400 THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 612. 
 
 No. 612.] Wednesday, October 27, 1714. 
 
 Murranum hie, atavos et avorum antiqua sonantem 
 Nomina, per regesque actum genus omne Latinos, 
 Praecipitem scopulo atque ingentis turbine saxi 
 Excutit, eflfunditque solo Virg. ^^n. xii, 529. 
 
 Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs 
 
 From a long royal race of Latian kings. 
 
 Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, 
 
 Crush'd with the weight of an unwieldy stone.— Dryd en. 
 
 It is highly laudable to pay respect to men who 
 are descended from worthy ancestors, not only out 
 of gratitude to those who have done good to man- 
 kind, but as it is an encouragement to others to fol- 
 low their example. But this is an honor to be received, 
 not demanded, by the descendants of great men ; and 
 they who are apt to remind us of their ancestors only 
 put us upon making comparisons to their own disad- 
 vantage. There is some pretense for boasting of wit, 
 beauty, strength, or wealth, because the communica- 
 tion of them may give pleasure or profit to others ; 
 but we can have no merit, nor ought we to claim any 
 respect, because our fathers acted well whether we 
 would or no. 
 
 The following letter ridicules the folly I have men- 
 tioned, in a new, and I think, not disagreeable light : 
 
 '' Mr. Spectator, 
 
 " Were the genealogy of every family preserved, 
 there would probably be no man valued or despised 
 on account of his birth. There is scarce a beggar in 
 the streets, who would not find himself lineally de- 
 scended from some great man ; nor any one of the 
 highest title, who would not discover several base and 
 indigent persons among his ancestors. It would be 
 a pleasant entertainment to see one pedigree of men 
 appear together, under the same characters they bore 
 
No. 6i2.] THE SPECTATOR. 401 
 
 when they acted their respective parts among the hv- 
 ing. Suppose, therefore, a gentleman, full of his illus- 
 trious family, should, in the same manner as Virgil 
 makes ^neas look over his descendants, see the 
 whole line of his progenitors pass in review before his 
 eyes — with how many varying passions would he be- 
 hold shepherds and soldiers, statesmen and artificers, 
 princes and beggars, walk in the procession of five 
 thousand years! How would his heart sink or flut- 
 ter at the several sports of fortune, in a scene so di- 
 versified with rags and purple, handicraft tools and 
 scepters, ensigns of dignity and emblems of disgrace ! 
 And how would his fears and apprehensions, his trans- 
 ports and mortifications, succeed one another, as the 
 line of his genealogy appeared bright or obscure ! 
 
 '' In most of the pedigrees hung up in old mansion- 
 houses, you are sure to find the first in the catalogue 
 a great statesman, or a soldier with an honorable 
 commission. The honest artificer that begot him, 
 and all his frugal ancestors before him, are torn off 
 from the top of the register ; and you are not left to 
 imagine that the noble founder of the family ever 
 had a father. Were we to trace many boasted lines 
 further backward, we should lose them in a mob of 
 tradesmen, or a crowd of rustics, without hope of see- 
 ing them emerge again ; not unlike the old Appian 
 way, which, after having run many miles in length, 
 loses itself in a bog. 
 
 '' I lately made a visit to an old country gentleman, 
 who is very far gone in this sort of family madness. 
 I found him in his study perusing an old register of 
 his family, which he had just then discovered as it 
 was branched out in the form of a tree, upon a skin 
 of parchment. Having the honor to have some of 
 his blood in my veins, he permitted me to cast my 
 eye over the boughs of this venerable plant ; and 
 
402 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 612. 
 
 asked my advice in the reforming of some of the su- 
 perfluous branches. 
 
 '* We passed shghtly over three or four of our im- 
 mediate forefathers, whom he knew by tradition, but 
 were soon stopped by an alderman of London, who 
 I perceived made my kinsman's heart go pit-a-pat. 
 His confusion increased when he found the alder- 
 man's father to be a grazier ; but he recovered his 
 fright upon seeing justice of the quorum at the end 
 of his titles. Things went on pretty well as we threw 
 our eyes frequently over the tree, when unfortunately 
 he perceived a merchant-tailor perched on a bough, 
 w^ho was said greatly to have increased the estate ; he 
 was just going to cut him off if he had not seen gent. 
 after the name of his son ; who was recorded to have 
 mortgaged one of the manors his honest father had 
 purchased. A weaver, who was burnt for his religion 
 in the reign of Queen Mary, was pruned away with- 
 out mercy ; as was likewise a yeoman who died of a 
 fall from his own cart. But great was our triumph in 
 one of the blood who was beheaded for high-treason ; 
 which, nevertheless, was not a little allayed by another 
 of our ancestors who was hanged for steahng sheep. 
 The expectations of my good cousin were wonderfully 
 raised by a match into the family of a knight ; but 
 unfortunately for us this branch proved barren ; on 
 the other hand, Margery the milk-maid, being twined 
 round a bough, it flourished out into so many shoots, 
 and bent with so much fruit, that the old gentleman 
 was quite out of countenance. To comfort me under 
 this disgrace, he singled out a branch ten times more 
 fruitful than the other, which he told me he valued 
 more than any in the tree, and bade me be of good 
 comfort. This enormous bough was a graft out of a 
 Welsh heiress, with so many Aps upon it that it might 
 have made a little grove by itself. From the trunk 
 
No. 6i5.] THE SPECTATOR, 403 
 
 of the pedigree, which was chiefly composed of la- 
 borers and shepherds, arose a huge sprout of farmers ; 
 this was branched out into yeomen, and ended in a 
 sheriff of the county, who was knighted. for his good 
 service to the crown in bringing up an address. 
 Several of the names that seemed to disparage the 
 family, being looked upon as mistakes, were lopped 
 off as rotten or withered ; as, on the contrary, no small 
 number appearing without any titles, my cousin, to 
 supply the defects of the manuscript, added esq. at 
 the end of each of them. 
 
 '' This tree, so pruned, dressed, and cultivated, was, 
 within a few days, transplanted into a large sheet of 
 vellum, and placed in the great hall, where it attracts 
 the veneration of his tenants every Sunday morning, 
 while they wait until "his worship is ready to go to 
 church ; wondering that a man who had so many 
 fathers before him should not be made a knight ; or 
 at least a justice of the peace." 
 
 No. 615.] Wednesday, November 3, 17 14. 
 
 Qui Deorum 
 
 Muneribus sapienter uti, 
 Duramque callet pauperiem pati, 
 Pejusque letho fla^itium timet ; 
 
 N on ille pro caris amicis 
 Aut patria timidus perire. — Hor. 4 Od. ix, 47. 
 
 Who spend their treasure freely as 'twas giv'n 
 By the laro^e bounty of indulgent Heav'n ; 
 Who in a fix'd unalterable state 
 
 Smile at the doubtful tide of fate. 
 And scorn alike her friendship and her hate ; 
 Who poison less than falsehood fear, 
 Loath to purchase life so dear ; 
 But kindly for their friend embrace cold death, 
 And seal their country's love with their departing breath. 
 
 Stepney. 
 
 It must be owned that fear is a very powerful pas- 
 sion, since it is esteemed one of the greatest of vir- 
 
404 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 615. 
 
 tues to subdue it. It being implanted in us for our 
 preservation, it is no wonder that it sticks close to us 
 as long as we have anything we are willing to pre- 
 serve. But as life, and all its enjoyments, would be 
 scarce worth the keeping if we were under a per- 
 petual dread of losing them, it is the business of 
 rehgion and philosophy to free us from all unnec- 
 essary anxieties, and direct our fear to its proper 
 object. 
 
 If we consider the painfulness of this passion, and 
 the violent effects it produces, we shall see how dan- 
 gerous it is to give way to it upon shght occasions. 
 Some have frightened themselves into madness, others 
 have given up their lives to these apprehensions. The 
 story of a man who grew gray in the space of one 
 night's anxiety is very famous.^ 
 
 O! nox quam longa es, quae facis una senem! 
 
 A tedious night indeed, that makes a young man old. 
 
 These apprehensions^ if they proceed from a 
 consciousness of guilt, are the sad warnings of 
 reason ; and may excite our pity, but admit of no 
 remedy. When the hand of the Almighty is visi- 
 bly lifted against the impious, the heart of mortal 
 man cannot withstand him. We have this pas- 
 sion sublimely represented in the punishment of the 
 Egyptians, tormented with the plague of darkness, 
 in the apocryphal book of Wisdom, ascribed to Solo- 
 mon. 
 
 '' For when unrighteous men thought to oppress 
 the holy nation ; they being shut up in their houses, 
 the prisoners of darkness, and fettered with the bonds 
 of a long 'night, lay there exiled from the eternal 
 Providence. For while they supposed to he hid in 
 their secret sins, they were scattered under a dark 
 
No. 615.] THE SPECTATOR, 405 
 
 veil of forgetfulness, being horribly astonished and 
 troubled with strange apparitions. For wickedness, 
 condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, 
 and, being oppressed with conscience, always fore- 
 casteth grievous things. For fear is nothing else but 
 a betraying of the succors which reason offereth. 
 For the whole world shined with clear light, and none 
 were hindered in their labor. Over them only was 
 spread a heavy night, an image of that darkness 
 which should afterward receive them ; but yet were 
 they unto themselves more grievous than the dark- 
 ness." * 
 
 To fear so justly grounded no remedy can be pro- 
 posed ; but a man (who hath no great guilt hanging 
 upon his mind, who walks in the plain path of justice 
 and integrity, and yet, either by natural complexion, 
 or confirmed prejudices, or neglect of serious reflec- 
 tion, suffers himself to be moved by this abject and 
 unmanly passion) would do well to consider that there 
 is nothing which deserves his fear, but that beneficent 
 Being who is his friend, his protector, his father. 
 Were this one thought strongly fixed in the mind, 
 what calamity would be dreadful? What load can 
 infamy lay upon us when we are sure of the appro- 
 bation of him who will repay the disgrace of a mo- 
 ment with the glory of eternity? What sharpness is 
 there in pain and diseases, when they only hasten us 
 on to the pleasures that will never fade ? What sting 
 is in death, when we are assured that it is only the 
 beginning of life? A man who lives so as not to fear 
 to die, is inconsistent with himself if he delivers him- 
 self up to any incidental anxiety. 
 
 The intrepidity of a just good man is so nobly set 
 forth by Horace, that it cannot be too often repeated : 
 
 * Wisd. xvii. passim. 
 
4o6 THE SPE C TA TOR. [No. 6 1 5 . 
 
 The man resolv'd and steady to his trust, 
 Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, 
 May the rude rabble's insolence despise, 
 Their senseless clamors and tumultuous cries, 
 The tjTant's fierceness he beguiles, 
 And the stem brow and the harsh voice defies, 
 And with superior greatness smiles. 
 
 Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms 
 Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms, 
 The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; 
 Not the red arm of angry Jove, 
 That flings the thunder from the sky. 
 And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. 
 
 Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 
 In ruin and confusion hurl'd, 
 He, unconcem'd, would hear the mighty crack, 
 And stand secure amid a falling world. 
 
 The vanity of fear may be yet further illustrated if 
 we reflect, 
 
 First. What we fear may not come to pass. No 
 human scheme can be so accurately projected but 
 some little circumstance intervening may spoil it. He 
 who directs the heart of man at his pleasure, and un- 
 derstands the thoughts long before, may^ by ten 
 thousand accidents, or an immediate change in the 
 inchnations of men, disconcert the most subtile proj- 
 ect, and turn it to the benefit of his own servants. 
 
 In the next place we should consider, though the 
 evil we imagine should come to pass, it may be much 
 more supportable than it appeared to be. As there is 
 no prosperous state of life without its calamities, so 
 there is no adversity without its benefits. Ask the 
 great and powerful, if they do not feel the pangs of 
 envy and ambition. Inquire of the poor and needy, 
 if they have not tasted the sweets of quiet and con- 
 tentment. Even under the pains of body, the infi- 
 dehty of friends, or the misconstructions put upon our 
 laudable actions ; our minds, when for some time ac- 
 
No. 624.] THE SPECTATOR. 407 
 
 customed to these pressures, are sensible of secret 
 Sowings of comfort, the present reward of a pious 
 resignation. The evils of this life appear like rocks 
 and precipices, rugged and barren at a distance ; but 
 at our nearer approach we find httle fruitful spots, 
 and refreshing springs, mixed with the harshness and 
 deformities of nature. 
 
 In the last place we may comfort ourselves with 
 this consideration, that, as the thing feared may not 
 reach us, so we may not reach what we fear. Our 
 lives may not extend to that dreadful point which we 
 have in view. He who knows all our failings, and 
 will not suffer us to be tempted beyond our strength, 
 is often pleased, in his tender severity, to separate the 
 soul from its body and miseries together. 
 
 If we look forward to him for help, we shall never 
 be in danger of falling down those precipices which 
 our imagination is apt to create. Like those who 
 walk upon a line, if we keep our eye fixed upon one 
 point, we may step forward securely ; whereas an im- 
 prudent or cowardly glance on either side will infalli- 
 bly destroy us. 
 
 No. 624.] Wednesday, November 24, 17 14. 
 
 Audire, atque togam jubeo componere, quisquis 
 Ambitione mala, aut argenti pallet amore ; 
 Quisquis luxuria Hor. 2 Sat. iii, 77. 
 
 Sit still, and hear, these whom proud thoughts do swell, 
 Those that look pale bj- loving coin too well ; 
 Whom luxury corrupts. — Creech. 
 
 Mankind is divided into two parts, the busy and 
 the idle. The busy world may be divided into the 
 virtuous and the vicious. The vicious again into thie 
 covetous, the ambitious, and the sensual. The idle 
 part of mankind are in a state inferior to any one of 
 
4o8 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 624. 
 
 these. All the other are engaged in the pursuit of 
 happiness, though often misplaced, and are therefore 
 more Hkely to be attentive to such means as shall be 
 proposed to them for that end. The idle, who are 
 neither wise for this world nor the next, are emphat- 
 ically called by Doctor Tillotson, ''fools at large." 
 They propose to themselves no end, but run adrift 
 with every -vs-ind. Advice, therefore, would be but 
 thrown away upon them, since they would scarce take 
 the pains to read it. I shall not fatigue any of this 
 worthless tribe T\-ith a long harangue ; but \s^ll leave 
 them vdth this short saying of Plato, that '* labor is 
 preferable to idleness, as brightness to rust." 
 
 The pursuits of the active part of mankind are 
 either in the paths of rehgion and ^-irtue : or, on the 
 other hand, in the roads to wealth, honors, or pleas- 
 ure. I shall, therefore, compare the pursuits of ava- 
 rice, ambition, and sensual delight, ^"ith their opposite 
 \'irtues ; and shall consider which of these principles 
 engages men in a course of the greatest labor, suffer- 
 ing, and assiduity. Most men in their cool reason- 
 ings are willing to allow that a coiuse of ^Trtue will 
 in the end be rewarded the most amply ; but repre- 
 sent the way to it as rugged and narrow. If, there- 
 fore, it can be made appear, that men struggle through 
 as many troubles to be miserable, as they do to be 
 happy, my readers may, perhaps, be persuaded to be 
 good when they find they shall lose nothing by it. 
 
 First, for avarice. The miser is more industrious 
 than the saint : the pains of getting, the fears of los- 
 ing, and the inabilit}' of enjoying his wealth, have 
 been the mark of satire in all ages. Were his repent- 
 ance upon his neglect of a good bargain, his sorrow 
 for being overreached, his hope of impro\nng a sum, 
 and his fear of falling into want, directed to their 
 proper objects, they would make so many different 
 
No. 624.] THE SPECTATOR, 409 
 
 Christian graces and virtues. He may apply to him- 
 self a great part of St. Paul's catalogue of sufferings. 
 " In journeyings often ; in perils of waters, in perils of 
 robbers, in perils among false brethren. In weariness 
 and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and 
 thirst, in fastings often." At how much less expense 
 might he ''lay up to himself treasures in heaven!" 
 Or, if I may in this place be allowed to add the say- 
 ing of a great philosopher, he may "provide such 
 possessions as fear neither arms, nor men, nor Jove 
 himself." 
 
 In the second place, if we look upon the toils of 
 ambition, in the same light as we have considered 
 those of avarice, we shall readily own that far less 
 trouble is requisite to gain lasting glory than the 
 power and reputation of a few years ; or, in other 
 words, we may with more ease deserve honor than 
 obtain it. The ambitious man should remember Car- 
 dinal Wolsey's complaint, " Had I served God with 
 the same application wherewith I served my king, he 
 would not have forsaken me in my old age." The 
 cardinal here softens his ambition by the specious 
 pretense of '' serving his king " ; whereas his words, in 
 the proper construction, imply, that, if instead of be- 
 ing acted * by ambition, he had been acted * by re- 
 hgion, he should have now felt the comforts of it, 
 when the whole world turned its back upon him. 
 
 Thirdly, let us compare the pains of the sensual 
 with those of the virtuous, and see which are heavier 
 in the balance. It may seem strange, at the first view, 
 that the men of pleasure should be advised to change 
 their course, because they lead a painful life. Yet 
 when we see them so active and vigilant in quest of 
 dehght ; under so many disquiets, and the sport of 
 
 * Actuated. 
 
4IO THE SPECTA TOR, [No. 624. 
 
 such various passions ; let them answer, as they can, 
 if the pains they undergo do not outweigh their en- 
 joyments. The infidehties on the one part between 
 the two sexes, and the caprices on the other, the de- 
 basement of reason, the pangs of expectation, the 
 disappointments in possession, the stings of remorse, 
 the vanities and vexations attending even the most 
 refined dehghts that make up this business of hfe, 
 render it so silly and uncomfortable, that no man is 
 thought wise until he hath got over it, or happy, but 
 in proportion as he hath cleared himself from it. 
 
 The sum of all is this. Man is made an active be- 
 ing. Whether he walks in the paths of virtue or vice, 
 he is sure to meet with many difficulties to prove his 
 patience and excite his industry. The same if not 
 greater labor is required in the service of vice and 
 folly as of virtue and wisdom ; and he hath this easy 
 choice left him, whether, with the strength he is mas- 
 ter of, he w^ill purchase happiness or repentance.