N^o LXI.

THERE are ſo many young men of fortune and ſpirit in this kingdom, who, without the trouble of reſorting to the founder of their philoſophy, or giving themſelves any concern about the Graius homo in my motto, have never⯑theleſs fallen upon a practice ſo conſentaneous to the doctrines, which he laid down by ſyſtem, that [2] I much queſtion if any of his profeſt ſcholars ever did him greater credit, ſince the time he firſt ſtruck out the popular project of driving all reli⯑gion out of the world, and introducing pleaſure and voluptuouſneſs in its ſtead.

So far from meaning to oppoſe myſelf to ſuch a hoſt of gay and happy mortals, I wiſh to gain a merit with them by adding to their ſtock of pleaſures, and ſuggeſting ſome hints of enjoy⯑ments, which may be new to them; a diſcovery which they well know was conſidered by the kings of Perſia, (who practiſed their philoſophy in very antient times) as a ſervice of ſuch im⯑portance to all the ſect, (who had even then worn out moſt of their old pleaſures) that a very conſiderable reward was offered to the inventor of any new one. How the ſtock at preſent ſtands with our modern voluptuaries I cannot pretend to ſay but I ſuſpect from certain ſymp⯑toms, which have fallen under my obſervation, that it is nearly run out with ſome amongſt them; to ſuch in particular I flatter myſelf my diſcoveries will prove of value, and I have for [3] their uſe compoſed the following meditation, which I have put together in the form of a ſoli⯑loquy, ſolving it ſtep by ſtep as regularly as any propoſition in Euclid, and I will boldly vouch it to be as mathematically true. If there is any one poſtulatum in the whole, which the trueſt voluptuary will not admit to be orthodox Epi⯑curiſm, I will conſent to give up my ſyſtem for nonſenſe and myſelf for an impoſtor; I condition only with the pupil of pleaſure, that whilſt he reads he will reflect, that he will deal candidly with the truth, and that he will once in his life permit a certain faculty called reaſon, which I hope he is poſſeſſed of, to come into uſe upon this occaſion; a faculty, which, though he may not hitherto have employed it, is yet capable of ſupplying him with more true and laſting plea⯑ſures, than any his philoſophy can furniſh.

I now recommend him to the following me⯑ditation, which I have entitled—

N^o LXII.

GEMINUS and Gemellus were twin-ſons of a country gentleman of fortune, whom I ſhall call Euphorion; when they were of age to begin their grammar learning, Euphorion found himſelf exceedingly puzzled to decide upon the beſt mode of education; he had read ſeveral treatiſes on the ſubject, which inſtead of clearing up his difficulties had encreaſed them; [10] he had conſulted the opinions of his friends and neighbours, and he found theſe ſo equally divided, and ſo much to be ſaid on both ſides, that he could determine upon neither; unfortunately for Euphorion he had no partialities of his own, for the good gentleman had had little or no educa⯑tion himſelf: The clergyman of the pariſh preached up the moral advantages of private tuition, the lawyer, his near neighbour, dazzled his imagination with the connections and know⯑ledge of the world to be gained in a public ſchool. Euphorion perceiving himſelf in a ſtreight between two roads, and not knowing which to prefer, cut the difficulty by taking both; ſo that Geminus was put under private tuition of the clergyman above mentioned, and Gemellus was taken up to town by the lawyer to be entered at Weſtminſter ſchool.

Euphorion having thus put the two ſyſtems fairly to iſſue waited the event, but every time that Gemellus came home at the breaking-up, the private ſyſtem roſe and the public ſunk on the compariſon in the father's mind, for Gemel⯑lus's appearance no longer kept pace with his brother's; wild and ragged as a colt, battered and bruiſed and diſhevelled he hardly ſeemed of the ſame ſpecies with the ſpruce little maſter in the parlour; Euphorion was ſhocked to find that his [11] manners were no leſs altered than his perſon, for he herded with the ſervants in the ſtable, was for ever under the horſes' heels, and foremoſt in all games and ſports with the idle boys of the pariſh; this was a ſore offence in Euphorion's eyes, for he abhorred low company, and being the firſt gentleman of his family ſeemed deter⯑mined to keep up to the title: Misfortunes multiplied upon poor Gemellus, and every thing conſpired to put him in complete diſgrace, for he began to corrupt his brother, and was detect⯑ed in debauching him to a game at cricket, from which Geminus was brought home with a bruiſe on the ſhin, that made a week's work for the ſurgeon; and what was ſtill worſe, there was conviction of the blow being given by a ball from Gemellus's batt; this brought on a ſevere interdiction of all further fellowſhip between the brothers, and they were effectually kept apart for the future.

A ſuſpicion now took place in the father's mind, that Gemellus had made as little progreſs in his books, as he had in his manners; but as this was a diſcovery he could not venture upon in perſon, he ſubſtituted his proxy for the under⯑taking. Gemellus had ſo many evaſions and alibis in reſource, that it was long before the clergyman could bring the caſe to a hearing, and [12] the report was not very favourable in any ſenſe to the unlucky ſchool-boy, for Gemellus had been ſeized with a violent fit of ſneezing in the criſis of examination, to the great annoyance of the worthy preceptor, who was forced to break up the conference re infectâ and in ſome diſorder, for amongſt other damages, which had accrued to his perſon and apparel, he preſented himſelf to the wondering eyes of Euphorion with a huge black buſh wig ſtuck full of paper darts, and as thickly ſpiked as the back of a porcupine. The culprit was inſtantly ſummoned and made no other defence, than that they ſlipt out of his hand, and he did not go to do it. ‘"Are theſe your Weſtminſter tricks, ſirrah?"’ cried the angry father, and aiming a blow at his ſcull with his crutch, brought the wrong perſon to the ground; for the nimble culprit had ſlipt out of the way, and Euphorion, being weak and gouty, literally followed the blow and was laid ſprawling on the floor: Gemellus flew to his aſſiſtance, and joint⯑ly with the parſon got him on his legs, but his anger was now ſo enflamed, that Gemellus was ordered out of the room under ſentence of im⯑mediate diſmiſſion to ſchool; Euphorion declared he was ſo totally ſpoilt, that he would not be troubled with him any longer in his family, elſe he would inſtantly have reverſed his education; [13] it was now too late, (he obſerved to the parſon, whilſt he was drawing the paper darts from his wig,) and therefore he ſhould return to the place from whence he came, and order was given for paſſing him off by the ſtage next morning.

A queſtion was aſked about his holiday-taſk, but Geminus, who had now entered his father's chamber, in a mild and pacifying tone aſſured Euphorion that his brother was provided in that reſpect, for that he himſelf had done the taſk for him: This was pouring oil upon flame, and the idle culprit was once more called to the bar to receive a moſt ſevere reprimand for his meanneſs in impoſing on his brother's good-nature, with many dunces and blockheads caſt in his teeth, for not being able to do his own buſineſs. Gemellus was nettled with theſe reproaches, but more than all with his brother for betraying him, and, drawing the taſk out of his pocket, rolled it in his hand and threw it towards the author, ſaying ‘"he was a ſhabby fellow; and for his part he ſcorned to be obliged to any body, that would do a favour and then boaſt of it."’—Re⯑collecting himſelf in a moment afterwards, he turned towards his father, and begged his pardon for all offences; ‘"he hoped he was not ſuch a blockhead, but he could do his taſk, if he pleaſed, and he would inſtantly ſet about it [14] and ſend it down, to convince him, that he could do his own buſineſs without any body's help."’ So ſaying, he went out of the room in great haſte, and in leſs time than could be expected brought down a portion of ſacred exer⯑ciſe in hexameter verſe, which the parſon can⯑didly declared was admirably well performed for his years, adding, that although it was not without faults, there were ſome paſſages, that beſpoke the dawning of genius—‘"I am obliged to you, Sir,"’ ſaid Gemellus, ‘"it is more than I deſerve, and I beg your pardon for the im⯑pertinence I have been guilty of."’—The tears ſtarted in his eyes as he ſaid this, and he depart⯑ed without any anſwer from his father.

He had no ſooner left the room than he per⯑ceived Geminus had followed him, and, being piqued with his late treatment, turned round and with a diſdainful look ſaid—‘"Brother Ge⯑minus, you ought to be aſhamed of yourſelf; if you was at Weſtminſter, there is not a boy in the ſchool would acknowledge you after ſo ſcandalous a behaviour."’—‘"I care neither for you nor your ſchool,"’ anſwered the domeſtic youth, ‘"it is you and not I ſhould be aſhamed of ſuch reprobate manners, and I ſhall report you to my father."’—‘"Do ſo,"’ replied Ge⯑mellus, ‘"and take that with you into the bar⯑gain."’ [15]—This was immediately ſeconded with a ſound ſlap on the face with his open hand, which however drew the blood in a ſtream from his noſtrils, and he ran ſcreaming to Euphorion, who came out upon the alarm with all the ſpeed he could muſter. Gemellus ſtood his ground, and after a ſevere caning was ordered to aſk par⯑don of his brother: This he peremptorily re⯑fuſed to do, alledging that he had been puniſhed already, and to be beaten and beg pardon too was more than he would ſubmit to. No me⯑naces being able to bring this refractory ſpirit to ſubmiſſion, he was ſent off to ſchool pennileſs, and a letter was written to the maſter, ſetting forth his offence, and in ſtrong terms cenſuring his want of diſcipline for not correcting ſo ſtub⯑born a temper and ſo idle a diſpoſition.

When he returned to ſchool the maſter ſent for him to his houſe, and queſtioned him upon the matter of complaint in his father's letter, obſerving that the charge being for offences out of ſchool he did not think it right to call him publicly to account; but as he believed him to be a boy of honour, he expected to hear the whole truth fairly related: This drew forth the whole narrative, and Gemellus was diſmiſſed with a gentle admonition, that could hardly be conſtrued into a rebuke.

[16]When the next holidays were in approach, Gemellus received the following letter from his brother.

To this letter Gemellus returned an anſwer as follows.

N^o LXIII.

THIS letter fixed the fate of Gemellus: Re⯑ſentments are not eaſily diſlodged from narrow minds; Euphorion had not penetration to diſtinguiſh between the characters of his children; he ſaw no meanneſs in the ſly inſidious manners of his homebred favourite, nor any ſparks of generous pride in the ſteady inflexibility of Gemellus; he little knew the high principle of honour, which even the youngeſt ſpirits com⯑municate to each other in the habits and man⯑ners of a public ſchool. He bitterly inveighed againſt his neighbour the lawyer for perſuading him to ſuch a fatal ſyſtem of education, and whenever they met in company their converſa⯑tion was engroſſed with continual arguings and reproachings; for neither party receded from his point, and Gemellus's advocate was as little diſpoſed to give him up, as his father was to ex⯑cuſe him. At laſt they came to a compromiſe, by which Euphorion agreed to charge his eſtate [18] with an annuity for the education and ſupport of Gemellus, which annuity during his nonage was to be received and adminiſtered by the ſaid awyer, and Geminus left heir of his whole for⯑tune, this moderate encumbrance excepted.

The diſintereſted and proſcribed offender was now turned over to the care of the lawyer, who regularly defrayed his ſchool expences, and ne⯑ver failed to viſit him at thoſe periods, when country practitioners uſually reſort to town. The boy, apprized of his ſituation, took no fur⯑ther pains to aſſuage his father's reſentment, but full of reſources within himſelf, and poſſeſſed of an active and aſpiring genius, preſſed forward in his buſineſs, and ſoon found himſelf at the head of the ſchool, with the reputation of being the beſt ſcholar in it.

He had formed a cloſe friendſhip, according to the cuſtom of great ſchools, with a boy of his own age, the ſon of a nobleman of high diſtinc⯑tion, in whoſe family Gemellus was a great fa⯑vourite, and where he never failed to paſs his holidays, when the ſchool adjourned. His good friend and guardian the lawyer ſaw the advan⯑tages of this early connection in their proper light, and readily conſented to admit his ward of the ſame college in the univerſity, when Gemel⯑lus and his friend had compleated their ſchool [19] education. Here the attachment of theſe young men became more and more ſolid, as they ad⯑vanced nearer to manhood, and after a courſe of academical ſtudies, in which Gemellus ſtill im⯑proved the reputation he brought from Weſt⯑minſter, it was propoſed that he ſhould accom⯑pany his friend upon his travels, and a proper governor was engaged for that ſervice. This propoſal rather ſtaggered Gemellus's guardian on the ſcore of expence, and he now found it neceſſary for the firſt time to open himſelf to Euphorion. With this intent he called upon him one morning, and taking him aſide, told him, he was come to confer with him on the ſubject of Gemellus—‘"I am ſorry for it,"’ inter⯑poſed Euphorion. ‘"Hold, Sir,"’ anſwered the lawyer, ‘"interrupt me not, if you pleaſe; tho' Gemellus is my ward, he is your ſon; and if you have the natural feelings of a father, you will be proud to acknowledge your right in him as ſuch."’—As he was ſpeaking theſe words, an awkward ſervant burſt into the room, and ſtaring with fright and confuſion, told his maſter there was a great lord in a fine equipage had actually driven up to the hall door, and was aſking to ſpeak with him. Euphorion's ſurprize was now little leſs than his ſervant's, and not being in the habit of receiving viſits from people [20] of diſtinction, he eagerly demanded of the lawyer who this viſitor could poſſibly be, and caſting an eye of embarraſſment upon his gouty foot—‘"I am not fit to be ſeen,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and cannot tell how to eſcape; for heaven's fake! go and ſee who this viſitor is, and keep him from the ſight of me, if it be poſſible."’

Euphorion had ſcarce done ſpeaking, when the door was thrown open, and the noble ſtran⯑ger, who was no leſs a perſon than the father of Gemellus's friend, made his approach, and hav⯑ing introduced himſelf to Euphorion, and apolo⯑gized for the abruptneſs of his viſit, proceeded to explain the occaſion of it in the following words:—‘"I wait upon you, Sir, with a requeſt, in which I flatter myſelf I ſhall be ſeconded by this worthy gentleman here preſent: You have the honour to be father to one of the moſt amiable and accompliſhed young men I ever knew; it may not become me to ſpeak ſo warmly of my own ſon as perhaps I might with truth, but I flatter myſelf it will be ſome recommendation of him to your good opinion, when I tell you that he is the friend and inti⯑mate of your Gemellus: They have now gone through ſchool and college together, and ac⯑cording to my notions of the world ſuch early connections, when they are well choſen, are [21] amongſt the chief advantages of a public edu⯑cation; but as I now purpoſe to ſend my ſon upon his travels, and in ſuch a manner as I flatter myſelf will be for his benefit and im⯑provement, I hope you will pardon this intru⯑ſion, when I inform you that the object of it is to ſolicit your conſent that Gemellus may accompany him."’

Euphorion's countenance, whilſt this ſpeech was addreſſed to him, underwent a variety of changes; ſurprize at hearing ſuch an unexpected character of his ſon was ſtrongly expreſt; a gleam of joy ſeemed to break out, but was ſoon diſpelled by ſhame and vexation at the reflection of having abandoned him; he attempted to ſpeak, but confuſion choaked him; he caſt a look of embarraſſment upon the lawyer, but the joy and triumph, which his features exhibited, appeared to him like inſult, and he turned his eyes on the ground in ſilence and deſpair. No one emotion had eſcaped the obſervation of Gemellus's pa⯑tron, who, turning to the lawyer, ſaid he believed he need not affect to be ignorant of Gemellus's ſituation, and then addreſſing himſelf again to Euphorion—‘"I can readily underſtand,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that ſuch a propoſal as I have now opened to you, however advantageous it might promiſe to be to your ſon, would not correſpond with [22] your ideas in point of expence, nor come within the compaſs of that limited proviſion, which you have thought fit to appoint for him: This is a matter, of which I have no preten⯑ſions to ſpeak; you have diſpoſed of your for⯑tune between your ſons in the proportions you thought fit, and it muſt be owned a youth, who has had a domeſtic education, ſtands the moſt in need of a father's help, from the little chance there is of his being able to take care of himſelf: Gemellus has talents that muſt ſecure his fortune, and if my ſervices can aſſiſt him, they ſhall never be wanting; in the mean time it is very little for me to ſay that my purſe will furniſh their joint occaſions, whilſt they are on their travels, and Gemellus's little fund, which is in honeſt and friendly hands, will accumulate in the interim."’

The length of this ſpeech would have given Euphorion time to recollect himſelf, if the matter of it had not preſented ſome unpleaſant truths to his reflection, which incapacitated him from making a deliberate reply; he made a ſhift how⯑ever to hammer out ſome broken ſentences, and with as good a grace as he could, attempted to palliate his neglect of Gemellus by pleading his infirm ſtate of health, and retirement from the [23] world—he had put him into the hands of his friend, who was preſent, and as he beſt knew what anſwer to give to the propoſal in queſtion, he referred his lordſhip to him and would abide by his deciſion—he was glad to hear ſo favourable an account of him—it was far beyond his expec⯑tations; he hoped his lordſhip's partiality would not be deceived in him, and he was thankful for the kind expreſſions he had thrown out of his future good offices and protection.—The noble viſitor now deſired leave to introduce his ſon, who was waiting in the coach, and hoped Ge⯑mellus might be allowed to pay his duty at the ſame time. This was a ſurprize upon Eupho⯑rion, which he could not parry, and the young friends were immediately uſhered in by the exulting lawyer. Gemellus commanded himſelf with great addreſs; but the father's look, when be firſt diſcovered an elegant and manly youth in the bloom of health and comelineſs, with an open countenance, where genius, courage and philanthropy were characterized, is not to be de⯑ſcribed: It was a mixt expreſſion of ſhame, con⯑viction and repentance; nature had her ſhare in it; parental love ſeemed to catch a glance, as it were, by ſtealth; he was ſilent, and his lips qui⯑vered with the ſuppreſt emotions of his heart. Gemellus approached and made an humble [24] obeiſance; Euphorion ſtretched forth his hand; he ſeized it between his, and reverently preſſed it to his lips. Their meeting was not interrupt⯑ed by a word, and the ſilence was only broken by my lord, who told Gemellus in a low voice, that his father had conſented to his requeſt, and he had no longer cauſe to apprehend a ſeparation from his friend: The honeſt lawyer now could no longer repreſs his ecſtacy, but running to Gemellus, who met his embrace with open arms, ſhowered a flood of tears upon his neck, and received the tribute of gratitude and affec⯑tion in return upon his own.

When their ſpirits were a little compoſed, Gemellus requeſted to ſee his brother; a ſum⯑mons was accordingly iſſued, and Geminus made his entrance. The contraſt which this meeting exhibited, ſpoke in ſtronger terms than language can ſupply the decided preference of a public and liberal ſyſtem of education, to the narrow maxims of private and domeſtic tuition. On Gemellus's part all was candour, openneſs and cordiality; he hoped all childiſh differences were forgiven; for his ſhare, if he called them to re⯑membrance, it was only to regret, that he had been ſo long ſeparated from a brother, who was naturally ſo dear to him; for the remainder of their lives he perſuaded himſelf they ſhould be [25] twins in affection, as well as in birth. On the ſide of Geminus there was ſome acting, and ſome nature; but both were ſpecimens of the worſt ſort; hypocriſy played his part but awk⯑wardly, and nature gave a ſorry ſample of her performances.

A few words will ſuffice to wind up their hiſtories, ſo far at leaſt as they need be explain⯑ed: Euphorion died ſoon after this interview; Geminus inherited his fortune, and upon his very firſt coming to London was cajoled into a diſgraceful marriage with a caſt-off miſtreſs, whom he became acquainted with; duped by a profligate and plundered by ſharpers, he made a miſerable waſte both of money and reputation, and in the event became a penſioner of his bro⯑ther. Gemellus with great natural talents, im⯑proved by education and experience, with an excellent nature and a laudable ambition, ſe⯑conded by a very powerful connection, ſoon roſe to a diſtinguiſhed ſituation in the ſtate, where he yet continues to act a conſpicuous part, to the honour of his country, and with no leſs reputa⯑tion to himſelf.

N^o LXIV.

I REMEMBER to have read an account in a foreign Gazette of a dreadful fire, which broke out ſo ſuddenly in a houſe, where a great many people were aſſembled, that five hundred perſons periſhed miſerably in the flames: The compiler of this account ſubjoins at the foot of the above melancholy article, that it is with ſa⯑tisfaction he can aſſure his readers, all the above perſons were Jews.

Theſe poor people ſeem the butt, at which all ſects and perſuaſions level their contempt: They are ſojourners and aliens in every kingdom on earth, and yet few have the hoſpitality to give them a welcome. I do not know any good rea⯑ſon why theſe unhappy wanderers are ſo treated, for they do not intrude upon the labourer or manufacturer; they do not burthen the ſtate with their poor, and here at leaſt they neither till the earth, nor work at any craft, but content them⯑ſelves [27] in general to hawk about a few refuſe ma⯑nufactures, and buy up a few caſt-off clothes, which no man methinks would envy them the monopoly of.

It is to the honour of our nation, that we tolerate them in the exerciſe of their religion, for which the Inquiſition would tie them to a ſtake and commit them to the flames. In ſome parts of the world the burning of a few makes a feſtival for all good Chriſtians; it brings rain and plenty in ſeaſons of drought and famine; it makes atonement for the ſins of the people, and mitigates the wrath of an avenging Providence. Wherever they are obliged to conceal their re⯑ligion, they generally overact their hypocriſy, and crowd their houſes with ſaints and virgins, whilſt crucifixes, charms and relicks are hung in numbers round their necks. The ſon of Jewiſh parents is brought up in the moſt rigid exerciſes of mortification and penance, and when the deſtined moment is in near approach, when the parent muſt impart the dreadful ſecret of his faith, every contrivance is put in practice to diſguſt and weary him with the laborious func⯑tions of their oſtenſible religion: When this preparatory rigour is perceived to take effect, and the age of the ſon is ripe for the occaſion, the father takes him into the inmoſt chamber of [28] his houſe, faſtens all the doors, ſurveys every avenue with the moſt myſterious attention, and drawing his ſword with great ſolemnity, throws himſelf on his knees at his feet, and laying open his breaſt, invites him to thruſt the point to his heart—For know, my ſon, he cries, I am a Jew, as all my fathers were: Kill me therefore on the ſpot, or conform to the religion of your anceſtors, for you are damned as a Catholic, if, knowing what you know, you neglect to betray me! This, as I have reaſon to believe, is no feigned anec⯑dote, but a true account of thoſe ſecret mea⯑ſures, which many Jewiſh families to this hour purſue for continuing the practice of their re⯑ligion and ſecuring themſelves from diſcovery, where the conſequences would be ſo fatal.

Having thus, by way of prelude, briefly in⯑formed my readers what theſe miſerable people are ſuffering in ſome countries, where they are ſecretly ſettled, I ſhall now proceed to lay before them a letter, which I have lately received from one of that perſuaſion, complaining of certain in⯑dignities and vexations from the humours of our common people, which, although they are but trifles compared to what I have been deſcribing, are nevertheleſs unbecoming the character of ſo illuminated and benevolent a nation as we have the honour to belong to.

If I had really that intereſt with my ingenious contemporaries, which Mr. Abrahams gives me credit for, I would not heſitate to exert it in his ſervice; but as I am afraid this is not the caſe, [33] I have taken the only method in my power of being uſeful to him, and have publiſhed his letter.

As for Shylock, who is ſo obnoxious to my correſpondent, I wiſh I could prove him the ſon of a Samaritan as clearly as Simon Magus; but I flatter myſelf the next beſt thing for his pur⯑poſe is to prove him the ſon of a poet, and that I will endeavour to do in my very next paper, with this further ſatisfaction to Mr. Abrahams, that I do not deſpair of taking him down a ſtep in his pedigree, which for a poetical one is, as it now ſtands, of the very firſt family in the king⯑dom.

As for the vulgar fun of ſmoaking a Jew, which ſo prevails amongſt us, I am perſuaded that my countrymen are much too generous and good-natured to ſport with the feelings of a fel⯑low-creature, if they were once fairly convinced that a Jew is their fellow-creature, and really has fellow-feelings with their own: Satisfy them in this point, and their humanity will do the reſt: I will therefore hope that nothing more is wanting in behalf of my correſpondent, (who ſeems a very worthy man) than to put the fol⯑lowing ſhort queſtions to his perſecutors—Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimenſions, ſenſes, affections, paſſions? Fed with [34] the ſame food, hurt with the ſame weapons, ſubject to the ſame diſeaſes, healed by the ſame means, warmed and cooled by the ſame ſummer and win⯑ter, as a Chriſtian is? If you prick them, do they not bleed? If you tickle them, do they not laugh? If you poiſon them, do they not die?—The man, who can give a ſerious anſwer to theſe queſtions, and yet perſiſt in perſecuting an unoffending being, becauſe he is a Jew, whatever country he may claim, or whatever religion he may profeſs, has the ſoul of an inquiſitor, and is fit for no⯑thing elſe but to feed the fires of an Auto da Fé.

When I turn my thoughts to the paſt and preſent ſituation of this peculiar people, I do not ſee how any Chriſtian nation according to the ſpirit of their religion can refuſe admiſſion to the Jews, who, in completion of thoſe very pro⯑phecies, on which Chriſtianity reſts, are to be ſcattered and diſſeminated amongſt all people and nations over the face of the earth. It ſeems therefore a thing as inconſiſtent with the ſpirit of thoſe prophecies for any one nation to attempt to expel them, as it would be to incorporate them.

The ſin and obduracy of their forefathers are amongſt the undoubted records of our goſpel, but I doubt if this can be a ſufficient reaſon, [35] why we ſhould hold them in ſuch general odium through ſo many ages, ſeeing how naturally the ſon follows the faith of the father, and how much too general a thing it is amongſt mankind to profeſs any particular form of religion, that de⯑volves upon them by inheritance, rather than by free election and conviction of reaſon founded upon examination.

Let me put the caſe of a man born a Jew and ſettled in a kingdom, where the Inquiſition is in force; can he reconcile his natural feelings to a converſion in favour of that church, which de⯑nounces everlaſting damnation againſt him, if he does not betray the ſecrets of his parents, and impeach them to the Inquiſition for the concealed religion, which he knows they prac⯑tiſe, though they do not profeſs.

If we as Chriſtians owe ſome reſpect to the Jews as the people choſen by God to be the keepers of thoſe prophetic records, which an⯑nounce the coming of the Meſſias, we owe it alſo to the truth of hiſtory to confeſs, that the hope indulged by them that his coming would bring temporal as well as ſpiritual ſalvation, was general to all the nation. Their antient ſages had united the military with the prophetic cha⯑racter; ſome had headed their armies; all had gone forth with them, and even their women [36] had contributed to the downfal of their enemies and oppreſſors: They had been delivered from their Egyptian and Babyloniſh thraldom by the arm of God; the yoke of Rome laid no leſs heavy on their necks; and they regarded their former deliverances as types and forerunners of the greater deliverance to come, when the Son of God ſhould deſcend upon earth in the pleni⯑tude of his power to rid them from their enemies and oppreſſors.

In place of this glittering but deluſive viſion they beheld a meek and humble man, a teacher of peaceful doctrines, who went about preaching forgiveneſs of injuries and ſubmiſſion to autho⯑rities. They aſked him (and the queſtion was a proving one) whether he would have them render tribute unto Caeſar: He told them in reply they ſhould render unto Caeſar the things that were Caeſar's, tribute to whom tribute was due: Mortifying reply! extinguiſhing at once their hopes and their ambition. Still there was ſomething about him that converted many and ſtaggered all; never man ſpoke as he ſpoke, ne⯑ver man did what he did; he had evident power of working miracles; the hand of God was with him and the operations of nature were under his controul: His power was great, but was not great to their purpoſes, and therefore they denied that [37] it was derived from God; they charged him with being a magician, and caſting out devils by the aid of the prince of the devils: A likely inter⯑courſe between the repreſentatives of light and of darkneſs; a notable colluſion between heaven and hell; if Beelzebub was to be charged with conſpiring to caſt out Beelzebub, it was at leaſt incumbent on the abettors of the charge to prove that any being, endowed with ſuch power could be ſo devoid of intelligence.

Conviction and rebuke only rendered them more furious and inveterate; deſpairing at length of employing his power againſt Rome, they re⯑ſolved upon turning the power of Rome againſt him: They impeached him before Pilate the Roman procurator; Pilate unwillingly at their urgent requiſition ſentenced him to ignominious execution; diſavowing in the ſtrongeſt terms his ſhare in the act, and by the figurative exculpa⯑tion of waſhing his hands in public view, puri⯑fying, (as far as ſuch a ceremony could purify) his tribunal from the guilt of ſpilling innocent blood.

Can it be a wonder with us at this hour that the Jews ſhould perſiſt in avowing their unbelief in the Meſſias? If they admit the evidences of the Chriſtian religion, do they not become their own accuſers? And this, although it be no rea⯑ſon [38] why a man ſhould ſhut his eyes againſt the truth, will yet be a motive, allowing for the im⯑perfection of human nature, why he ſhould not ſeek for it.

N^o LXV.

I SLIGHTLY hinted in my former paper that the Jew of Venice would not turn out to be the proper offspring of Shakeſpear, and as the reſearches of his commentators have ſettled this point ſo clearly againſt the legitimacy of Shylock, I may leave it with the reader's judg⯑ment to decide, whether he formed his drama immediately from the Pecorone of Fiorentina, borrowing the incident of the caſkets from Boc⯑cace; or at ſecond hand, as ſome ſuppoſe, from an old ballad formed upon that ſtory.

But I had a further object in the hint I then dropt, ſuggeſted to me by the peruſal of a very curious old novel written by Thomas Naſhe, and publiſhed in 1594, intitled The Unfortunate Tra⯑veller, or the Life of Jacke Wilton. The hero is deſcribed to be one of the court-pages belong⯑ing to Henry the Eighth, and is made to play a number of roguiſh pranks in the camp of that [39] monarch before Tournay. He travels to Mun⯑ſter in Germany, where he falls in with John of Leyden the famous fanatic, and is preſent at his defeat by the Imperialiſts; here he meets Lord Henry Howard, Earl of Surry, and accom⯑panies him to Venice, paſſing through Witten⯑berg, where he has an interview with Luther and Carloſtadius; from thence he repairs to Rome, where he relates a ſeries of ſtrange ad⯑ventures, by which he is thrown into the hands of a Jew named Zadock, phyſician to Pope Clement VIII. and having forfeited his life to him by the law, the Jew gets the perſon of Jack Wilton in limbo with an intent to anatomize him, and whilſt he is dieting and bleeding him for that purpoſe, the Marchioneſs of Mantua, the Pope's miſtreſs, ſpies him out from her bal⯑cony, and being ſmitten with his appearance, contrives to get him out of Zadock's hands, by perſuading his holineſs to baniſh all the Jews from Rome and confiſcate their effects, upon a charge ſhe ſets up againſt them.

With this intelligence Zadock is accoſted by a brother Jew called Zachary, ‘"who comes running to him in ſackcloth and aſhes, pre⯑ſently after his goods were confiſcated, and tells him how he is ſerved and what decree is coming out againſt them all."’

[40]I have made an extract of this interview be⯑tween Zadock and Zachary, which the reader will obſerve by the date was publiſhed before Shakeſpear wrote his Merchant of Venice, and as the critics ſeem agreed that he was converſant in other works of Naſhe, it is highly probable that this hiſtory of Jacke Wilton had alſo been in his hands: I do not mean to infer that Shake⯑ſpear took his character of Shylock from this of Naſhe's Zadock, for there is nothing that can warrant ſuch an inference; but I ſhall ſubmit the following dialogue as an extraordinary ſpecimen of ſtrong empaſſioned writing, which, though it will not ſtand by Shakeſpear's ſcene between Shylock and Tubal in dramatic terſeneſs, has nevertheleſs a force of expreſſion, that will bear a compariſon with that or any other paſſage in our old dramatic writers.

Zachary having made his report as above, the author thus proceeds to the introduction of his chief ſpeaker—

Zadock in concluſion is taken up and exe⯑cuted, and the deſcription of his tortures is ter⯑rible in the extreme; every circumſtance at⯑tending them is minutely delineated in colours full as ſtrong as the above.

I perſuade myſelf the reader will not be diſ⯑pleaſed, if I lay before him one extract more, in which he ridicules the affected dreſs and manners of the travelled gentlemen of his day: If we contemplate it as a painting of two hundred years ſtanding, I think it muſt be allowed to be a very curious ſketch.

I hope I need not obſerve that theſe deſcrip⯑tions are not here quoted for the truth they contain, but for the curioſity of them. Thomas Naſhe was the bittereſt ſatiriſt and controver⯑ſialiſt of the age he lived in.

N^o LXVI.

I WAS ſome nights ago much entertained with an excellent repreſentation of Mr. Congreve's comedy of The Double Dealer. When I reflected upon the youth of the author and the merit of the play, I acknowledged the truth of what the late Dr. Samuel Johnſon ſays in his life of this poet, that amongſt all the efforts of early genius, which literary hiſtory records, I doubt whether any one can be produced that more ſur⯑paſſes [47] the common limits of nature than the plays of Congreve.

The author of this comedy in his dedication informs us, that he deſigned the moral firſt, and to that moral invented the fable; and does not know that he has borrowed one hint of it any where.—I made the plot, ſays he, as ſtrong as I could; becauſe it was ſingle; and I made it ſingle becauſe I would avoid confuſion, and was reſolved to preſerve the three unities of the drama. As it is impoſſible not to give full credit to this aſſertion, I muſt conſider the reſemblance which many circumſtances in The Double Dealer bear to thoſe in a comedy of Beaumont and Fletcher, intitled Cupid's Revenge, as a caſual coinci⯑dence; and I think the learned biographer above quoted had good reaſon to pronounce of Congreve, that he is an original writer, who borrowed neither the models of his plot, nor the manner of his dialogue.

Mellafont, the nephew and heir of Lord Touchwood, being engaged to Cynthia, daugh⯑ter of Sir Paul Pliant, the traverſing this match forms the object of the plot, on which this co⯑medy of The Double Dealer is conſtructed; the intrigue conſiſts in the various artifices employed by Lady Touchwood and her agents for that purpoſe.

[48]That the object is (as the author himſelf ſtates it to be) ſingly this, will appear upon con⯑ſidering, that, although the ruin of Mellafont's fortune is for a time effected by theſe contri⯑vances, that are employed for traverſing his marriage, yet it is rather a meaſure of neceſſity and ſelf-defence in Lady Touchwood, than of original deſign; it ſprings from the artifice of incident, and belongs more properly to the in⯑trigue, than to the object of the plot.

The making or obſtructing marriages is the common hinge, on which moſt comic fables are contrived to turn, but in this match of Mella⯑font's, which the author has taken for the ground-work of his plot, I muſt obſerve that it would have been better to have given more in⯑tereſt to an event, which he has made the main object of the play: He has taken little pains to recommend the parties to his ſpectators, or to paint their mutual attachment with any warmth of colouring. Who will feel any concern whe⯑ther Mellafont marries Cynthia or not, if they themſelves appear indifferent on the occaſion, and upon the eve of their nuptials converſe in the following ſtrain?

This ſcene, which proceeds throughout in the ſame ſtrain, ſeems to confirm Dr. Johnſon's re⯑mark, that Congreve formed a peculiar idea of comic excellence, which he ſuppoſed to conſiſt in gay remarks and unexpected anſwers—that his ſcenes exhibit not much of humour, imagery or paſſion; his perſonages are a kind of intellectual gladiators; every ſentence is toward or ſtrike; the conteſt of ſmartneſs is never intermitted; and his wit is a meteor playing to and fro with alternate coruſ⯑cations.

There is but one more interview between Cynthia and Mellafont, which is the opening of the fourth act, and this is of ſo flat and inſipid a ſort, as to be with reaſon omitted in repre⯑ſentation: I think therefore it may be juſtly ob⯑ſerved, [50] that this match, for the prevention of which artifices of ſo virulent and diabolical a na⯑ture are practiſed by Lady Touchwood and The Double Dealer, is not preſſed upon the feelings of the ſpectators in ſo intereſting a manner, as it ſhould and might have been.

Having remarked upon the object of the plot, I ſhall next conſider the intrigue; and for this purpoſe we muſt methodically trace the conduct of Lady Touchwood, who is the poet's chief engine, and that of her under-agent Maſkwell.

The ſcene lies in Lord Touchwood's houſe, but whether in town or country does not appear. Sir Paul Pliant, his lady and daughter, are natu⯑rally brought thither, upon the day preceding Cynthia's marriage, to adjuſt the ſettlement: Lord and Lady Froth, Careleſs and Briſk, are viſiters on the occaſion; Mellafont and Maſk⯑well are inmates: This diſpoſition is as happy as can be deviſed. The incident related by Mellafont to Careleſs, of the attempt upon him made by Lady Touchwood, artfully prepares us to expect every thing that revenge and paſſion can ſuggeſt for fruſtrating his happineſs; and it is judicious to repreſent Mellafont incredulous as to the criminality of Maſkwell's intercourſe with Lady Touchwood; for if he had believed it upon Careleſs's ſuggeſtion, it would have made his [51] blindneſs to the character of Maſkwell not only weak, (which in fact it is) but unnatural and even guilty.

Maſkwell in the firſt act makes general pro⯑miſes to Lady Touchwood that he will defeat Mellafont's match—You ſhall poſſeſs and ruin him too.—The lady preſſes him to explain par⯑ticulars; he opens no other reſource but that of poſſeſſing Lady Pliant with an idea that Mellafont is fond of her—She muſt be thoroughly perſuaded that Mellafont loves her.—So ſhallow a contri⯑vance as this cannot eſcape the lady's penetra⯑tion, and ſhe naturally anſwers—I don't ſee what you can propoſe from ſo trifling a deſign; for her firſt converſing with Mellafont will convince her of the contrary.—In fact, the author's good ſenſe was well aware how weak this expedient is, and it ſeems applied to no other purpoſe than as an incident to help on the under-plot, by bringing forward the comic effect of Lady Pliant's character, and that of Sir Paul: Maſkwell himſelf is ſo fairly gravelled by the obſervation, that he confeſſes he does not depend upon it; but he obſerves that it will prepare ſome⯑thing elſe, and gain him leiſure to lay a ſtronger plot; if I gain a little time, ſays he, I ſhall not want contrivance.

[52]In the ſecond act this deſign upon Lady Pliant is played off, and Maſkwell in an interview with Mellafont avows the plot, and ſays—to tell you the truth, I encouraged it for your diverſion. He proceeds to ſay, that in order to gain the confi⯑dence of Lady Touchwood, he had pretended to have been long ſecretly in love with Cynthia; that thereby he had drawn forth the ſecrets of her heart, and that if he accompliſhed her deſigns, ſhe had engaged to put Cynthia with all her fortune into his power: He then diſcloſes by ſoliloquy that his motive for double dealing was founded in his paſſion for Cynthia, and obſerves that the name of rival cuts all ties aſunder and is a general acquittance. This proceeding is in nature and is good co⯑medy.

The third act opens with a ſcene between Lord and Lady Touchwood, which is admirably con⯑ceived and executed with great ſpirit; I queſtion if there is any thing of the author ſuperior to this dialogue. The deſign of alarming the jealouſy and reſentment of Lord Touchwood now appears to have originated with the lady, although Maſkwell was privy to it, and ready for a cue to come in and confirm all, had there been occaſion; he propoſes to her to ſay that he was privy to Mellafont's deſign, but that he uſed his utmoſt endeavours to diſſuade him from it; and on the credit, he thinks to [53] eſtabliſh by this proof of his honour and honeſty, he grounds another plot, which he keeps as his ultimate and moſt ſecret reſource, that of cheating her [Lady Touchwood] as well as the reſt. He now reveals to Mellafont a criminal aſſignation with Lady Touchwood in her chamber at eight, and propoſes to him to come and ſurprize them together, and then, ſays he, it will be hard if you cannot bring her to any conditions.

This appears to me to be a very dangerous experiment, and ſcarce within the bounds of nature and probability. If Maſkwell, under co⯑ver of the propoſal, had in view nothing more than the introduction of Mellafont into Lady Touchwood's bedchamber, there to put them together, and then to bring Lord Touchwood ſecretly upon them in the moment of their inter⯑view, his contrivance could not have been better laid for the purpoſe of confirming the impreſſion, which that lord had received againſt his nephew; in which Maſkwell had nothing more to do than to appriſe the lady of his deſign, and ſhe of courſe could have managed the interview to the purpoſes of the plot, and effectually have com⯑pleated the ruin of Mellafont: This, it ſhould ſeem, would have anſwered his object compleatly, for he would have riſen upon the ruin of Mella⯑font, poſſeſſed himſelf of Lord Touchwood's [54] favour, bound Lady Touchwood to concealment of his villainy, and been as able to lay his train for the poſſeſſion of Cynthia, as by any other mode he could chuſe for obtaining her; but if he put it to the iſſue of a ſurprize upon Lady Touchwood, when ſhe was not prepared for the management of that ſurprize, what was he to expect from the introduction of Lord Touch⯑wood, but diſcovery and defeat? Was it not natural to ſuppoſe Mellafont would ſeize the opportunity of reproaching her with her crimi⯑nality with Maſkwell? It was for that very pur⯑poſe he brings him thither; he tells him it will be hard if he cannot then bring her to any condi⯑tions;—and if this was to paſs under the terror of his reproaches, how could Maſkwell ſet Lord Touchwood upon liſtening to their converſation and not apprehend for a conſequence apparently ſo unavoidable? He puts every thing to riſque by propoſing to Mellafont to conceal himſelf in Lady Touchwood's bedchamber, whilſt ſhe is in the cloſet; he then meets Lord Touchwood, ap⯑points him to come to the lobby by the bed-chamber in a quarter of an hour's time; he keeps his aſſignation with the lady, Mellafont ſtarts from his hiding-place, and Maſkwell eſcapes, but ſoon returns, ſecretly introducing Lord Touchwood to liſten to the dialogue be⯑tween [55] his lady and nephew: She accidentally diſcovers him without his being ſeen by Mella⯑font, and turns that accidental diſcovery againſt Mellafont. What a combination of improbabili⯑ties is here fortuitouſly thrown together to pro⯑duce this lucky incident! Could Maſkwell rea⯑ſonably preſume upon a chance ſo beyond ex⯑pectation? Every thing is made to turn upon the precarious point of a minute: If Lord Touch⯑wood, who was appointed for a quarter of an hour, had anticipated that appointment, if Lady Touchwood had been leſs punctual to her aſ⯑ſignation, if Mellafont had happened to have dropt one word in his uncle's hearing, charging her with his diſcovery, as had been agreed, or if either ſhe had happened not to have ſeen Lord Touchwood, of Mellafont had ſeen him; in ſhort, if any one thing had turned up, which ought to have come to paſs, or otherwiſe than it was made to come to paſs by the greateſt violence to probability, Maſkwell was inevitably undone: It muſt be owned he laid a train for his own deſtruction, but ſtage incident reſcued him; and this, with the lady's adroitneſs, effaces the improbability, when it paſſes in repreſenta⯑tion, and keeps nature out of ſight. Had Mel⯑lafont told the plain ſtory to his uncle, after Lady Touchwood had ſo unexpectedly turned it [56] againſt him, it would at leaſt have put the plot to riſque, and of this the author ſeems ſo con⯑ſcious, that he does not ſuffer him to attempt a ſingle word in his defence; to ſave his villain, he is compelled to ſacrifice his hero.

It is not ſufficient to ſay that a poet has his characters in his power, and can faſhion inci⯑dents according to his own diſcretion; he muſt do no violence to nature and probability for the purpoſes of his plot.

Maſkwell having in this manner eſcaped with ſucceſs, begins next to put in execution his plot for obtaining Cynthia, and this conſtitutes the intrigue and cataſtrophe of the fifth act: His plan is as follows—Having imparted to Lord Touchwood his love for Cynthia by the vehicle of a ſoliloquy, which is to be overheard by his lordſhip, he propoſes to himſelf to carry off Cyn⯑thia to St. Albans with the chaplain in the coach, there to be married; this ſhe is to be trepanned into by perſuading her that the chap⯑lain is Mellafont, and Mellafont is brought to co-operate, by a promiſe that he ſhall elope with Cynthia under that diſguiſe, and that the chap⯑lain ſhall be made to follow on the day after and then marry him to Cynthia; with this view Mel⯑lafont is appointed to meet Maſkwell in one chamber, and Cynthia in another; the real chap⯑lain [57] is to be paſſed upon the lady for Mellafont, and Mellafont is to be left in the lurch; this plot upon Cynthia Maſkwell confides to Lord Touchwood, telling him there is no other way to poſſeſs himſelf of her but by ſurprize.

Though the author undoubtedly meant his villain ſhould in the end outwit himſelf, yet he did not mean him to attempt impoſſibilities, and the abſurdities of this contrivance are ſo many, that I know not which to mention firſt. How was Maſkwell to poſſeſs himſelf of Cynthia by this ſcheme? By what force or fraud is he to ac⯑compliſh the object of marrying her? We muſt conclude he was not quite ſo deſperate as to ſacrifice all his hopes from Lord Touchwood by any violence upon her perſon; there is nothing in his character to warrant the conjecture. It is no leſs unaccountable how Mellafont could be caught by this project, and induced to equip himſelf in the chaplain's gown to run off with a lady, who had pledged herſelf to him never to marry any other man: There was no want of conſent on her part; a reconciliation with Lord Touchwood was the only object he had to look to, and how was that to be effected by this elopement with Cynthia?

The jealouſy of Lady Touchwood was another rock on which Maſkwell was ſure to ſplit: It [58] would have been natural for him to have pro⯑vided againſt this danger by binding my lord to ſecrecy, and the lady's pride of family was a ready plea for that purpoſe; when he was talking to himſelf for the purpoſe of being overheard by Lord Touchwood, he had nothing to do but to throw in this obſervation amongſt the reſt to bar that point againſt diſcovery.

The reader will not ſuppoſe I would ſuggeſt a plan of operation for The Double Dealer to ſecure him againſt diſcovery; I am only for adding pro⯑bability and common precaution to his projects: I allow that it is in character for him to grow wanton with ſucceſs; there is a moral in a villain outwitting himſelf; but the cataſtrophe would in my opinion have been far more brilliant, if his ſchemes had broke up with more force of contrivance; laid as they are, they melt away and diſſolve by their own weakneſs and incon⯑ſiſtency; Lord and Lady Touchwood, Careleſs and Cynthia, all join in the diſcovery; every one but Mellafont ſees through the plot, and he is blindneſs itſelf.

Mr. Congreve, in his dedication above men⯑tioned, defends himſelf againſt the objection to ſoliloquies; but I conceive he is more open to criticiſm for the frequent uſe he makes of liſten⯑ing; [59] Lord Touchwood three times has recourſe to this expedient.

Of the characters in this comedy Lady Touch⯑wood, though of an unfavourable caſt, ſeems to have been the chief care of the poet, and is well preſerved throughout; her elevation of tone, nearly approaching to the tragic, affords a ſtrong relief to the lighter ſketches of the epiſodical perſons, Sir Paul and Lady Pliant, Lord and Lady Froth, who are highly entertaining, but much more looſe than the ſtage in its preſent ſtate of reformation would endure: Nothing more can be ſaid of Careleſs and Briſk, than that they are the young men of the theatre, at the time when they were in repreſentation. Of Maſkwell enough has been ſaid in theſe remarks, nor need any thing be added to what has been already obſerved upon Mellafont and Cynthia. As for the moral of the play, which the author ſays he deſigned in the firſt place and then ap⯑plied the fable to it, it ſhould ſeem to have been his principal object in the formation of the co⯑medy, and yet it is not made to reach ſeveral characters of very libertine principles, who are left to reform themſelves at leiſure; and the plot, though ſubordinate to the moral, ſeems to have drawn him off from executing his good inten⯑tions [60] ſo compleatly as thoſe profeſſions may be underſtood to engage for.

N^o LXVII.

IT ſeems as if moſt of the antient writers of hiſtory thought no events worth recording to poſterity but accounts of battles and ſieges and the overthrow of empires; as if men were to be celebrated only in proportion to the devaſtation they had made of the human ſpecies. As my re⯑ſpect, on the contrary, is directed chiefly to thoſe peaceable characters, who have been the bene⯑factors of mankind, it is with pleaſure I diſco⯑vered an anecdote of an antient king of Egypt of this deſcription, named Oſymanduas: This good prince, amongſt other praiſe-worthy actions, has the credit of making the firſt public library in that learned nation, before books were collected at Athens by Piſiſtratus: Oſymanduas made no [61] ſcruple to convert one of the chief temples to this generous uſe, and gave it in charge to the prieſts belonging to it to digeſt and arrange his collection; when this was done, he laid it open to the public, and by a very appoſite and ingeni⯑ous device, which he cauſed to be inſcribed upon the front of the edifice, invited all his ſubjects to enter in and partake of his benefaction: He conſidered it as the duty of a good king to pro⯑vide againſt the mental as well as bodily ail⯑ments of his people; it appeared to him that books were the beſt medicines for the mind of man, and conſequently that a collection of books, ſuch as his library contained, might well be in⯑titled a magazine or warehouſe of medicines for the mind; with this idea he directed the follow⯑ing words to be engraved over the door of his li⯑brary in conſpicuous characters— [...]. There is a beautiful ſimplicity in the thought, which ſeems to give an inſight into the bene⯑volent deſign of the donor; and as I hold it a more noble office to preſerve the mind in health, than to keep the body after death from cor⯑ruption, I cannot heſitate to give Oſymanduas more credit for this benefaction of a library, than if he had been fo [...]der of the pyramids.

As the diſtempers of the mind may be figura⯑tively claſſed under the ſeveral characters of thoſe [62] maladies, which are incidental to the body, ſo the ſeveral deſcriptions of books may very well be ſorted into the various genera of medicines, which practice has applied to thoſe reſpective diſtempers. A library, thus pharmaceutically diſpoſed, would have the appearance of a diſ⯑penſatory, and might be properly enough ſo called; and when I recollect how many of our eminent collectors of books have been of the medical faculty, I cannot but think it probable that thoſe great benefactors to literature, Rat⯑cliffe, Mead, Sloane, Hunter and others have had this very idea of Oſymanduas in their minds, when they founded their libraries. If therefore it ſhould be thought agreeable to the will of the donors, and a proper mark of reſpect to their memories, ſo to arrange their collections, now in the repoſitories of Oxford and the Bri⯑tiſh Muſeum, it will be neceſſary to find out a different ſet of titles, and inſtead of ſorting them as they now are into the compartments of The Hiſtorians; The Poets; The Divines, it will be right to ſet up new inſcriptions in their places, and intitle them, The Alteratives; The Stimu⯑latives; The Narcotics. I need not point out to the learned keepers of theſe libraries how to proceed in an arrangement, to which their own judgments are ſo fully competent; nothing [63] more will be required of them, but to aſcer⯑tain the particular ſpecies of diſeaſe, which the mind of the patient is affected with, and ſend him forthwith to the proper claſs of authors for his cure.

For inſtance; if the complaint ariſes from cold humours and a want of free perſpiration by a ſtoppage and conſtipation of the pores of the mind, by which the feelings are rendered inert, and deprived of that proper emanation and expanſion, which the health of the ſoul re⯑quires; let ſuch an one be ſhut into the warm bath of the Sudorifics, which I need not explain to be the Satyriſts, and they will ſoon open his pores and diſperſe all obſtructions. If the men⯑tal diſeaſe be of the inflammatory and feveriſh ſort, attended with fits and paroxyſms of anger, envy, revenge, and other atrabilious ſymptoms, which cannot be miſtaken, it will be proper to turn the patient into the cell of the Moraliſts, who will naturally be found under the title of The Coolers and Sedatives: On the contrary, where the complaint is of the lethargic nature, in which Irritation is neceſſary, the Controver⯑ſialiſts will furniſh him a remedy: In ſhort, we need only ſay, that when the ſeveral authors are properly arranged, every caſe may find its cure. The comic writers will act as Carminatives to [64] diſpel the vapours; books of travels as Cathar⯑tics to procure a motion; memoirs and novels will operate as Provocatives, politics as Corro⯑ſives, and panegyrics as Emetics. Two com⯑partments ſhould be kept apart and ſpecially diſtinguiſhed, viz. the ſacred writings under the title of Reſtoratives, and the works of the infidels under the denominations of deadly Poi⯑ſons: The former will be ſovereign in all gal⯑loping conſumptions of diſſipation, and the latter will be reſorted to by none but ſuicides and deſperadoes.

I ſhould now diſmiſs the ſubject, but that I had forgotten to ſpeak of the Eſſayiſts, who from their miſcellaneous properties certainly come under the claſs of Compounds, and cannot there⯑fore be ſo preciſely ſpecified; as they are ap⯑plicable to chronic diſeaſes rather than acute ones, they may very well ſtand in the liſt of Correctors, which taken in a regular courſe and under proper regimen are found very efficacious in all caſes, where the conſtitution is impaired by exceſs and bad habits of living: They ſeem moſt to reſemble thoſe medicinal ſprings, which are impregnated with a variety of properties, and, when critically analyzed, are found to con⯑tain ſalt, nitre, ſteel, ſulphur, chalk and other calcareous particles: When the more reſpect⯑able [65] names of Bath, Spa, Pyrmont, Seltzer, and others, are diſpoſed of, I am not without hopes theſe humbler eſſays, which my candid readers are now in the courſe of taking, may be found to have the wholeſome properties of Tunbridge Waters.

It is ſuppoſed that this library of the venerable Oſymanduas deſcended to the Ptolemies, aug⯑mented probably by the intermediate monarchs, and ultimately brought to perfection by the learned and munificent Philadelphus, ſon of Ptolemy Lagus, ſo well known for his Greek tranſlation of the Hebrew Septuagint.

Little attention was paid to literature by the Romans in the early and more martial ages: I read of no collections antecedent to thoſe made by Aemilius Paulus and Lucullus, the latter of whom, being a man of great magnificence, al⯑lowed the learned men of his time to have free acceſs to his library, but neither in his life time, nor at his death, made it public property. Cornelius Sylla before his dictatorſhip plun⯑dered Athens of a great collection of books, which had been accumulating from the time of the tyranny, and theſe he brought to Rome, but did not build or endow any library for public uſe. This was at laſt undertaken by Julius Caeſar upon an imperial ſcale not long [66] before his death, and the learned M. Varro was employed to collect and arrange the books for the foundation of an ample library; its completion, which was interrupted by the death of Julius and the civil wars ſubſequent thereto, was left for Auguſtus, who aſſigned a fund out of the Dalmatian booty for this purpoſe, which he put into the hands of the celebrated Aſinius Pollio, who therewith founded a temple to Li⯑berty on Mount Aventine, and with the help of Sylla's and Varro's collections in addition to his own purchaſes, opened the firſt public library in Rome in an apartment annexed to the temple above mentioned. Two others were afterwards inſtituted by the ſame emperor, which he called the Octavian and Palatine Libraries; the firſt, ſo named in honour of his ſiſter, was placed in the temple of Juno; the latter, as its title ſpecifies, was in the imperial palace: Theſe libraries were royally endowed with eſtabliſhments of Greek and Latin librarians, of which C. Julius Hyginus the grammarian was one.

The emperor Tiberius added another li⯑brary to the palace, and attached his new build⯑ing to that front which looked towards the Via ſacra, in which quarter he himſelf reſided. Veſpaſian endowed a public library in the temple [67] of peace. Trajan founded the famous Ulpian Library in his new forum, from whence it was at laſt removed to the Collis Viminalis to furniſh the baths of Diocleſian. The Capitoline Li⯑brary is ſuppoſed to have been founded by Do⯑mitian, and was conſumed, together with the noble edifice to which it was attached, by a ſtroke of lightning in the time of Commodus. The emperor Hadrian enriched his favourite villa with a ſuperb collection of books, and lodged them in a temple dedicated to Hercules. Theſe were in ſucceeding times ſo multiplied by the munificence and emulation of the ſeveral emperors, that in the reign of Conſtantine, Rome contained no leſs than twenty-nine pub⯑lic libraries, of which the principal were the Palatine and Ulpian.

Though books were then collected at an im⯑menſe expence, ſeveral private citizens of for⯑tune made conſiderable libraries. Tyrannio the grammarian even in the time of Sylla was poſ⯑ſeſſed of three thouſand volumes; Epaphroditus, a grammarian alſo, had in later times collected thirty thouſand of the moſt ſelect and valuable books; but Sammonicus Serenus bequeathed to the emperor Gordian a library containing no leſs than ſixty-two thouſand volumes. It was not always a love of literature that tempted [68] people to theſe expences, for Seneca complains of the vanity of the age in furniſhing their ban⯑quetting rooms with books, not for uſe, but for ſhew, and in a mere ſpirit of profuſion. Their baths, both hot and cold, were always ſupplied with books to fill up an idle hour amongſt the other recreations of the place; in like manner their country houſes and even public offices were provided for the uſe and amuſement of their gueſts or clients.

The Roman libraries in point of diſpoſition much reſembled the preſent faſhion obſerved in our public ones, for the books were not placed againſt the walls, but brought into the area of the room in ſeparate cells and compartments, where they were lodged in preſſes: The in⯑tervals between theſe compartments were richly ornamented with inlaid plates of glaſs and ivory, and marble baſſo-relievos. In theſe compart⯑ments, which were furniſhed with deſks and couches for the accommodation of readers, it was uſual to place the ſtatues of learned men, one in each; and this we may obſerve is one of the few elegancies, which Rome was not indebted to Greece for, the firſt idea having been ſtarted by the accompliſhed Pollio, who in his library on Mount Aventine ſet up the ſtatue of his illuſtrious contemporary Varro, [69] even whilſt he was living: It was uſual alſo to ornament the preſs, where any conſiderable au⯑thor's works were contained, with his figure in braſs or plaiſter of a ſmall ſize.

There is one more circumſtance attending theſe public libraries, which ought not to be omitted, as it marks the liberal ſpirit of their inſtitution: It was uſual to appropriate an ad⯑joining building for the uſe and accommodation of ſtudents, where every thing was furniſhed at the emperor's coſt; they were lodged, dieted and attended by ſervants ſpecially appointed, and ſupplied with every thing, under the eye of the chief librarian, that could be wanting, whilſt they were engaged in their ſtudies and had occaſion to conſult the books: This eſtabliſh⯑ment was kept up in a very princely ſtile at Alexandria in particular, where a college was endowed and a ſpecial fund appointed for its ſupport, with a preſident, and proper officers under him, for the entertainment of learned ſtrangers, who reſorted thither from various parts to conſult thoſe invaluable collections, which that famous library contained in all branches of ſcience.

N^o LXVIII.

PEOPLE have a cuſtom of excuſing the enormities of their conduct by talking of their paſſions, as if they were under the con⯑troul of a blind neceſſity, and ſinned becauſe they could not help it. Before any man reſorts to this kind of excuſe it behoves him to exa⯑mine the juſtice of it, and to be ſure that theſe paſſions, which he thus attempts to palliate, are ſtrictly natural, and do not ſpring either from the neglect of education or the crime of ſelf-indulgence.

Of our infancy, properly ſo called, we either remember nothing, or few things faintly and imperfectly; ſome paſſions however make their appearance in this ſtage of human life, and appear to be born with us, others are born after us; ſome follow us to the grave, others forſake us in the decline of age.

The life of man is to be reviewed under three periods, infancy, youth, and manhood; the firſt includes that portion of time before reaſon ſhews itſelf; in the ſecond it appears indeed, but being incompetent to the proper government of the creature, requires the aid, [71] ſupport and correction of education; in the third it attains to its maturity.

Now as a perſon's reſponſibility bears reſpect to his reaſon, ſo do human puniſhments bear reſpect to his reſponſibility: Infants and boys are chaſtiſed by the hand of the parent or the maſter; rational adults are amenable to the laws, and what is termed miſchief in the firſt caſe becomes a crime in the other. It will not avail the man to plead loſs of reaſon by temporary intoxication, nor can he excuſe him⯑ſelf by the plea of any ſudden impulſe of paſ⯑ſion. If a priſoner tells his judge that it is his nature to be cruel, that anger, luſt or malice are inherent in his conſtitution, no human tri⯑bunal will admit the defence; yet thus it is that all people deal with God and the world, when they attempt to palliate their enormities, by pleading the uncontroulable propenſity of their natural deſires, as if the Creator had ſet up a tyrant in their hearts, which they were neceſſi⯑tated to obey.

This miſerable ſubterfuge is no leſs abject than impious; for what can be more degrading to a being, whoſe inherent attribute is free-agency and whoſe diſtinguiſhing faculty is rea⯑ſon, than to ſhelter himſelf from the dread of reſponſibility under the humiliating apology of [72] mental ſlavery? It is as if he ſhould ſay—Excuſe the irregularities of my conduct, for I am a brute and not a man; I follow inſtinct and re⯑nounce all claim to reaſon; my actions govern me, not I my actions;—and yet the people, to whom I allude, generally ſet up this plea in excuſe for thoſe paſſions in particular, which have their origin in that ſtage of life, when the human mind is in the uſe and poſſeſſion of reaſon; an impoſition ſo glaring that it convicts itſelf; not⯑withſtanding this it is too often ſeen, that whilſt the ſenſualiſt is avowing the irreſiſtible violence of his propenſities, vanity ſhall receive it not only as an atonement for the baſeſt at⯑tempts, but as an expected tribute to the tempt⯑ing charms of beauty; nay ſuch is the per⯑verſion of principle in ſome men, that it ſhall paſs with them as a recommendation even of that ſex, the purity of whoſe minds ſhould be their ſovereign grace and ornament.

The paſſion of fear ſeems coaeval with our nature; if they, who have our infancy in charge, ſuffer this paſſion to fix and increaſe upon us; if they augment our infant fears by invented terrors, and preſent to our ſight frightful objects to ſcare us; if they practiſe on our natural and defenceleſs timidity by blows and menaces, and cruſh us into abſolute ſubjection of ſpirit [73] in our early years, a human creature thus abuſed has enough to plead in excuſe for cow⯑ardice; and yet this, which is the ſtrongeſt defence we can make upon the impulſe of paſſion, is perhaps the only one we never reſort to: In moſt other paſſions we call that conſti⯑tution, which is only habit.

When we reflect upon the variety of paſſions, to which the human mind is liable, it ſhould ſeem as if reaſon, which is expreſsly implanted in us for their correction and controul, was greatly overmatched by ſuch a hoſt of turbulent inſurgents; but upon a cloſer examination we may find that reaſon has many aids and allies, and though her antagoniſts are alſo many and mighty, yet that they are divided and diſtracted, whilſt ſhe can in all caſes turn one paſſion againſt another, ſo as to counterbalance any power by its oppoſite, and make evil inſtru⯑ments in her hands conducive to moral ends: Avarice for inſtance will act as a counterpoiſe to luſt and intemperance, whilſt vanity on the other hand will check avarice; fear will keep a bad man honeſt, and pride will ſometimes make a coward brave.

Obſerve the manners of Palpatius in com⯑pany with his patron; aſſiduous, humble, oblig⯑ing; for ever ſmiling, and ſo ſupple and obſe⯑quious, [74] you would think he had no will of his own, and was born for the uſes and oc⯑caſions of others: Follow Palpatius to his houſe, ſee him with his wife and children, hear him dictate to his ſervants and the needy de⯑pendants, who make ſuit through him to his principal, you will find all things reverſed; the ſycophant turns out a tyrant, and he is only indebted to his hypocriſy for keeping his inſo⯑lence out of ſight.

Frocax is one of the moſt diſſolute men living; he is handſome, impudent, and inſi⯑nuating, qualifications that enſure his ſucceſs with the ladies: He profeſt the moſt vehement paſſion for Fulvia; but Fulvia was on the point of marrying Vetulus, a rich old man, who wanted an heir, and till that event took place ſhe held out againſt Procax upon motives of convenience only: Fulvia ſoon became the wife of Vetulus; ſhe had no longer any repug⯑nance to be the miſtreſs of Procax; but the ſame man, who had pleaded the irreſiſtible vio⯑lence of his deſires before marriage, now pre⯑tended conſcience, and drew back from her ad⯑vances; nay he did more, he put Vetulus upon his guard, and Fulvia's virtue was too cloſely watched to be in any future danger: What ſudden change was this in Procax? Vetulus [75] had no heirs, and Procax had a contingent in⯑tereſt in the entail of his eſtate.

Splendida, in one of her morning airings, was ſolicited for charity by a poor woman with an infant in her arms.—It is not for myſelf, madam, ſaid the wretched creature, it is for my huſband, who lies under that hedge tormented with a fever, and dying for want of relief.—Splendida directed her eyes towards the ſpot, and ſaw a ſickly object ſtretched upon the ground, clad in the tattered regimental of a foot ſoldier: Her heart was touched, and ſhe drew out her purſe, which was full of guineas: The blood ruſhed into the beggar's meagre viſage at the ſight; Splendida turned over the gold; her hand de⯑layed for a moment, and the impulſe was loſt; unhappily for the ſuppliant, Splendida was alone and without a witneſs: She put her hand once more into her pocket, and, taking out a ſolitary ſhilling, dropt it into the ſhrivelled palm that was ſtreched out to receive it, and drove on. Splendida returned home, dreſt herſelf, and went to a certain great lady's aſſembly; a ſubſcrip⯑tion was put about for the benefit of a cele⯑brated actreſs; the lady condeſcended to receive ſubſcriptions in perſon, and delivered a ticket to each contributor: Splendida drew forth the ſame purſe, and wrapping twenty guineas in a paper, [76] put them into the hand of the noble beggar: The room rang with applauſes of her charity—I give it, ſays ſhe, to her virtues, rather than to her talents; I beſtow it on the wife and mother, not upon the actreſs. Splendida on her return home took out her accompt-book, and ſet down twenty-one pounds one ſhilling to the article of charity; the ſhilling indeed Heaven audited on the ſcore of alms, the pounds were poſted to the account of vanity.

N^o LXIX.

AN ingenious author, who ſome years ago publiſhed a volume under the title of Maxims, Characters, and Reflections, has the fol⯑lowing remark:—You would know how a man talks to judge of his underſtanding, and yet poſ⯑ſibly (however great the paradox) the very con⯑trary method might be leſs fallible; the knowing how he hears might ſhew it you much better. As I had not ſeen this book when I gave my account of Mr. Jedediah Fiſh's Academy for Hearing, it gave me great pleaſure to fall in with the ſentiment of a contemporary, who [77] whilſt he mixes with the world as a man of faſhion, reviews the living manners with the ſagacity of a philoſopher. I tranſcribed the whole article, from which the above paſſage is extracted, and ſent it to Mr. Fiſh: It will be found in the author's volume, N^o LXXI. and is aptly illuſtrated by two ſketches of character; one of which, called Cleon, is a talker, and Theocles, the other, is a hearer.

I have been favoured with the following anſwer from Mr. Fiſh.

[82]I am not ſo partial to my correſpondent, as to defend him in all his proceedings, and I ſuſpect, that, whilſt he is labouring to reſtore his patients to their ears, he may chance to take away their lives. Men, who act upon ſyſtem, are apt to ſtrain it too far; and as pre⯑vention is always to be preferred to remedy, I could wiſh that parents would take early care to inſtruct their children in the art of hearing, if it were only to guard them againſt falling into Mr. Fiſh's hands, when the malady may become ſtubborn.

I ſhall ſuggeſt one hint in the way of advice to fathers and mothers, which, if they are pleaſed to attend to it, may perhaps ſave ſome future trouble and vexation.

I would wiſh all parents to believe, that the human character begins to fix itſelf much earlier in life, than they are generally aware of. There is ſomething very captivating in the dawning ideas of our children; we are apt to flatter and careſs them for their early vivacity; we tell their ſmart ſayings and repartees with a kind of triumph even in their preſence, and the com⯑pany we tell them to are always polite enough to applaud and admire them. By theſe means we inſtil our own vanity into their infant minds, and puſh their genius into prematurity. The [83] forwardneſs, which this practice of our's is ſure to create, paſſes off agreeably for a time; but, when infancy ceaſes, it begins to annoy us, and Miſs or Maſter appear inſupportably pert. The parent then finds himſelf obliged to turn the other ſide of his countenance upon the wit⯑ticiſms of his child; this is not only a painful taſk, but probably a fruitleſs one; for the child by this time has made its party, and can find its admirers elſewhere: Every obliging viſitor makes intereſt with the clever little creature; the nurſery, the kitchen, the ſtables echo with applauſe; it can chatter, or mimic, or act its tricks before the ſervants, and be ſure of an audience: The miſchief is done, and the parent may ſnub to no purpoſe.

Let parents therefore firſt correct themſelves, before they undertake that office for their chil⯑dren: Education is incompatible with ſelf-indul⯑gence, and the impulſe of vanity is too often miſtaken for the impulſe of nature: When Miſs is a wit, I am apt to ſuſpect that her mother is not over-wiſe.

N^o LXX.

PRIDE is never more offenſive, than when it condeſcends to be civil; whereas vanity, whenever it forgets itſelf, naturally aſſumes good-humour. Nothing was ever more agreeable than Vaneſſa t'other night, when I found her in a ſmall circle over her fire-ſide, where a cer⯑tain gentleman had taken the whole taſk of talk⯑ing on himſelf, and left Vaneſſa nothing elſe to do, but to ſhew him juſt as much attention as ſerved to make him believe ſhe was liſtening, and left her at liberty to reſt her own imagi⯑nation in the mean-time.

I found this gentleman at the cloſe of a pa⯑thetic narrative he had been giving of ſome ad⯑venture, which he had met with in his travels, and which he wound up with ſaying—‘"I am afraid, ladies, this ſtory has made you melan⯑choly."’ If he had ſaid weary, he had been nearer to the truth: Methought Vaneſſa once in her life forgot her uſual politeneſs, when ſhe anſwered him—‘"Oh! no; not at all"’—but [85] ſhe was thinking of ſomething elſe, and the ſtory I ſhould gueſs had been very circumſtan⯑tial; ſo that I heartily forgave her. The talk⯑ing gentleman however was not diſpoſed to take her word, but ſtuck to his opinion, and had ſo much conſideration for the company, as to pro⯑miſe them another ſtory, which ſhould be alto⯑gether as diverting, as the former one had been mournful. There was an effort in the coun⯑tenance of Vaneſſa, which convinced me of her good-humour; ſhe ſtrove to welcome this pro⯑miſe with a ſmile; but it was a ſmile, that coſt her ſome pains to produce, and if the talker had poſſeſſed but one grain of intuition, he muſt have diſcovered that all ſuch promiſes out up performance, and that no ſtory will endure a preface. I felt at that moment all the aukward embarraſſment of his ſituation, as if it had been my own; and it was a ſenſible relief to me, when Vaneſſa gave a little hitch to her chair, as if drawing nearer to the ſtory-teller, and at the ſame time ſtooping forward, put herſelf into a liſtening attitude. She never appeared ſo amiable in my eyes, and I began to take heart—What pains and trouble, thought I, does this poor man take to make himſelf agreeable, when every ſtruggle carries him further from his point! And how little does he know what an eaſy thing [86] it is to thoſe, who have the ſecret of ſucceeding without any effort at all!—I uſe almoſt the very words of a contemporary author, and I am obliged to him for them.

As for the ſtory, which now followed, there is no occaſion to repeat it; if it had made its entrance without a herald; if it had grown out of the converſation naturally, and not been grafted in againſt nature; and if it had been leſs prolix, or told with more point, the ſtory had not been amiſs; it was a good one in its own country, but it was lamed in its journey, and Vaneſſa did not ſeem exactly to know when it was finiſhed, until the relater made a ſecond apoſtrophe, hoping he had now repaired all former damages, and reinſtated the ladies in their uſual good ſpirits. Vaneſſa now found it neceſſary to ſay ſomething, and well knowing, without doubt, that people like to be treated as if they had ſenſibility, although they have none, ſhe paſſed a few compliments upon the ſtory very neatly turned; when an elderly gentleman (who, as I afterwards found out, was father to the talking gentleman) obſerved to him, that as he had made us grave, and made us merry, nothing now remained but to make us wiſe.—‘"And who ſo fit for that pur⯑poſe,"’ added he, ‘"as the lady of the houſe [87] herſelf?"’ Vaneſſa very aptly replied, that ſhe knew but one way to impoſe that belief on the company, and that was by keeping ſilence.—‘"And what is ſo edifying,"’ reſumed he, ‘"as to keep ſilence? What is ſo good a leſſon of wiſdom, as to ſee one, who can talk ſo well, forbear to do it, until other tongues have run their courſe?"’—I ſtole a glance at the talkative gentleman, and to my utter ſur⯑prize he was ſo far from being ſenſible of the rebuff, that he was actually preparing for ano⯑ther onſet.—‘"What you remark upon ſilence,"’ cried he, ‘"puts me in mind of an admirable ſtory."’—‘"That may well be,"’ anſwered the old gentleman; ‘"but give me leave firſt to tell you a ſtory, that may put you in mind of ſilence."’—

The moral of the fable, and the perſonal ap⯑plication of it, were too obvious to be miſtaken by any of the company. Vaneſſa's ſenſibility ſuffered viſibly on the occaſion; but ſhe ſoon broke the painful ſilence, and addreſſing herſelf to the old gentleman—‘"I am obliged to you for your fable,"’ ſays ſhe, ‘"and ſhall edify by the moral; but ſtill I cannot help the weak⯑neſs of a woman, and muſt feel a compaſſion for poor Midas, whoſe treſpaſs, being of a [91] good-humoured ſort, deſerved more mercy than it met with.—I confeſs the art of being: agreeable, frequently miſcarries through the ambition which accompanies it. Wit, learn⯑ing, wiſdom—what can more effectually con⯑duce to the profit and delight of ſociety? Yet I am ſenſible that a man may be too invariably wiſe, learned, or witty to be agree⯑able: And I take the reaſon of this to be, that pleaſure cannot be beſtowed by the ſimple and unmixed exertion of any one fa⯑culty or accompliſhment; if every word a man ſpeaks is to be wit or wiſdom, if he is never to relax either in look or utterance from his ſuperiority of character, ſociety can⯑not endure it: The happy gift of being agree⯑able ſeems to conſiſt not in one, but in an aſſemblage of talents tending to communicate delight; and how many are there, who by eaſy manners, ſweetneſs of temper, and a va⯑riety of other undefinable qualities, poſſeſs the power of pleaſing without any viſible effort, without the aids of wit, wiſdom, or learning, nay, as it ſhould ſeem, in their defiance; and this without appearing even to know that they poſſeſs it? Whilſt another, by labouring to entertain us too well, entertains us as poor Midas did his viſitors."’

[92]When Vaneſſa had done ſpeaking, the hour reminded me that I ought to take my leave, which I did with regret, repeating to myſelf as I walked homewards—This lady ſhould never be ſeen in a circle.

N^o LXXI.

AS I was turning over a parcel of old papers ſome time ago, I diſcovered an original letter from Mr. Caſwell, the mathe⯑matician, to the learned Dr. Bentley, when he was living in Biſhop Stillingfleet's family, in⯑cloſing an account of an apparition taken from the mouth of a clergyman who ſaw it: In this account there are ſome curious particulars, and I ſhall therefore copy the whole narrative without any omiſſion, except of the name of the deceaſed perſon who is ſuppoſed to have appeared, for reaſons that will be obvious.

I ſhall make no remark upon this genuine account, except as to the paſſage which I have put in italics: If Mr. Wilkins was thoroughly [101] poſſeſt of himſelf at that moment, as he depoſes, and is ſtrictly correct in his fact, the narrative is eſtabliſhed.

N^o LXXII.

I SHALL now proceed to lay before the public, ſuch an account as I have been enabled to collect of the ſeveral Greek writers of comedy.

The learned reader needs not to be informed, how little is to be found in Ariſtotle's Poetics on the ſubject of comedy; that treatiſe by no means anſwers to the general profeſſion of its title; if it had come down to us as perfect and entire, as it probably was when the author put the laſt hand to it, and preſented a correct copy of his work to Alexander, we might conclude otherwiſe of it; but to ſpeak of it as it is, we can call it nothing more than a diſſertation upon tragedy, in which many things are evidently out of place and order, ſome no doubt loſt, and others mutilated: It is thus conſidered by the learned commentator Daniel Heinſius, who in his ſupplementary treatiſe annexed to his edi⯑tion, [102] profeſſedly ſpeaks only of the conſtruction of tragedy, and endeavours with great diligence and perſpicuity to methodize the whole work, and diſpoſe his author's ſyſtem into ſome order and regularity.

With the exception of a few obvious re⯑marks upon the epic, as tending to illuſtrate the drama, and two or three paſſages where comedy is ſpoken of only as contraſted with tragedy, the whole of this celebrated diſſertation is nothing more than a ſet of rules for the drama, which are mere tranſcripts from the compoſitions of the great writers of the Ho⯑meric tragedy, Aeſchylus, Sophocles, and Euri⯑pides: He analyzes and defines a poem, then actually carried to its perfection; but gives no new lights, no leading inſtructions, for the fur⯑therance and improvement of what had not ar⯑rived to the like ſtate of maturity.

With the remains of the three tragic poets above mentioned in our hands, I profeſs I do not ſee how we are edified by Ariſtotle's diſſer⯑tation, which offers nothing but what occurs upon the reading of their dramas; unleſs poſte⯑rity had ſeen fit to abide by the ſame laws, which they obſerved, and the modern tragedy had been made exactly to conform to the Greek model.

[103]Ariſtotle, as we have before remarked, ſpeaks of no comedy antecedent to the comedy of Epi⯑charmus: There is reaſon to think that this author did not fall in with the perſonal comedy in the licentious manner it prevailed upon the Athenian ſtage, even to the time of Ariſtotle; for it was not reformed there, till the perſonal ſatiriſts were awed into better reſpect by the Ma⯑cedonian princes, who ſucceeded to Alexander; whereas Epicharmus wrote for the court of an abſolute prince.

Now it is remarkable, that Ariſtotle makes no ſtrictures upon the licentiouſneſs of the Athe⯑nian comedy, nor offers any rules for the cor⯑rection of the ſtage, though the ſchools pro⯑ſcribed it, and the tribunals were at open hoſti⯑lity with it. It is plain he ſtates things as they were, not as they ought to have been; for he pronounces of comedy—that it is a picture of human nature, worſe and more deformed than the original.

I cannot hold this to be a juſt character of comedy, as it ſtood at the time when Ariſtotle pronounced it: The only entire comedies we have to refer to, are a contradiction to the aſ⯑ſertion; for no one will contend that the cor⯑rupt and abominable manners of the times in which Ariſtophanes wrote, did not fully warrant [104] the ſeverity of his ſatire, or that his characters of depravity are in general overcharged, and his pictures of human nature more deformed than their originals. As for the reſt of the comic fraternity, their fragments only can plead for them; but they are fragments of ſuch a nature, as prove them to have been moraliſts of the ſublimeſt ſort, and they have been collected, tranſlated, and applauded, by the graveſt and moſt ſententious of the Chriſtian writers for many ages. I will venture to ſay, that in theſe ſcattered reliques of the comic ſtage, more uſeful knowledge and good ſenſe, better maxims for right conduct in life, and a more generous diſplay of benevolence, juſtice, public ſpirit, and all the moral virtues of natural religion are to be found, than in all the writings of the philoſophers, which are ſo much more entire.

Socrates, it is true, could hardly be prevailed upon to enter the comic theatre, but I infer very little againſt the poets on that account; Plato, I am aware, though an intimate of Ariſtophanes, baniſhed the drama out of his viſionary republic; but what is that more than to ſay, that if all men were virtuous there would be no need of ſatiriſts? The comic poets in return laſhed the philoſophers over the ſtage, and they had what they merited, the [105] public applauſe on their ſide; the ſchools and academies of ſophiſts furniſhed an inexhauſtible fund for wholeſome ridicule; their contradictory firſt principles, their daemons and clouds, and water and fire, with all their idle ſyſtems and hypotheſes, their fabulous conceits, dreams and devices to catch the vulgar, and the affected rigour of their manners, whilſt in ſecret they were addicted to the groſſeſt debauchery and impurity, were continual ſubjects of ſatire; and if hypocriſy is not the comic poet's lawful game, what is? There is not a play of Ari⯑ſtophanes to be named, in which theſe ſanctified ſinners have not their ſhare in the ridicule; and amongſt the fragments above mentioned, a very large proportion falls to their lot.

Ariſtotle, who had very little feeling for Plato and his academy, or indeed for practical philoſophy in general (which he ſeems to have profeſſed only in oppoſition to Xenocrates) con⯑cerned himſelf no further about the ſtate of the ſtage, than to comment and remark upon the tragedies of the three chief writers above mentioned; and it is humiliating enough to the pride of criticiſm to obſerve, that tragedy, after all his pains to hold it up to the ſtandard of Sophocles and Euripides, ſunk with thoſe au⯑thors, and was no more heard of; whilſt co⯑medy, [106] without his help, and in defiance of his neglect, roſe in credit with the world, till it attained perfection under the auſpices of Me⯑nander.

I have ſpoken of tragedy as a written poem before comedy of the ſame deſcription, becauſe I think that Suſarion did not write comedy, though he acted it ſo early as the fiftieth Olym⯑piad; and I alſo think that Theſpis did write tragedy in the ſixty-firſt Olympiad, if not ſooner; in other words, although the com⯑plexion of the original drama was comic in the moſt extravagant degree, yet it appears pro⯑bable that tragedy had the ſtart in point of pub⯑lication. The nature of the firſt comedy, compared with that of the firſt tragedy, ſeems to warrant this opinion; for it is eaſy to ſup⯑poſe that the raillery and ſatire of the village maſques, which would paſs off at a lawleſs feſtival, ſpoken off-hand and without the malice of premeditation, would not ſo readily have been committed to writing by the poet, as the tragic drama; which being compoſed in honour of deceaſed heroes, or on religious and grave ſubjects, not only called for greater deliberation on the part of the author, but would alſo be made public without danger or offence.

[107]It now remains to enquire into the chronology of the written comedy.

I have already obſerved, that Ariſtotle aſ⯑cribes the firſt written comedy to Epichar⯑mus.

Both Ariſtotle and Horace call him a Sicilian, but in what particular place he was born is not agreed; ſome contend that he was a Syracuſan, ſome that he was a native of Craſtum, others of Megara in Sicily: Diomedes the gramma⯑rian ſays he was born in Cos, and derives the word comedy from the name of that iſland, a derivation that ſets aſide his authority altoge⯑ther. The father of Epicharmus was named Chimarus, or according to others Tityrus, and his mother Sicida. Cicero in his Tuſculans calls him, acutum nec inſulſum hominem: Deme⯑trius Phaleraeus celebrates him for the elegant and appoſite choice of his epithets, on which account the Greeks gave the name of Epichar⯑mion to his ſtile, making it proverbial for its beauty and purity. It is difficult to fix the preciſe time when he began to write comedy, eſpecially as he lived to the great age of ninety-ſeven: It is certain however he was ſtill writing in the reign of Hiero, in or about Olymp. LXXIV. at which time Phormis alſo wrote comedy in Sicily; and Chionides, Dinolo⯑chus [108] and Magnes, comic poets, flouriſhed at Athens.

Suidas's chronology does not agree with Ariſtotle's, for he makes Chionides antecedent to Epicharmus, and calls him the firſt writer of comedy; adding, that Evetes, Euxenides and Mylus, all Athenians, were his contempo⯑raries; he allows, however, that Epicharmus and Phormis were the firſt writers in the iſland of Sicily; but this is in the vague manner of his dates, and not to be relied upon: He takes no notice of Ariſtotle's expreſs aſſertion, that Epicharmus was long ſenior to Chionides; and yet he might have recollected, that facts are ſo far in favour of Ariſtotle's chronology of theſe poets, that there is a title upon record of one of Chionides's plays called The Perſians, which muſt have been poſterior to the Perſian aera, when it is on all hands agreed that Epicharmus was living.

Amongſt the epigrams of Theocritus, pub⯑liſhed by Henry Stevens in 1579, there are ſome lines upon Epicharmus, which appear to have been inſcribed upon the pedeſtal of a ſtatue of braſs, which the Syracuſans had ſet up in his honour as their fellow-citizen: It conſiſts of ten lines in the Doric dialect, which he uſed; it ſettles the point of his birth, expreſsly [109] ſaying he was a Syracuſan, and aſcribes to him the invention of Comedy—

‘Epicharmus, the man who invented Comedy.’ In the concluſion, it celebrates him for the many uſeful maxims which he gave for the in⯑ſtruction of youth; but this I am diſpoſed to think may apply to the circumſtance of his having been a ſchoolmaſter at Syracuſe; for if we are to take our judgment of Epicharmus's drama from his imitator Plautus, perhaps its morality, though not to be overlooked amongſt other excellencies, is nevertheleſs not the moſt ſtriking feature in its character. And though it is probable that Epicharmus did not launch out into that perſonality, which the freer Athenians indulged to ſuch exceſs, yet I can ſuppoſe him to have been not very chaſte in his dialogue, from the anecdote which Plutarch gives us, of his being heavily fined and com⯑pelled to manual labour by order of Hiero for certain obſcene jeſts, which he ſuffered to paſs in hearing of his queen: I muſt ground another remark upon this anecdote, reſpecting the time in which he is generally thought to have ſtruck [110] out his comedy, as being long antecedent to the time of Hiero; which being admitted, it will follow that he was near the cloſe of his life, when this ſentence of manual labour was exe⯑cuted upon him; a kind of puniſhment ſo very unlikely to be inflicted on a man of ninety-ſix years by a prince of Hiero's magnanimity and benevolence, that if I am to take the anecdote for granted, I cannot aſſent to thoſe authorities that have placed him ſo high in time, for the purpoſe only of putting his title of firſt founder of comedy out of diſpute.

Upon the whole, I think it likely the Athe⯑nians wrote comedy as ſoon as the Sicilians, but that Epicharmus was the firſt, who formed his drama upon the poems of Homer: It is alſo clear, that his countryman and contempo⯑rary Phormis wrote comedy as ſoon, or nearly as ſoon as he did; for although Theocritus, in the epigram above cited, ſays expreſsly that Epicharmus ſtruck out comedy, yet it muſt be remarked that Theocritus was a Syracuſan by birth, living in the time of Ptolemy Lagus; and in giving this teſtimony for his fellow-citizen, it is more than probable he ſpoke lo⯑cally of the Sicilian comedy only, as Suidas did in after times, when he ſaid that Epichar⯑mus [111] and Phormis firſt ſtruck out comedy in Sicily.

I would therefore fix Epicharmus's firſt co⯑medy antecedent to Olymp. LXXV. at the loweſt date, becauſe we have it from good authority that he was teaching ſcholars at Sy⯑racuſe four years before the Perſian aera; and this date is confirmed by the age of Phormis, who certainly flouriſhed in the time of Gelon, and was in great favour in the court of that prince, who was predeceſſor to Hiero, and was ſucceeded by him in Olymp. LXXVII.

N^o LXXIII.

EPICHARMUS was a liberal benefactor to the ſtage. Porphyry ſays that Apollo⯑dorus the grammarian made a collection of his plays in ten volumes; Suidas reckons fifty-two; Lycon only thirty-five; but modern phi⯑lologiſts have given the titles of forty, with the authorities by which they are aſcertained.

It is not my purpoſe in theſe papers to make a practice of loading the page with liſts of titles, which may too truly be called dead [112] names; but in the inſtance of an author like Epicharmus, who ſtands at the head of his de⯑partment, every relique ſeems an object of ſome curioſity; and therefore, although the fol⯑lowing catalogue may ſtrike the dramatic reader as what may properly enough be called a beg⯑garly account of empty boxes, yet I ſhall proceed to enumerate the titles of forty comedies, all of which are, upon good grounds of criticiſm, aſcribed to this celebrated author.

• The Huſbandman.
• The Halcyon.
• Amycus, Son of Neptune.
• The Banditti.
• Atalanta.
• The Bacchae.
• Buſiris.
• Earth and Sea.
• The Fathers of the People.
• The Bacchanalians.
• Diphilus.
• Hope.
• The Feſtival.
• The Cele⯑bration of the Victory.
• Hebe's Wedding.
• Juno's Nuptials.
• Vulcan, or The Revells.
• The Ambaſſadors to the Oracle.
• The Cyclops.
• The Reaſoner.
• The Megarenſian.
• The Muſes.
• The Iſlands.
• Niobe's Wedding.
• Ulyſſes the Deſerter.
• Ulyſſes Shipwreckt.
• The Chitter⯑lings.
• The Paedagogues.
• The Paragon.
• The Perſians.
• The Stateſman.
• Prometheus, the Fire-ſtealer.
• Pyrrha, the Wife of Deucalion.
• The Sirens.
• The Iſle of Scyros.
• The Sphynx.
• [113] The Trojans.
• Philoctetes.
• The Chorus Troop.
• The Potters.

The ſame reſpect, which led me to inſert theſe titles, led me alſo to ſearch with all poſſible di⯑ligence for every fragment which I could find of Epicharmus. I wiſh they had been more in number, and of greater importance than they are; but ſuch as they are, I have reaſon to believe they are the whole amount of what can be picked up from the wreck of this once valu⯑able poet. The reader muſt not expect, that either in this author's inſtance, or that of any other Greek comedian, except in very few caſes, that the particular play can be aſcertained, to which the fragments belong; for the gramma⯑rians and others, who quote them, only give the name of the author, and not that of the co⯑medy from which they extract them. I muſt in this place once for all give vent to an anxiety, which preſſes on my mind reſpecting theſe frag⯑ments of the Greek comedy, whether the in⯑ſertion of them will or will not be approved of by the generality of my readers: My ſole ob⯑ject is to furniſh them with rational and moral amuſement, and if I fail of that object in theſe my hearty endeavours, I have taken a great deal of pains to render theſe paſſages into [114] Engliſh in the beſt manner my capacity enabled me to do, to a very unfortunate purpoſe indeed. The learned reader will bear me witneſs, that theſe fragments have been the admiration of ages; and I am ſenſible that very many of them poſſeſs intrinſic beauty both of ſtile and ſenti⯑ment; and if my tranſlations have not robbed them of their original merit, ſome pleaſure, and let me hope ſome profit, may attend their peruſal. I have ſtudied ſo to claſs them, as not to burthen or diſtract the reader with a mere ſucceſſion of miſcellaneous quotations without any reference or connection, which I am ſenſible could not be an agreeable mode of publication, though Stobaeus, Hertelius and ſome others have taken it up; but on the contrary, I have endeavoured to introduce them with ſome anec⯑dote or other, which ſerves to weave them into the thread of the work. Moſt of the tranſla⯑tions will be found in metre, in which I have ſtrove to copy the free ſtile of our old metrical comic poets: Some I have turned into rhime, where the thought allowed it, and the expreſſions were terſe and epigrammatical: Others I have put into proſe; and in all I have been as cloſe and faithful to the original, as the language and my conſtruction of the author would per⯑mit. If the candid reader will accept this pre⯑face [115] in apology, I ſhall give him no further trouble on the ſubject.

Epicharmus, in one of his comedies (we may ſuppoſe The Stateſman) introduces the fol⯑lowing retort from ſome man of low birth to a prating old woman, who is vapouring about her anceſtry.

The following is a falſe antitheſis, in which bodily ſtrength is ſubſtituted for mental—‘It demands the ſtrength of a lion to ſub⯑due the weakneſs of love.’

There is no ſubject, which the comic poets whet their wits upon more frequently than mar⯑riage. The wives of Syracuſe were not much obliged to Epicharmus for the following ſally.

[117]Mr. Congreve, in his Double Dealer, has the following paſſage between Mellafont and Cyn⯑thia upon the very eve of their nuptials.

Neither this, nor any part of the ſcene to which it appertains, is in Mr. Congreve's beſt manner: The wit does not flow, but is pumped up with labour, and not very clean when it comes.

Of Phormis, the contemporary of Epichar⯑mus, no fragments are to be found.

Chionides of Athens wrote comedy before the Perſian aera, and is the oldeſt writer of the Athenian ſtage. All the memorials I can ob⯑tain of him are, that he wrote three plays, in⯑titled, The Heroes, The Lyars and The Poor Men.

Magnes was an Athenian, and began to ap⯑pear as a writer of comedy, whilſt Chionides [116] [...] [117] [...] [118] was living: Ariſtophanes makes mention of him in his play of The Knights. The Scholiaſt in his comment on the paſſage obſerves, that all his works are periſhed, nothing remaining but the titles of nine comedies, of which two bear the ſame names with two of Ariſtophanes, viz. The Frogs, and The Birds; the ſame Scholiaſt informs us that Magnes bore away two prizes.

Dinolochus was contemporary with Magnes: He uſed the Doric dialect, and is ſaid to have produced fourteen plays. Some place his birth at Syracuſe, others at Agrigentum. Suidas ſays he flouriſhed ſo early as Olymp. LXXIII. but this ill agrees with the circumſtance of his being the ſon, or as others contend, the ſcholar of Epicharmus. His works have totally pe⯑riſhed.

Theſe five poets, three of whom were Sici⯑lians, muſt be called The Fathers of Comedy, and all that now remains of them is compriſed in the few ſhort paſſages here inſerted.

Whilſt their comedies were in repreſentation, tragedy was advancing under Pratinas and Chae⯑rilus, and Aeſchylus had already taken poſſeſſion of the ſtage: Sophocles and Euripides were born, the former ſix years before the latter: Ion, ſurnamed Xuthis, ſon of Orthomenes of Chios, began to write tragedy in the firſt year [119] of Olymp. LXXXII. Aeſchylus being then dead. Theognis, (from the coldneſs of his drama nick⯑named Snow) was contemporary with Ion.

The magiſtracy of Athens in Olymp. LXXXV. when Myrrichides was archon, pub⯑liſhed a decree, prohibiting the repreſentation of comedies in Athens: This decree held in force only two years under Glaucides and Theopompus; for when Euthymenes ſucceeded to that annual dignity, he found it expedient to gratify the people by a revocation of the edict, and the comic muſe was reinſtated on the ſtage by the celebrated triumvirate of Eupolis, Cra⯑tinus and Ariſtophanes; Cratinus opening the theatre with his celebrated comedy of The Win⯑ter Amuſements, Eupolis with The New Moons, and Ariſtophanes with The Acharnenſians.

N^o LXXIV.

CRATINUS, Eupolis and Ariſtophanes are generally claſſed together as rivals and prin⯑cipals in what is called The Old Comedy. Cra⯑tinus was ſenior in age to both his competitors, and Eupolis is charged by the old annotator [120] upon Ariſtophanes of having copied from him very freely: I confeſs this is ſtubborn authority, and yet it ſeems hard to believe that Eupolis, who was ſo conſtantly engaged in competition with his rival, ſhould expoſe himſelf to certain detection of ſo diſgraceful a ſort; and had it been ſo, I ſhould rather have expected to meet with the charge in the text of Ariſtophanes, than in the comment; I muſt add, that upon the cloſeſt ſearch I can find nothing that favours this imputation in any other author which ſpeaks of Eupolis, but many circumſtances on the con⯑trary which ſeem to place his pretenſions to originality on as good ground, as that of his contemporaries, with whom he is equally cele⯑brated.

Theſe poets were in high favour with the people on account of the boldneſs and perſo⯑nality of their ſatire, and for the ſame reaſon proportionably obnoxious to the nobles and ma⯑giſtrates, whom they laſhed without mercy. Ariſtophanes was much the leaſt bitter of the three, and yet we have ſome ſmart ſpecimens of his ſeverity. Perſius ſeems to make this diſ⯑tinction in the following paſſage—

[121] In theſe lines he characterizes Cratinus and Eu⯑polis by the epithets of audax and iratus, whereas he introduces Ariſtophanes under the deſcription only of praegrandis ſenex, which is interpreted to refer to the ſuperior gravity and dignity of his ſtile.

Horace, in the fourth ſatire of his firſt book, inſtances theſe three poets by pre-eminence from amongſt all the writers of the old co⯑medy.

It appears by this quotation, that Horace does not conſider their comedy in the ſame light with Ariſtotle, as if they repreſented human nature in worſe colours than it deſerved.

Quintilian expreſsly ſays, that theſe are the chief writers of the old comedy—Plures ejus [122] auctores; Ariſtophanes tamen e [...] Eupolis, Crati⯑nuſque praecipui:—And he recommends the old Greek comedy, and theſe authors in particular, as the beſt model (Homer only excepted) for his orator to form himſelf upon; inaſmuch as it is there only he will find the Attic ſtile in its purity and perfection; and though the old co⯑medy, as he obſerves, is chiefly occupied in wit and ſarcaſm for the purpoſe of chaſtiſing vice, yet it has many excellences of a more general ſort: It is energetic, elegant, and full of graces; ſo that if Homer alone (who like his own Achilles has the privilege of being al⯑ways put above compariſon) be excepted, no other ſchool for oratory can come in competi⯑tion with this.

N^o LXXV.

N^o LXXVI.

I SAID in my former Paper that Plutarch had made a compariſon between Ariſtopha⯑nes and Menander, and given his decided judg⯑ment for the latter. It might well be expected, that a Greek of the lower ages, living in the time of Trajan, and in court-favour with that emperor, ſhould prefer a poliſhed elegant author like Menander to one ſo bold, perſonal and ſarcaſtic as the poet he compares with him. Horace even in the time of Auguſtus had begun to decry the Plautinos Sales, and the manners were much more refined in Plutarch's time than in his. As we can take little eſtimate of Menander from the fragments only of his comedies which now remain, we cannot ſee what general reaſons Plutarch, or any other critic of his time, might have for preferring him; but as far as he has entered into ſtrictures and objections in his examination of Ariſto⯑phanes, ſo far we can follow him; this part at leaſt of his criticiſm is ſtill open to be contro⯑verted, and if it ſhall appear that he has con⯑demned one party without reaſon, it may be preſumed he has preferred the other without juſtice.

[146]Plutarch aſſerts that Ariſtophanes is a punſter, a quibbler upon words, and ridiculouſly given to parody. It is unfortunate for this charge that he follows it up with quotations, in every one of which Ariſtophanes is not only to be defended but applauded; he could not have ſelected paſſages leſs to the purpoſe; and the accuſation has accordingly been turned againſt him by Friſchlinus and other advocates of the poet.

He arraigns the ſtile of Ariſtophanes on ac⯑count of its inequalities and variations, ob⯑ſerving that it is ſometimes high and ſometimes low, now turgid and inflated, now grovelling and depreſſed—as if he had not been aware that the great variety of characters, which his comedy exhibits, naturally demands as great a variety of ſtile: He applauds Menander for the uniform and equal tenor of his ſtile, not ſeeming to recollect that his comedy on the contrary had one uniform complexion, con⯑tained no choruſſes and introduced no living characters; whereas Ariſtophanes, according to the ſpirit of the old comedy, makes uſe of cho⯑ruſſes, many of which are of ſo fanciful and imaginary a nature, that it is neceſſary to employ all the powers of poetry in their diſ⯑play, and in ſome caſes even to create a new [147] ſtile (and almoſt language) for the occaſion: He alſo introduces gods, heroes, poets, ora⯑tors, philoſophers, ambaſſadors, prieſts on his ſcene; ſome of theſe profeſſedly demand a ſwelling tragic pomp of words, for inſtance Aeſchylus, Sophocles and Euripides: In ſhort, the very excellence of Ariſtophanes is diſcrimi⯑nation of ſtile and character. Should Socrates and a ſlave ſpeak in the ſame phraſe? Should Lamachus (a mere miles glorioſus) talk in the tone of a beggarly Megarenſian pedlar? Cer⯑tainly not; nor is there any need to dwell longer on this criticiſm of Plutarch's, in which the ingenious author has ſhewn little of his uſual candour or judgment. That he ſhould be prepoſſeſſed in favour of the new comedy is very natural; elegant and moral fictions are both more pleaſing and more proper ſubjects for the drama, than bold and coarſe truths and living realities: The even ſuavity of Menander's ſtile might be more to his taſte than the irregular ſublimity of Ariſtophanes's; but when I ſee him manage the argument in a manner ſo much be⯑low his uſual ſagacity, I cannot help ſuſpecting there might be ſome other beſides general pre⯑judice in his mind againſt Ariſtophanes, and I make no doubt he had foſtered ſtrong reſent⯑ments againſt him for his attacks upon Socrates; [148] I alſo ſee ſome grounds for believing that he had been oppoſed by Pliny in his partiality for Me⯑nander, whom that author calls omnis luxuriae interpres; a charge which was reſented by Plu⯑tarch, who nevertheleſs was compelled to admit it: It is not improbable therefore that this might have given ſome occaſion to him for en⯑tering into a more formal compariſon between the two authors, and for publiſhing his ſtrictures upon Ariſtophanes. Upon looking over the titles of the comedies of the laſt-named author, which are loſt, I find one intitled Boeotia, which play was tranſlated and brought upon the Roman ſtage by Plautus, as it is generally thought, though we are told that M. Varro gave it to one Aquilius; be this as it may, the comedy was produced by one or the other, and there is a fragment of it in proof, which will be found in Pareus's edition of Plautus: Here is freſh reaſon for Plutarch (who was a Boeotian) to take up a reſentment againſt Ariſtophanes; and, if it were a ſubject worth following, I could ſhew that Plutarch's national prejudices were uncommonly ſtrong: The comedy indeed is not in exiſtence, both original and tranſlation being periſhed; but we can eaſily believe that Boeotia did not eſcape out of Ariſtophanes's hands without a pretty ſmart flagellation; and this was the more [149] galling to Plutarch, becauſe it was naturalized on the Roman ſtage, and, if it was ſtill in re⯑preſentation, might give a handle to the wits of the time for a run upon his native country. But I perceive my zeal is carrying me into an unprofitable reſearch, and I proceed with my ſubject.

Ariſtophanes has ſometimes been reproached for his attacks upon Euripides; but this author was a fair ſubject for ſatire in his literary cha⯑racter, and, though he was the friend of Socrates, his private morals were no leſs open to reproof. The voice of the heathen world has been ſo loud in the praiſe of Socrates; he is ſo decidedly the hero of all the Ciceros and declaimers upon morality, that even now, after ſo many centuries of Chriſtianity, it is with a kind of ſuperſtitious reverence we approach his character. His con⯑temporaries, who ſaw him in the neareſt light, treat him with the leaſt reſpect: Ariſtophanes (as Ben Jonſon expreſſes it) hoiſted him up with a pulley, and made him play the philoſopher in a baſket; meaſure how many foot a flea could ſkip geometrically by a juſt ſcale, and edify the people from the engine.—Time and prejudice have ſince caſt a veil before him, that it would be a hardy deed to attempt to withdraw.

This attack of Ariſtophanes has doomed him [150] to almoſt univerſal deteſtation; the praiſe we give him is no more than his ſuperior genius extorts, and it is paid grudgingly, like a tax, without cordiality or good-will: We admire him for his bold attacks upon Cleon, and we can find ſome palliation for his ſtrictures upon Euripides; the languid affectation of the poet, and the turbulent ferocity of the daemagogue, juſtify the ſatiriſt; but when he aſſaults the ſacred character of Socrates, when he arraigns the unſpotted purity of the great maſter of mo⯑rality, it is no longer ſatire, it is ſacrilege. But is all this to paſs without one word for the poet? Was he given up by his contemporaries for this atrocious act? was he given up by the friends and diſciples of Socrates? By none; not even by Plato himſelf, who on the contrary careſſed, admired and extolled him both in verſe and proſe; he adopted his ſentiments on the ſubject of Love, and engrafted them into his own Sym⯑poſium: He applauded him to Dionyſius of Sy⯑racuſe, and put his comedies into his hands as the only pure and perfect model of Attic ele⯑gance: The tyrant read them, admired them and even rehearſed them by heart; nay he did more, he turned poet himſelf, and wrote a play for the Athenian ſtage, which of courſe was honoured with a prize. And now why ſhould [151] we be more angry than Plato was? What have we diſcovered, which he did not know, that we ſhould take the matter up ſo high? We have diſcovered that Ariſtophanes took a bribe of Melitus and his faction to attack Socrates, and pave the way for their criminal charge, by which he ſuffered; and this we take upon credit from Aelian's inſinuations in an article of his Various Hiſtory, which for its authority in this caſe is about as good an evidence, as any ſtory out of the Incredibilia of Palaephatus Heraclitus. Aelian however does not hardily advance this as a fact, but hooks it in by way of queſtion—Where is the abſurdity, he aſks, of ſuppoſing that the poet, who was known to be needy, had taken a bribe?—This is a mere inſinuation, by which he tries the credulity of his readers: If they will believe it, ſo much the better for his purpoſe; if not, he has nothing elſe to offer; he has done his beſt to blacken the character of Ariſtophanes in this caſe, as he did in that of his intemperance: He has accuſed him of writing plays when he was drunk, and now he accuſes him of taking a bribe for writing them: The man who believes the one, may take the other into the bargain; for his own part, the improbability ſtares him ſo fully in the face, that he immediately ſubjoins to his inſinuation above quoted—That for the [152] truth of this, it was beſt known to Ariſtophanes himſelf.—This can never paſs with any candid reader. As for the ſucceſs of the attack, that he confeſſes was beyond all example; the co⯑medy was applauded to the ſkies; never did any poet receive ſuch honours from the public, as Ariſtophanes for this play of The Clouds.

As to the charge of the bribe, I need not obſerve, that if it was not an eaſy thing for any advocate of the poet to prove the negative in Hadrian's days, when Aelian threw it out, it cannot be leſs difficult now to do it, when more than two millenniums have interpoſed between the fact and our examination of it: And yet we know that Ariſtophanes, in a ſhort time after the repreſentation of his Clouds, brought this very Melitus, who is ſuppoſed to have ſuborned him by a bribe, before the audience, and ex⯑poſed his vicious character with the moſt un⯑ſparing ſeverity. If this is not proving a ne⯑gative, it is as near it as circumſtance and preſumption can go.

But there is another part of Aelian's charge which can be more clearly diſproved than the above, and this is the aſſertion he advances, that this attack upon Socrates from the ſtage was contrived by Anytus and Melitus as a pre⯑lude to their criminal accuſation of him: This [153] Aelian expreſsly aſſerts, adding that the faction were afraid of his popularity, and therefore ſet Ariſtophanes upon him to feel the pulſe of the people, before they ventured to bring their public charge againſt him. Here he [...]atly con⯑futes himſelf; for had this been the proving attack, what experiment could anſwer more completely, when even by his own account all Athens was in raptures with the poet, and the comedy went off with more general applauſe than any was ever known to receive? nay, more than this, Socrates himſelf according to Aelian's own account was preſent in the theatre, and ſtood up in view of the people all the while; yet in ſpite of his preſence, in defiance of this bold appeal, the theatre rung with plaudits, and the philoſopher only ſtood up to be a more conſpi⯑cuous mark of raillery and contempt. Why then did not the faction ſeize the opportunity and ſecond the blow? Could any thing anſwer more fully to their wiſhes? or rather, could any event turn out more beyond their expecta⯑tion? From Aelian's account we are left to conclude that this was the caſe, and that this attack was literally a prelude to their charge; but this inference is alike diſingenuous with all the reſt, for we know from indubitable dates that The Clouds were acted at leaſt eighteen years [154] before the death of Socrates: It was in the firſt year of Olymp. LXXXIX. when Iſarchus was archon, that Ariſtophanes acted his firſt comedy of The Clouds, which was driven off the ſtage by Alcibiades and his party: In the year im⯑mediately following, when Aminias was archon, he brought out the ſecond of that name, which is the comedy in queſtion, now in our hands: Theſe are authentic records; take the earlieſt date for the death of Socrates, and it will not fall till the firſt year of Olymp. XCV. when Laches was archon; the interval is as I ſtate it; a pretty reaſonable time for ſuch a plot to be ripening: And who now will give credit to Aelian and his Various Hiſtory?

Having taken ſome pains to prove what Ariſtophanes's motives were not, it now re⯑mains to ſhew what they were; but this will be the ſubject of another Paper.

N^o LXXVII.

THE Clouds is a ſatirical and perſonal co⯑medy, the moral of which is to ſhew how the ſophiſtry of the ſchools may be employed as an inſtrument of fraud and evaſion in matters of right and property; this is its principal ob⯑ject: But it touches alſo upon other points by the way, and humorouſly expoſes certain new and chimerical notions about the relation of children to their parents, and of the influence of The Clouds, as ſuperior to the ſuperintending power of Jupiter.

Of its moral therefore, ſeparately conſidered (comprehending the chief duties and relations of men, whether to the gods, to their parents or to ſociety at large) there can be no doubt; its excellence and importance ſpeak for them⯑ſelves.

The comedy being written before the practice was reſtrained of bringing living characters on the ſtage, a ſchool is here introduced, and the greateſt philoſopher of the time is repreſented in perſon on the ſtage: This philoſopher is Socrates himſelf, and the ſchool is the ſchool of Socrates.

Socrates is made to advance the hypotheſis of [156] The Clouds before mentioned; but it ſhould be conſtantly kept in remembrance, that he lays down no doctrines, as principles of fraud or injuſtice: It is not the teacher who recom⯑mends, but his diſciples who pervert his in⯑ſtructions to the evil purpoſe of defrauding and cluding their creditors: The like remark holds good in the caſe of the natural duty of children to their parents: The ſon in the play it is true ſtrikes and beats his father on the ſtage, and he quotes the maxims of Socrates in juſtification; but he does not quote them as poſitive rules and injunctions for an act ſo atrocious; he only ſhews that ſophiſtry may be turned to defend that, or any other thing equally violent and out⯑rageous.

There are two lights in which Socrates is to be viewed; firſt, in his public character as a teacher; ſecondly, in his private one as a man. It is chiefly in the former of theſe that Ari⯑ſtophanes has attacked him; and (as I before obſerved) it is to expoſe the evil uſes rather than the evil nature of his doctrines, that he brings his ſchool upon the ſtage; for when the diſciple is queſtioned about the ſtudies which his maſter is employed in, he makes report of ſome frivolous and minute reſearches, which are introduced only for the purpoſe of raiſing a [157] harmleſs laugh, and ſo far there can be no offence in this ſcene.

After all it muſt be allowed, that theſe ſemi⯑naries of ſophiſtry, which the ſtate of Athens thought it neceſſary to put down by public edict, could not have been improper ſubjects for dramatic ridicule; for if the ſchools were found ſo detrimental to the morals of youth, that the archons and their council, after due deliberation, reſolved upon a general expulſion of all maſters and teachers thereunto belonging, and effectually did expel them, ſurely the poet may be ac⯑quitted, when he ſatirizes thoſe obnoxious par⯑ties, whom the laws of his country in a ſhort time after cut off from the community.

There can be little doubt but this was a public meaſure founded in wiſdom, if it were for no other reaſon, than that the Lacedaemo⯑nians never ſuffered a maſter of philoſophy to open ſchool within their realm and juriſdiction, holding them in abhorrence, and proſcribing their academies as ſeminaries of evil manners; and tending to the corruption of youth: It is well known what peculiar care and attention were beſtowed upon the education of the Spartan youth, and how much more moral this people was, who admitted no philoſophers to ſettle amongſt them, than their Athenian neigh⯑bours, [158] in whoſe diſſolute capital they ſwarmed. In fact, the enormity became too great to be redreſſed; the whole community was infected with the enthuſiaſm of theſe ſectaries; and the liberties of Athens, which depended on the public virtue of her citizens, fell a ſacrifice to the corruptions of falſe philoſophy: The wiſer Lacedaemonians ſaw the fatal error of their rivals, and availed themſelves of its conſequen⯑ces; they roſe upon the ruins of Athens, and it was the triumph of wiſdom over wit: Theſe philoſophers were ingenious men, but execrable citizens; and when the raillery of the ſtage was turned againſt them, the weapons of ridicule could not be more laudably employed.

As for the ſchool of Socrates in particular, though it may be a faſhion to extol it, there is no reaſon to believe it was in better credit than any other; on the contrary, it was in ſuch public diſrepute on account of the infamous characters of many of his diſciples, and of the diſgraceful attachments he was known to have, that it was at one time deſerted by every body except Aeſchines, the paraſite of the tyrant Dionyſius, and the moſt worthleſs man living: This Aeſchines, his ſole and favourite diſciple, was arraigned by the pleader Lyſias, and convicted of the vileſt frauds, and branded as a public cheat: [159] He was a wretch, who employed the ſophiſtry and cunning argumentation, which he learnt of his maſter, to the purpoſe only of evading his debts, contracted by the moſt profligate extra⯑vagancies: He afterwaads went over to the ſchool of Plato, and when Socrates was dead, had influence enough with Xantippe to obtain of her ſome dialogues from her huſband's papers, which he publiſhed as his own, and ſet up for an author and preceptor in philoſophy. It is very probable Ariſtophanes had in view the character of this very Aeſchines, when he brings his old man on the ſcene, conſulting Socrates for ſophiſtical evaſions how to elude his cre⯑ditors.

Another of the ſcholars of Socrates was Simon the ſophiſt, a man whoſe rapacity be⯑came a proverb ( [...], Simoni rapacior). This Simon was ſuch a plun⯑derer of the public money, that Ariſtophanes in his ſtrong manner ſays, The very wolves run off upon the ſight of Simon.

The deſpicable Cleonymus, whoſe cowardice was as proverbial as Simon's rapacity, and the profligate Theorus, who buried himſelf in the ſtews at Corinth, were alſo fellow ſtudents under Socrates, and it is with juſt indignation againſt ſuch execrable characters that Ariſtophanes ex⯑claims [160]—O Jupiter, if thy bolts are aimed at perjury, why do theſe wretches, of all moſt per⯑jured, Simon, Cleonymus and Theorus, eſcape the ſtroke?

Ariſtippus, the Cyrenaic founder, was a diſ⯑tinguiſhed diſciple of the Socratic ſchool, a pa⯑raſite alſo in the court of Dionyſius, a buffoon and drunkard, the avowed oppoſer of every thing virtuous, a maſter and profeſſor of immo⯑rality, who laid down inſtitutes of ſenſuality and reduced it to a ſyſtem.

Of Alcibiades I ſhall briefly ſpeak, for the ſtories of Socrates's attachment to him are ſuch as need not be enlarged upon; they obtained ſo generally, that he was vulgarly called Alcibiades's Sileſius: When I glance at theſe reports in disfavour of a character, which probably ſtands ſo high in the opinion of the learned reader, I muſt hope for a candid interpretation of my motives for collecting theſe anecdotes, which I do not wiſh to apply to any other purpoſe than merely to ſhew that Ariſtophanes was not ſin⯑gular [161] in his attack upon this celebrated philo⯑ſopher; neither did this attack bear ſo hard againſt him, as many ſtories, then in general circulation, otherwiſe did: Great authorities have aſcribed his attachment to Alcibiades to the moſt virtuous principle; common fame, or perhaps (more properly ſpeaking) common de⯑famation, turned it into a charge of the im⯑pureſt nature: In like manner we find him ri⯑diculed for his devotion to the noted Aſpaſia, in whoſe company he is ſaid to have paſſed much of his time; and Athenaeus quotes ſome paſſages of his dialogues with her, which he tells us were publiſhed by Herodicus, and which we muſt either totally reject, or allow him to have been ſubject to ſuch private weakneſſes and frailties, as were very unſuitable to his public character: What were the real motives for his frequent viſits to Aſpaſia, as well as for his ſeeming attachment to the ſtrumpet Theodote, muſt be left to conjecture; of the fact there is no room to doubt. He is ſtigmatized for his guilty connections in his youth with his pre⯑ceptor Archelaus, and yet this charge (how⯑ever improbable it may ſeem) reſts upon the authority of Ariſtoxenus, a man of the moſt candid character, and whoſe credit ſtands high with all true critics. Herodicus the hiſtorian, [162] whom I have before mentioned, and who lived about three hundred and fifty years before the Chriſtian aera, ſeems to have treated Socrates with the greateſt ſeverity, charging him with ſitting up all night drinking and carouſing with Agatho and others, whom when he had left drunk and aſleep, he reeled into the Lyceum, more fit (in the words quoted from the relater) for the ſociety of Homer's cannibals, than of thoſe he found there: In this debauch it is pre⯑tended, that although Phedrus, Eryximachus and many other potent drinkers fled the com⯑pany, Socrates ſate to the laſt, ſwallowing drenches of wine out of enormous goblets of ſilver: He deſcribes him ſitting amongſt laſci⯑vious revellers at a banquet, where dancing-girls and boys were exhibiting their indecent attitudes to the muſic of harpers and minſtrels: He expoſes this maſter of morality entering into a controverſy with his ſcholar Critobulus upon the ſubject of male beauty; and becauſe Critobulus had ridiculed him for his uglineſs, he aſſerts that Socrates challenged him to a naked exhibition, and that he actually expoſed his unſeemly perſon to a Pathic and a dancing-girl, the appointed umpires of the diſpute; the conqueror was to be rewarded with an embrace from each of theſe umpires, as the prize of ſu⯑perior [163] beauty, and the deciſion was of conſe⯑quence given ex abſurdo to the philoſopher, in preference to one of the handſomeſt young men in Greece, and he enjoyed the prize annexed to the decree. If we can believe this anecdote to have been gravely related by an hiſtorian, who lived ſo near to him in point of time, we ſhall ceaſe to wonder that Ariſtophanes had the whole theatre on his ſide, when ſuch ſtories were in circulation againſt the character of Socrates.

As I have no other object in view but to offer what occurs to me in defence of Ariſtophanes, who appears to have been moſt unjuſtly accuſed of taking bribes for his attack upon Socrates, and of having paved the way for the cruel ſen⯑tence by which he ſuffered death, I ſhall here conclude an invidious taſk, which my ſubject, not my choice, has laid upon me.

In our volume of Ariſtophanes, the comedies are not placed according to the order of time in which they were produced: There is reaſon to think that The Acharnenſians was the firſt of its author; it was acted in the laſt year of Olymp. LXXXV. when the edict was reverſed which prohibited the repreſentation of comedies; and it is ſaid that Ariſtophanes brought it out in the name of Calliſtratus the comedian.

In the laſt year of Olymp. LXXXVIII. he [164] produced his comedy of The Knights, in which he perſonally attacks the tribune Cleon.

In the firſt year of Olymp. LXXXIX. he produced his firſt comedy of The Clouds, and in the year following his ſecond of that title, which is now in our hands, and ranks as third in the volume.

In the ſame year was acted his comedy of The Waſps, in which he ſatirizes the General Chares for his conduct in the unfortunate expe⯑dition to Sicily.

In the fourth year of Olymp. XC. we may place his comedy intitled The Peace. In the firſt of Olymp. XCI. The Lyſiſtrata; and in the ſecond of the ſame Olympiad that of The Birds.

The Theſmophoriaguſae, or Cerealia Celebrantes, and Concionatrices, fall within the period of Olymp. XCII. before the death of Euripides, who is ſatirized in the former of theſe pieces.

The Frogs were performed in the laſt year of Olymp. XCIII. after the death of Euripides.

The Plutus, which completes the eleven co⯑medies ſtill remaining, and the laſt, to which he prefixed his own name, was produced in the fourth year of Olymp. XCVII.

It is generally ſuppoſed that we owe theſe remains of Ariſtophanes to St. Chryſoſtom, who [165] happily reſcued this valuable, though ſmall, por⯑tion of his favourite author from his more ſcru⯑pulous Chriſtian contemporaries, whoſe zeal was fatally too ſucceſsful in deſtroying every other comic author, out of a very numerous collection, of which no one entire ſcene now remains.

N^o LXXVIII.

I SHALL now proceed to mention ſome other principal writers of the old comedy, of whoſe works, though once the favourites of the Athenian ſtage, few memorials ſurvive, and theſe ſo ſmall and imperfect, and withal ſo ſepa⯑rated from each other (conſiſting only of ſhort quotations in the ſcholiaſts and grammarians) that it is a taſk to collect them, which nothing would compenſate but the hope of being in ſome degree the inſtrument of ſaving from ab⯑ſolute extinction the names of authors once ſo illuſtrious.

AMIPSIAS was a contemporary of Ariſtopha⯑nes, and no mean rival; we have the titles of ten comedies of this author. In ſome of theſe [166] his ſatire was perſonal, but all of them ſeem by their titles to have been levelled againſt the reigning vices of his time, ſuch as The Game⯑ſters, The Glutton, The Beard (in which he in⯑veighed againſt the hypocriſy and affectation of the prieſts and philoſophers), The Adulterers, The Sappho (wherein the morals of the fair ſex were expoſed), The Purſe, a ſecond attack upon the gameſters, and The Philoſopher's Cloak, in which it is underſtood he glanced pretty ſeverely at Socrates.

PLATO was a comic poet, high in time and character; a collection of no leſs than forty titles of his comedies has been made by the learned Meurſius, but very few fragments of theſe are remaining. Clemens aſſerts that Ari⯑ſtophanes and Plato were mutually charged of borrowing from each other, which in one ſenſe makes greatly to the reputation of our poet. He is quoted by Plutarch in his Alcibiades, and very honourably mentioned by the famous Galen, by Athenaeus, Clemens, Julius Pollux and Suidas. There is a fragment containing four lines and a half, upon a ſtatue of Mercury cut by Daeda⯑lus, which has an epigrammatic neatneſs and point in it, that induced me to render it in [167] rhime: He addreſſes the ſtatue, miſtaking it for a living figure:

Plato wrote a comedy perſonally againſt the General Cleophon, and called it by his name; there are others of the ſame deſcription in his catalogue, and ſome of the middle ſort: There are a few lines upon the tomb of Themiſtocles, which have a turn of elegant and pathetic ſim⯑plicity in them, that deſerves a better tranſlation than I can give.

The following fragment of a dialogue, be⯑tween a father and a ſophiſt, under whoſe tuition he had placed his ſon, probably belonged either to the comedy called The Beard, or The Philo⯑ſopher's Cloak: It is pretty much in the ſpirit of our old Engliſh drama.

CRATES, by birth an Athenian, was firſt an actor, and afterwards a writer of the old co⯑medy; he performed the principal characters in Cratinus's plays, and was the great rival of Ariſtophanes's favourite actors Calliſtratus and Philonides; we have the titles of more than twenty comedies, and but four ſmall fragments of this author: I have ſearched for his remains more diligently, from the circumſtance of his having been ſo celebrated an actor; a pro⯑feſſion which centers in itſelf more gifts of nature, education, art and ſtudy, than any other. His comedies are ſaid to have been of a very gay and facetious caſt; and the author of the Prolegomena to Ariſtophanes informs us, that he was the firſt who introduced a drunken character on the Athenian ſtage; to this anec⯑dote I give credit, becauſe no one could better know how entirely ſuch an attempt depends upon the diſcretion and addreſs of the actor, who has ſuch a part in his keeping: It is plain the experiment ſucceeded, becauſe even the tra⯑gedians exhibited ſuch characters in ſucceeding times. Modern experience ſhews us, how ſub⯑ject ſuch repreſentations are to be outraged; [170] the performer generally forgetting, or not know⯑ing, that his own ſobriety ſhould keep the drunkenneſs he counterfeits within its proper bounds. Ariſtotle aſcribes to Crates another innovation with reſpect to the iambic metre of the old comedy, which he made more free and appoſite to familiar dialogue; this alſo corre⯑ſponds with the natural and facetious character of his drama. I cannot ſay the four ſmall fragments which I have collected bear that ſtamp; on the contrary, they are of a grave and ſententious caſt: One of them is an obſer⯑vation on the effects of poverty, which Horace has either literally tranſlated, or ſtruck upon the very ſame thoughts in the following paſ⯑ſage:

I find a ſhort ſtricture upon the gluttony of the Theſſalians; a remark upon the indecorum of inviting women to wedding ſuppers, and making riotous entertainments at a ceremony which modeſty would recommend to paſs in private, and within the reſpective family where it occurs.

The laſt fragment is a ſhort but touching picture of old age, and the vanity of human [171] wiſhes: I think the turn of thought and expreſ⯑ſion extremely beautiful.

PHRYNICHUS was a contemporary of Eupolis, and a writer of the old comedy; a dramatic poet of the firſt claſs in reputation as well as in time. He was an Athenian by birth, and muſt not be confounded with the tragic poet of that name. I find the titles of ten comedies of his writing; theſe are The Ephialtes; The Beard, (the ſame title with that of Plato); Saturn; The Revellers; The Satyrs; The Tragedians; The Recluſe; The Muſes; The Prieſt, and The Weeding-Women, We have no other guides but theſe titles to gueſs at the comedies themſelves; we ſee however by ſome of them what ſubjects his ſatire pointed out to the ſpectators, in which the philoſophers had their ſhare as uſual; and by certain fragments it [172] appears, that Alcibiades was alſo treated with ſome perſonal ſeverity.

PHERECRATES is the next author I ſhall no⯑tice, a poet famous in his time, and whoſe cha⯑racter as well as genius deſcends to us with the warmeſt teſtimonies of high authority. His ſtile was of that ſort, which has been proverbially dignified as Moſt Attic: He acquired ſuch reputa⯑tion by his poems as well as plays, that the me⯑tre he uſed was called by pre-eminence the Phe⯑recratian Metre. He was no leſs excellent in his private character than in his poetical one; he was attached to Alexander of Macedon, and ac⯑companied that great conqueror in his expedi⯑tions; he lived in intimacy with Plato at Athens, and in ſome of his comedies was engaged in warm competition with Crates, the actor and author, of whom I have already ſpoken. Suidas ſays he wrote ſeventeen comedies, and the titles of theſe are ſtill extant: One of them, viz. The Peaſants, is mentioned by Plato in his Prota⯑goras: Clemens quotes a paſſage from his De⯑ſerters of great elegance, in which the gods are introduced making heavy complaints of the frauds put upon them by mankind in their ſacri⯑fices and oblations: This poet alſo has a per⯑ſonal ſtroke at the immoral character of Alci⯑biades.

[173]Having quoted a paſſage from Crates on the ſubject of old age, I ſhall now ſelect one from this author on the ſame; and if the reader is cu⯑rious to obſerve how theſe celebrated rivals ex⯑preſſed themſelves on a ſimilar ſentiment, he has an opportunity of making the compariſon.

Pherecrates intitled one of his comedies The Tyranny; it does not appear what particular ob⯑ject he had in view under this title, but from the following fragment he ſeems to have levelled ſome ſhare of his ſatire againſt the fair ſex—

Athenaeus has preſerved a conſiderable frag⯑ment from this author, extracted from his co⯑medy of The Miners, which I look upon to be as curious a ſpecimen of the old comedy as I have met with. It is a very luxuriant deſcrip⯑tion of the riches and abundance of ſome former times to which he alludes, ſtrongly daſhed with comic ſtrokes of wild extravagance and hyper⯑bole. Theſe Miners were probably the chorus of the drama, which no doubt was of a ſatirical ſort, and pointed at the luxuries of the rich. By the mention made of Plutus in the firſt line, we may ſuppoſe that theſe Mines were of gold, and probably the deity of that precious metal was one of the perſons of the drama.

AMPHIS, the ſon of Amphicrates an Athenian, was a celebrated comic poet: We have the titles of one and twenty comedies, and he probably wrote many more: By theſe titles it appears that he wrote in the ſatirical vein of the old comedy, and I meet with a ſtroke at his contemporary Plato the philoſopher. He has a play intitled The Seven Chiefs againſt Thebes, which is pro⯑bably a parody upon Aeſchylus, and proves that he wrote after the perſonal drama was prohi⯑bited: There is another called The Dicers; and by ſeveral ſcattered paſſages he appears to have expoſed the perſons of drunkards, gameſters, courteſans, paraſites, and other vicious characters of his time, with great moral ſeverity: There are alſo two comedies, intitled Women's Love and Women's Tyranny.

HERMIPPUS was a writer of the old comedy, and an Athenian. No leſs than forty comedies are given to this author by Suidas; he attacks Pericles for his diſſolute morals, and in one of his plays calls him King of the Satyrs, adviſing him to aſſume the proper attributes of his laſci⯑vious character: He was the ſon of Lyſides, and the brother of Myrtilus, a comic writer alſo.

[177]HIPPARCHUS, PHILONIDES and THEOPOM⯑PUS complete the liſt of poets of the old comedy. Philonides, before he became a votary of the muſe, followed the trade of a fuller, and, if we are to take the word of Ariſtophanes, was a very ſilly vulgar fellow, illiterate to a proverb. Athe⯑naeus and Stobaeus have however given us ſome ſhort quotations, which by no means favour this account, and it is probable there was more ſatire than truth in Ariſtophanes's character of him. Theopompus is deſcribed as a man of ex⯑cellent morals, and though he was long afflicted with a defluxion in his eyes, which put him from his ſtudies, time has preſerved the titles of twenty-four comedies of his compoſing: Very little remains upon record either of him or his works.

One ſhort fragment of Philonides is all that remains of his works, and it is a ſpecimen which convinces me that we muſt not always take the character of a poet from a contemporary wit, engaged in the ſame ſtudies.

I now take leave of what is properly called The Old Comedy: In the further proſecution of this work (if that ſhall be permitted to me) it is my intention to review the writers of the Middle, and conclude with thoſe of the New Comedy.

N^o LXXIX.

PREJUDICE is ſo wide a word, that if we would have ourſelves underſtood, we muſt always uſe ſome auxiliary term with it to define our meaning: Thus when we ſpeak of national prejudices, prejudices of education, or religious prejudices, by compounding our expreſſion we convey ideas very different from each other.

National prejudice is by ſome called a virtue, but the virtue of it conſiſts only in the proper application and moderate degree of it. It muſt be confeſſed a happy attachment, which can reconcile the Laplander to his freezing ſnows, and the African to his ſcorching ſun. There are ſome portions of the globe ſo partially en⯑dowed [179] by Providence with climate and pro⯑ductions, that were it not for this prejudice to the natale ſolum, the greater part of the ha⯑bitable world would be a ſcene of envy and repining. National predilection is in this ſenſe a bleſſing, and perhaps a virtue; but if it ope⯑rates otherwiſe than in the beſt ſenſe of its defi⯑nition, it perverts the judgment, and in ſome caſes vitiates the heart. It is an old ſaying, that charity begins at home, but this is no reaſon it ſhould not go abroad: A man ſhould live with the world as a citizen of the world; he may have a preference for the particular quarter, or ſquare, or even alley in which he lives, but he ſhould have a generous feeling for the welfare of the whole; and if in his rambles through this great city (the world) he may chance upon a man of a different habit, language or complexion from his own, ſtill he is a fellow-citizen, a ſhort ſojourner in common with him⯑ſelf, ſubject to the ſame wants, infirmities and neceſſities, and one that has a brother's claim upon him for his charity, candour and relief. It were to be wiſhed no traveller would leave his own country without theſe impreſſions, and it would be ſtill better if all who live in it would adopt them; but as an Obſerver of mankind (let me ſpeak it to the honour of my country⯑men) [180] I have very little to reproach them with on this account: It would be hard if a nation, more addicted to travel than any other in Eu⯑rope, had not rubbed off this ruſt of the ſoul in their excurſions and colliſions; it would be an indelible reproach, if a people, ſo bleſt at home, were not benevolent abroad. Our ingenious neighbours the French are leſs agreeable gueſts than hoſts: I am afraid their national prejudices reach a little beyond candour in moſt caſes, and they are too apt to indulge a vanity, which does not become ſo enlightened a nation, by ſhutting their eyes againſt every light except their own; but I do a violence to my feelings, when I ex⯑preſs myſelf unfavourably of a people, with whom we have long been implicated in the moſt ho⯑nourable of all connections, the mutual purſuits of literary fame, and a glorious emulation in arts and ſciences.

Prejudices of education are leſs dangerous than religious prejudices, leſs common than na⯑tional ones, and more excuſable than any; in general they are little elſe than ridiculous habits, which cannot obtain much in a country where public education prevails, and ſuch as a com⯑merce with the world can hardly fail to cure: They are characteriſtic of ſeraglio princes; the property of ſequeſtered beings, who live in [181] celibacy and retirement, contracted in childhood and confirmed by age: A man, who has paſſed his life on ſhipboard, will pace the length of his quarter-deck on the terrace before his houſe, were it a mile in length.

Theſe are harmleſs peculiarities, but it is ob⯑vious to experience that prejudices of a very evil nature may be contracted by habits of edu⯑cation; and the very defective ſtate of the po⯑lice, which is ſuffered yet to go on without re⯑form in and about our capital, furniſhes too many examples of our fatal inattention to the morals of our infant poor: Amongſt the many wretched culprits who ſuffer death by the law, how many are there, who, when ſtanding at the bar to receive ſentence of execution, might urge this plea in extenuation of their guilt!

I cannot excuſe myſelf from touching upon one more prejudice, which may be called na⯑tural, or ſelf-prejudice: Under correction of the Dampers I hope I may be allowed to ſay, that a certain portion of this is a good quickener in all conſtitutions; being ſeaſonably applied, it acts like the ſpur in the wing of the oſtrich, and keeps induſtry awake: Being of the nature of all volatiles and provocatives, the merit of it conſiſts in the moderation and diſcretion which adminiſter it: If a man rightly knows himſelf, he may be called wiſe; if he juſtly confides in himſelf, he may be accounted happy; but if he keeps both this knowledge and this confidence to himſelf, he will neither be leſs wiſe nor leſs happy for ſo doing: If there are any ſecrets, which a man ought to keep from his neareſt friends, this is one of them. If there were no better reaſon why a man ſhould not vaunt himſelf, but becauſe it is robbing the poor mountebanks of their livelihood, methinks it would be reaſon enough: If he muſt think aloud upon ſuch occaſions, let him lock himſelf into his cloſet, and take it out in ſoliloquy: If [184] he likes the ſound of his own praiſes there, and can reconcile himſelf to the belief of them, it will then be time enough to try their effect upon other people.

Ventidius is the modeſteſt of all men; he bluſhes when he ſees himſelf applauded in the public papers; he has a better reaſon for bluſh⯑ing than the world is aware of; he knows himſelf to be the author of what he reads.

It ſeems a matter pretty generally agreed between all tellers and hearers of ſtories, that one party ſhall work by the rule of addition, and the other by that of ſubſtraction: In moſt narratives, where the relater is a party in the ſcene, I have remarked that the ſays-I has a decided advantage in a dialogue over the ſays-he; few people take an under-part in their own fable. There is a ſalvo, however, which ſome gentlemen make uſe of (but I cannot recommend it) of hooking in a word to their own advantage, with the preface of I think I may ſay without vanity—and after all, if it was not for the vanity of it, there would be no need to ſay it at all.

I knew a gentleman who poſſeſſed more real accompliſhments, than fall to one man's lot in a thouſand; he was an excellent painter, a fine muſician, a good ſcholar, and more than all a [185] very worthy man—but he could not ride: It ſo happened, that upon a morning's airing I detected him in the attempt of mounting on the back of a little pony, no taller than his whip, and as quiet as a lamb: Two ſtout fellows held the animal by the head, whilſt my friend was performing a variety of very inge⯑nious manoeuvres for lodging himſelf upon the ſaddle by the aid of a ſtirrup, which nearly touched the ground: I am afraid I ſmiled, when I ought not ſo to have done, for it is certain it gave offence to my worthy friend, who ſoon after joined me on his pony, which he aſſured me was remarkably vitious, particu⯑larly at mounting; but that he had been giving him ſome proper diſcipline, which he doubted not would cure him of his evil tricks; ‘"for you may think what you pleaſe,"’ adds he, ‘"of my painting, or my muſic, or any other little talent you are pleaſed to credit me for; the only art, which I really pique myſelf upon—is the art of riding."’

N^o LXXX.

I ſhall give no other anſwer to my correſpon⯑dent but to lament his loſs of ſo innocent a re⯑ſource as reading, which I ſuſpect his new ac⯑quirements will hardly compenſate. I ſtill think that half an hour paſſed with Mr. Addiſon over a Spectator, notwithſtanding all his falſe gram⯑mar, or even with one of the poets, notwith⯑ſtanding their infirmities, might be as well em⯑ployed as in weaving nets for the currant-buſhes, or playing at all-fours with his houſekeeper. No man has a right to complain of the critic, whoſe ſagacity diſcovers inaccuracies in a favourite au⯑thor, and ſome readers may probably be edified by ſuch diſcoveries; but the bulk of them, like my correſpondent Ruſticus, will get nothing but diſguſt by the information: Every man's work is fair game for the critic; but let the critic beware that his own production is not open to retaliation. As for our late ingenious bio⯑grapher of the poets, when I compare his life of Savage with that of Gray, I muſt own he has exalted the low, and brought down the lofty; [191] with what juſtice he has done this the world muſt judge. On the part of our authors now living, whom the learned gentleman in the letter condemns in the lump, I have only this to ob⯑ſerve, that the worſe they fare now, the better they will ſucceed with poſterity; for the critics love the ſport too well to hunt any but thoſe, who can ſtand a good chace; and authors are the only objects in nature, which are magnified by diſtance and diminiſhed by approach: Let the illuſtrious dead change places with the illuſtrious living, and they ſhall eſcape no better than they have done who make room for them; the more merit they bring amongſt us, the heavier the tax they ſhall pay for it.

Let us ſuppoſe for a moment that Shakeſpear was now an untried poet, and opened his career with any one of his beſt plays: The next morning uſhers into the world the following, or ſomething like the following, critique.

N^o LXXXI.

THE conduct of a young lady, who is the only daughter of a very worthy fa⯑ther, and ſome alarming particulars reſpecting her ſituation which had come to my knowledge, gave occaſion to me for writing my Paper, N^o XLVI. in which I endeavour to point out the conſequences parents have to apprehend from novels, which, though written upon moral plans, may be apt to take too ſtrong a hold upon young and ſuſceptible minds, eſpecially in the ſofter ſex, and produce an affected character, where we wiſh to find a natural one.

As the young perſon in queſtion is now happily extricated from all danger, and has ſeen her error, I ſhall relate her ſtory, not only as it contains ſome incidents which are amuſing, but as it tends to illuſtrate by example the ſe⯑veral inſtructions, which in my Paper before mentioned I endeavoured to convey.

Sappho is the only child of Clemens, who is a widower; a paſſionate fondneſs for this daughter, tempered with a very ſmall ſhare of obſervation or knowledge of the world, determined Clemens to an attempt (which has ſeldom been found to [196] ſucceed) of rendering Sappho a miracle of ac⯑compliſhments, by putting her under the in⯑ſtructions of maſters in almoſt every art and ſcience at one and the ſame time: His houſe now became an academy of muſicians, danc⯑ing-maſters, language-maſters, drawing-maſters, geographers, hiſtorians, and a variety of infe⯑rior artiſts male and female; all theſe ſtudies appeared the more deſirable to Clemens, from his own ignorance of them, having devoted his life to buſineſs of a very different nature. Sappho made juſt as much progreſs in each, as is uſual with young ladies ſo attended; ſhe could do a little of moſt of them, and talk of all: She could play a concerto by heart with every grace her maſter had taught her, note for note, with the preciſe repetition of a barrel⯑organ: She had ſtuck the room round with drawings, which Clemens praiſed to the ſkies, and which Sappho aſſured him had been only touched up a little by her maſter: She could tell the capital of every country, when he queſtioned her out of the newſpaper, and would point out the very ſpot upon the terreſtrial globe, where Paris, Madrid, Naples and Conſtantinople ac⯑tually were to be found: She had as much French as puzzled Clemens, and would have ſerved her to buy blonde-lace and Paris netting [197] at a French milliner's; nay, ſhe had gone ſo far as to pen a letter in that language to a young lady of her acquaintance, which her maſter, who ſtood over her whilſt ſhe wrote it, declared to be little inferior in ſtile to Madame Sevigné's: In hiſtory, both antient and modern, her progreſs was proportionable; for ſhe could run through the twelve Caeſars in a breath, and reckon up all the kings from the conqueſt upon her fingers without putting one out of place; this appeared a prodigy to Clemens, and in the warmth of his heart he fairly told her ſhe was one of the world's wonders; Sappho aptly ſet him right in this miſtake, by aſſuring him that there were but ſeven wonders in the world, all of which ſhe repeated to him, and only left him more convinced that ſhe herſelf was deſervedly the eighth.

There was a gentleman about fifty years old, a friend of Clemens, who came frequently to his houſe, and, being a man of talents and lei⯑ſure, was ſo kind as to take great pains in di⯑recting and bringing Sappho forward in her ſtudies: This was a very acceptable ſervice to Clemens, and the viſits of Muſidorus were al⯑ways joyfully welcomed both by him and Sappho herſelf: Muſidorus declared himſelf overpaid by the delight it gave him to contem⯑plate [198] the opening talents of ſo promiſing a young lady; and as Sappho was now of years to eſtabliſh her pretenſions to taſte and ſenti⯑ment, Muſidorus made ſuch a ſelection of au⯑thors for her reading, as were beſt calculated to accompliſh her in thoſe particulars: In ſettling this important choice, he was careful to put none but writers of delicacy and ſenſibility into her hands; intereſting and affecting tales or novels were the books he chiefly recommended, which by exhibiting the faireſt patterns of female purity (ſuffering diſtreſs and even death itſelf from the attacks of licentious paſſion in the groſſer ſex) might inſpire her ſympathetic heart with pity, and guard it from ſeduction by diſ⯑playing profligacy in its moſt odious colours.

Sappho's propenſity to theſe ſtudies fully anſwered the intentions of her kind director, and ſhe became more and more attached to works of ſentiment and pathos. Muſidorus's next ſolicitude was to form her ſtile, and with this view he took upon himſelf the trouble of carrying on a kind of probationary correſpon⯑dence with her; this happy expedient ſucceeded beyond expectation, for as two people, who ſaw each other every day, could have very little matter to write upon, there was ſo much the more exerciſe for invention; and ſuch was [199] the copiouſneſs and fluency of expreſſion which ſhe became miſtreſs of by this ingenious prac⯑tice, that ſhe could fill four ſides of letter paper with what other people expreſs upon the back of a card: Clemens once, in the exultation of his heart, put a bundle of theſe manuſcripts into my hands, which he confeſſed he did not clearly underſtand, but nevertheleſs believed them to be the moſt elegant things in the lan⯑guage; I ſhall give the reader a ſample of two of them, which I drew out of the number, not by choice, but by chance; they were carefully folded, and labelled at the back in Sappho's own hand as follows, Muſidorus to Sappho of the 10th of June; underneath ſhe had wrote with a pencil theſe words: ‘PICTURESQUE!
ELEGANT!
HAPPY ALLUSION TO THE SUN!
KING DAVID NOT TO BE COMPARED TO MU⯑SIDORUS.’

Here follows the note, and I cannot doubt but the reader will confeſs that its contents deſerve all that the label expreſſes.

The evening walk took place as uſual, but it was a walk in the duſty purlieus of London, and Sappho ſighed for a cottage and the coun⯑try: Muſidorus ſeconded the ſigh, and he had abundance of fine things to ſay on the occaſion: Retirement is a charming ſubject for a ſenti⯑mental enthuſiaſt; there is not a poet in the language, but will help him out with a deſcrip⯑tion; Muſidorus had them all at his fingers ends, from Heſperus that led the ſtarry hoſt, down to a glow-worm.

The paſſion took ſo ſtrong a hold of Sappho's mind, that ſhe actually aſſailed her father on the ſubject, and with great energy of perſuaſion moved him to adopt her ideas: It did not exactly ſuit Clemens to break up a very lucra⯑tive profeſſion, and ſet out in ſearch of ſome ſolitary cottage, whoſe romantic ſituation might ſuit the ſpiritualized deſires of his daughter, and I am afraid he was for once in his life not quite ſo reſpectful to her wiſhes, as he might have been: Sappho was ſo unuſed to contra⯑diction, [203] that ſhe explained herſelf to Muſidorus with ſome aſperity, and it became the ſubject of much debate between them: Not that he held a contrary opinion from her's; but the difficulty which embarraſſed both parties was, where to find the happy ſcene ſhe ſighed for, and how to obtain it when it was found. The firſt part of this difficulty was at laſt ſurmount⯑ed, and the choſen ſpot was pointed out by Muſidorus, which according to his deſcription was the very bower of felicity; it was in a northern county at a diſtance from the capital, and its ſituation was moſt delectable: The next meaſure was a ſtrong one; for the queſtion to be decided was, if Sappho ſhould abandon her project or her father; ſhe called upon Muſi⯑dorus for his opinion, and he delivered it as follows:—‘"If I was not convinced, moſt ami⯑able Sappho, that a ſecond application to Clemens would be as unſucceſsful as the firſt, I would adviſe you to the experiment; but as there is no doubt of this, it muſt be the heighth of imprudence to put that to a trial, of which there is no hope: It comes there⯑fore next to be conſidered, if you ſhall give up your plan, or execute it without his pri⯑vity; in other words, if you ſhall or ſhall not do that, which is to make you happy: [204] If it were not conſiſtent with the ſtricteſt purity of character, I ſhould anſwer no; but when I reflect upon the innocence, the ſim⯑plicity, the moral beauty of the choice you make, I then regard the duty you owe to yourſelf as ſuperior to all others, which are falſely called natural; whereas, if you follow this in preference, you obey nature herſelf: If you were of an age too childiſh to be al⯑lowed to know what ſuits you beſt, or, if being old enough to be intitled to a choice, you wanted wit to make one, there would be no doubt in the caſe; nay, I will go ſo far as to ſay, that if Clemens was a man of judg⯑ment ſuperior to your own, I ſhould be ſtaggered with his oppoſition; but if truth may ever be ſpoken, it may on this occaſion, and who is there that does not ſee the weak⯑neſs of the father's underſtanding; who but muſt acknowledge the pre-eminence of the daughter's? I will ſpeak yet plainer, moſt incomparable Sappho, it is not fitting that folly ſhould preſcribe to wiſdom: The queſ⯑tion therefore is come to an upſhot, Shall Sappho live a life ſhe deſpiſes and deteſts, to humour a father, whoſe weakneſs ſhe pities, but whoſe judgment ſhe cannot reſpect?"’

‘"No,"’ replied Sappho, ‘"that point is de⯑cided; [205] paſs on to the next, and ſpeak to me upon the practicability of executing what I am reſolved to attempt."’ ‘"The authority of a parent,"’ reſumed Muſidorus, ‘"is ſuch over an unprotected child, that reaſon will be no defence to you againſt obſtinacy and coercion. In the caſe of a ſon, profeſſion gives that defence; new duties are impoſed by a man's vocation, which ſuperſede what are called natural ones; but in the inſtance of a daughter, where ſhall ſhe fly for protection againſt the imperious controul of a parent, but to the arms—? I tremble to pronounce the word; your own imagination muſt com⯑plete the ſentence"’—‘"Oh! horrible!"’ cried Sappho, interrupting him, ‘"I will never marry; I will never ſo contaminate the ſpotleſs luſtre of my incorporeal purity: No, Muſidorus, no—I'll bear my bluſhing honours ſtill about me.’—‘"And fit you ſhould,"’ cried Muſido⯑rus, ‘"what daemon dare defile them? Periſh the man, that could intrude a ſenſual thought within the ſphere of ſuch repelling virtue!—But marriage is a form; and forms are pure; at leaſt they may be ſuch; there's no pollu⯑tion in a name; and if a name will ſhelter you, why ſhould you fear to take it?"’—‘"I perceive,"’ anſwered Sappho, ‘"that I am [206] in a very dangerous dilemma; ſince the very expedient, which is to protect me from vio⯑lence of one ſort, expoſes me to it under another ſhape too odious to mention."’—‘"And is there then,"’ ſaid Muſidorus ſighing, ‘"is there no human being in your thoughts in whom you can confide? Alas for me! if you believe you have no friend who is not tainted with the impurities of his ſex: And what is friendſhip? what, but the union of ſouls? and are not ſouls thus united already mar⯑ried? For my part, I have long regarded our pure and ſpiritualized connection in this light, and I cannot foreſee how any outward cere⯑mony is to alter that inherent delicacy of ſentiment, which is inſeparable from my ſoul's attachment to the ſoul of Sappho: If we are determined to deſpiſe the world, we ſhould alſo deſpiſe the conſtructions of the world: If re⯑tirement is our choice, and the life and habits of Clemens are not to be the life and habits of Sappho, why ſhould Muſidorus, who is ready to ſacrifice every thing in her defence, not be thought incapable of abuſing her confidence, when he offers the protection of his name? If a few words muttered over us by a Scotch blackſmith will put all our troubles to reſt, why ſhould we reſort to [207] dangers and difficulties, when ſo eaſy a re⯑medy is before us?—But why ſhould I ſeek for arguments to allay your apprehenſions, when you have in me ſo natural a ſecurity for my performance of the ſtricteſt ſtipulations?"’—‘"And what is that ſecurity?"’ ſhe eagerly demanded. Muſidorus now drew back a few paces, and with the moſt ſolemn air and action, laying his hand upon his heart, replied, ‘"My age, madam!"’—‘"That's true,"’ cried Sap⯑pho; and now the converſation took a new turn, in the courſe of which they agreed upon their plan of proceeding, ſettled their rendezvous for the next day, and Muſidorus departed to prepare all things neceſſary for the ſecurity of their expedition.

N^o LXXXII.

UPON the day appointed, Sappho, with her father's conſent, ſet out in a hired poſt-chaiſe upon a pretended viſit to a relation, who lived about twenty miles from town on the northern road: At the inn where ſhe was to change horſes, ſhe diſmiſſed her London poſtillion with a ſhort note to her father, in which ſhe told him ſhe ſhould write to him in two or three days time: Here ſhe took poſt for the next ſtage upon the great road, where ſhe was met by Muſidorus, and from thence they preſſed forward with all poſſible expedition towards Gretna Green.

The mind of Sappho was viſited with ſome compunctions by the way; but the eloquence of her companion, and the reſpectful delicacy of his behaviour, ſoon reconciled her conſcience to the ſtep ſhe had taken: The reflections which paſſed in Muſidorus's breaſt, were not ſo eaſily quieted: The anxiety of his thoughts, and the [209] fatigues of the journey, brought ſo violent an attack upon him, that when he was within a ſtage or two of his journey's end, he found himſelf unable to proceed; the gout had ſeized upon his ſtomach, and immediate relief became neceſſary: The romantic viſions, with which Sappho hi⯑therto had indulged her imagination, now began to vaniſh, and a gloomy proſpect opened upon her; in place of a comforter and companion by the way to ſooth her cares, and fill her mind with ſoft healing ſentiments, ſhe had a wretched object before her eyes, tormented with pain and at the point of death.

The houſe, in which ſhe had taken ſhelter, was of the meaneſt ſort, but the good people were humane and aſſiduous, and the village af⯑forded a medical aſſiſtant of no contemptible ſkill in his profeſſion: There was another conſolation attended her ſituation, for in the ſame inn was quartered a dragoon officer with a ſmall recruit⯑ing party; this young cornet was of a good fa⯑mily, of an engaging perſon and very elegant addreſs; his humanity was exerted not only in conſoling Sappho, but in nurſing and cheering Muſidorus. Theſe charitable offices were per⯑formed with ſuch a natural benignity, that Sap⯑pho muſt have been moſt inſenſible if ſhe could have overlooked them; her gentle heart on the [210] contrary overflowed with gratitude, and in the extremity of her diſtreſs ſhe freely confeſſed to him, that but for his ſupport ſhe muſt have ſunk outright. Though the extremity of Muſidorus's danger was now over, yet he was incapable of exertion; and Sappho, who was at leiſure to re⯑flect upon her ſituation, began to waver in her reſolution, and to put ſome queſtions to herſelf, which reaſon could not readily anſwer. Her thoughts were ſo diſtracted and perplexed, that ſhe ſaw no reſource but to unburthen them, and throw herſelf upon the honour and diſcretion of Lionel, for ſo this young officer was called. This ſhe had frequently in mind to do, and many opportunities offered themſelves for it, but ſtill her ſenſibility of ſhame prevented it. The conſtant apprehenſion of purſuit hung over her, and ſometimes ſhe meditated to go back to her father; in one of theſe moments ſhe had begun to write a letter to Clemens to prepare him for her return, when Lionel entered the room and in⯑formed her that he perceived ſo viſible an amend⯑ment in Muſidorus, that he expected to congra⯑tulate her on his recovery in a very few days—‘"and then, Madam,"’ added he, ‘"my ſorrows will begin where your's end; be it ſo! if you are happy, I muſt not complain: I preſume this gentleman is your father, or near rela⯑tion?"’ [211]—‘"Father!"’ exclaimed Sappho:—She caſt her eyes upon the letter ſhe was inditing, and burſt into tears. Lionel approached, and took her hand in his; ſhe raiſed her handkerchief to her eyes with the other, and he proceeded—‘"If my anxious ſolicitude for an unknown lady, in whoſe happineſs my heart is warmly inte⯑reſted, expoſes me to any hazard of your diſ⯑pleaſure, ſtop me before I ſpeak another word; if not, confide in me, and you ſhall find me ready to devote my life to ſerve you. The myſtery about you and the road you are upon (were it not for the companion you are with) would tempt me to believe you was upon a generous errand, to reward ſome worthy man, whom fortune and your parents do not favour; but this poor object above ſtairs makes that impoſſible. If however there is any favoured lover, waiting in ſecret agony for that expected moment, when your releaſe from hence may crown him with the beſt of human bleſſings, the hand, which now has hold of your's, ſhall be devoted to his ſervice: Command me where you will; I never yet have forfeited my honour, and cannot wrong your confidence."’—‘"You are truly generous,"’ replied Sappho; ‘"there is no ſuch man; the hand you hold is yet untainted, and till now has been untouched; [212] releaſe it therefore, and I will proceed.—My innocence has been my error; I have been the dupe of ſentiment: I am the only child of a fond father, and never knew the bleſſing of a mother; when I look back upon my education, I perceive that art has been exhauſted, and nature overlooked in it. The unhappy object above ſtairs has been my ſole adviſer and di⯑rector; for my father is immerſed in buſineſs: From him, and from the duty which I owe him, I confeſs I have ſeceded, and my deſign was to devote myſelf to retirement. My ſcheme I now perceive was viſionary in the extreme; left to my own reflections, reaſon ſhews me both the danger and the folly of it: I have therefore determined upon returning to my father, and am writing to him a letter, which I ſhall ſend by expreſs, to relieve him from the agonies my ſilly conduct has occa⯑ſioned."’—‘"What you have now diſcloſed to me,"’ ſaid Lionel, ‘"with a ſincerity that does equal honour to yourſelf and me, demands a like ſincerity on my part, and I muſt therefore confeſs to you, that Muſidorus, believing him⯑ſelf at the point of death, imparted to me not only every thing that has paſſed, but a [...] the future purpoſes of this treacherous plot, from which you have ſo providentially eſcaped; [213] theſe I ſhall not explain to you at preſent, but you may depend upon it, that this attack upon his life has ſaved his conſcience. I cannot as a man of honour oppoſe myſelf to your reſolu⯑tion of returning home immediately; and yet when I conſider the ridicule you will have to encounter from the world at large, the reflec⯑tions that will ariſe in your mind, when there is perhaps no friend at hand to aſſuage them, but above all when I thus contemplate your charms, and recollect that affectation is ex⯑pelled, and nature reinſtated in your heart, I cannot reſiſt the impulſe nor the opportunity of appealing to that nature againſt a ſeparation ſo fatal to my peace: Yes, lovelieſt of women, I muſt appeal to nature; I muſt hope this heart of your's, where ſuch refined ſenſations have reſided, will not be ſhut from others of a more generous kind. What could the name of Muſidorus do, which Lionel's cannot? Why ſhould you not replace an unworthy friend with one of fairer principles? with one of honourable birth, of equal age, and owner of a heart, that beats with ardent paſſion to⯑wards you? Had you been made the ſacrifice of this chimaera, this illuſion, what had your father ſuffered? If I am honoured with your hand in marriage, what can he complain of? [214] My conduct, my connections and my hopes in life will bear the ſcrutiny: Suffer me to ſay you will have a protector, whoſe character can face the world, and whoſe ſpirit cannot fear it. As for worldly motives, I renounce them; give me yourſelf and your affections; give me poſſeſſion of this hand, theſe eyes, and the ſoul which looks through them; let your father withhold the reſt. Now, lovelieſt and moſt beloved, have you the heart to ſhare a ſoldier's fortune? Have you the noble confidence to take his word? Will you follow, where his honour bids him go, and whether a joyful victory or a glorious death attends him, will you receive him living, or entomb him dying in your arms?"’

Whilſt Lionel was uttering theſe words, his action, his emotion, and that honeſt glow of paſſion, which nature only can aſſume and arti⯑fice cannot counterfeit, had ſo ſubdued the yield⯑ing heart of Sappho, that he muſt have been dull indeed, if he could have wanted any ſtronger confirmation of his ſucceſs, than what her looks beſtowed: Never was ſilence more eloquent; the labour of language and the forms of law had no ſhare in this contract: A ſigh of ſpeechleſs ecſtaſy drew up the nuptial bond; the operations of love are momentary: Tears of affection in⯑terchangeably [215] witneſſed the deed, and the con⯑tracting parties ſealed it with an inviolable em⯑brace.

Every moment now had wings to waft them to that happy ſpot, where the unholy hand of law has not yet plucked up the root of love: Freedom met them on the very extremity of her pre⯑cincts; Nature held out her hand to welcome them, and the Loves and Graces, though exiled to a deſart, danced in her train.

Thus was Sappho, when brought to the very brink of deſtruction, reſcued by the happy inter⯑vention of Providence. The next day produced an interview with Clemens, at the houſe to which they returned after the ceremony in Scot⯑land: The meeting, as might well be expected, was poignant and reproachful; but when Sappho, in place of a ſuperannuated ſentimentaliſt, pre⯑ſented to him a ſon-in-law, in whoſe martial form and countenance he beheld youth, honour, manly beauty, and every attractive grace that could juſtify her choice, his tranſports became exceſſive; and their union, being now ſanctified by the bleſſing of a father, and warranted by love and nature, has ſnatched a deluded victim from miſery and error, and added one conjugal in⯑ſtance to the ſcanty records of unfaſhionable felicity.

[216]Let not my young female readers believe that the extravagance of Sappho's conduct is altoge⯑ther out of nature, or that they have nothing to apprehend from men of Muſidorus's age and character; my obſervation convinces me to the contrary. Gravity, ſays Lord Shafteſbury, is the very eſſence of impoſture; and ſentimental gravity, varniſhed over with the experienced artifice of age and wiſdom, is the worſt of its ſpecies.

N^o LXXXIII.

THE deiſtical writers, who would fain per⯑ſuade us that the world was in poſſeſſion of as pure a ſyſtem of morality before the intro⯑duction of Chriſtianity as ſince, affect to make a great diſplay of the virtues of many eminent heathens, particularly of the philoſophers So⯑crates, Plato, and ſome others.

When they ſet up theſe characters as examples of perfection, which human nature with the aids of revelation either has not attained to, or not exceeded, they put us upon an invidious taſk, which no man would voluntarily engage in, and [217] challenge us to diſcuſs a queſtion, which, if tho⯑roughly agitated, cannot fail to ſtrip the illuſtri⯑ous dead of more than half the honours which the voice of ages has agreed to give them.

It is therefore to be wiſhed that they had held the argument to its general terms, and ſhewn us where that ſyſtem of ethics is to be found, which they are prepared to bring into compariſon with the moral doctrines of Chriſt. This I take to be the fair ground whereon the controverſy ſhould have been decided, and here it would in⯑fallibly have been brought to iſſue; but they knew their weapons better than to truſt them in ſo cloſe a conflict.

The maxims of ſome heathen philoſophers, and the moral writings of Plato, Cicero and Seneca, contain many noble truths, worthy to be held in veneration by poſterity; and if the deiſt can from theſe produce a ſyſtem of morality as pure and perfect as that which claims its origin from divine revelation, he will prove that God gave to man a faculty of diſtinguiſhing between right and wrong with ſuch correctneſs, that his own immediate revelation added no lights to thoſe, which the powers of reaſon had already diſcover⯑ed. Let us grant therefore for a moment, that Chriſt's religion revealed to the world no new truths in morality, nor removed any old errors, [218] and what triumph accrues to the deiſt by the ad⯑miſſion? The moſt he gains is to bring reaſon to a level with revelation, as to its moral doc⯑trines; in ſo doing he dignifies man's nature, and ſhews how excellent a faculty God gave his creatures in their original formation, to guide their judgments and controul their actions; but will this diminiſh the importance of revealed religion? Certainly not, unleſs he can prove one or both of the following poſitions; viz.

Firſt, That the moral tenets of Chriſtianity either fall ſhort of, or run counter to, the moral tenets of natural religion; or,

Secondly, That Chriſt's miſſion was nugatory and ſuperfluous, becauſe the world was already in poſſeſſion of as good a ſyſtem of morality as he imparted to mankind.

As to the firſt, I believe it has never been at⯑tempted by any heathen or deiſtical advocate to convict the Goſpel ſyſtem of falſe morality, or to alledge that it is ſhort and defective in any one particular duty, when compared with that ſyſtem which the world was poſſeſt of without its aid. No man, I believe, has controverted its truths, though many have diſputed its diſcoveries: No man has been hardy enough to ſay of any of its doctrines—This we ought not to practiſe; though many have been vain enough to cry out—All [219] this we knew before.—Let us leave this poſition therefore for the preſent, and paſs to the next, viz. Whether Chriſt's miſſion was nugatory and ſuperfluous, becauſe the world already knew as much morality as he taught them.

This will at once be anſwered, if the Goſpel aſſertion be eſtabliſhed, that life and immortality were brought to light. We need not adduce any other of the myſteries of revelation; we may ſafely reſt the queſtion here, and ſay with the apoſtle to the Gentile world—Behold! I ſhew you a myſtery: We ſhall not all ſleep, but we ſhall all be changed; in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the laſt trump (for the trumpet ſhall ſound) and the dead ſhall be raiſed incorruptible, and we ſhall be changed. Mark to how ſhort an iſſue the argument is now brought! Either the apoſtle is not warranted in calling this a myſtery, or the deiſt is not warranted in calling Chriſt's miſſion nugatory and ſuperfluous.

It now reſts with the deiſt to produce from the writings and opinions of mankind antecedent to Chriſtianity, ſuch a revelation of things to come, as can fully anticipate the Goſpel revela⯑tion, or elſe to admit with the apoſtle that a myſtery was ſhewn; and if the importance of this myſtery be admitted, as it ſurely muſt, the im⯑portance of Chriſt's miſſion can no longer be [220] diſputed; and though revelation ſhall have added nothing to the heathen ſyſtem of morality, ſtill it does not follow that it was ſuperfluous and nugatory.

Let the deiſt reſort to the heathen Elyſium and the realms of Pluto in ſearch of evidences, to ſet in competition with the Chriſtian revela⯑tion of a future ſtate; let him call in Socrates, Plato, and as many more as he can collect in his cauſe; it is but loſt labour to follow the various tracks of reaſon through the pathleſs ocean of conjecture, always wandering, though with dif⯑ferent degrees of deviation. What does it avail, though Seneca had taught as good morality as Chriſt himſelf preached from the Mount? How does it affect revealed religion, though Tully's Offices were found ſuperior to Saint Paul's Epiſtles? Let the deiſt indulge himſelf in de⯑claiming on the virtues of the heathen heroes and philoſophers; let him ranſack the annals of the Chriſtian world, and preſent us with legions of cruſaders drenched in human blood, furious fanatics ruſhing on each other's throats for the diſtinction of a word, maſſacring whole nations and laying nature waſte for a meta⯑phyſical quibble, it touches not religion; let him array a hoſt of perſecuting Inquiſitors with all their torturing eng [...]es, the picture indeed [221] is terrible, but who will ſay it is the picture of Chriſtianity?

When we conſider the ages, which have elapſed ſince the introduction of Chriſtianity, and the events attending its propagation, how wonderful is the hiſtory we contemplate! We ſee a mighty light ſpreading over all mankind from one ſpark kindled in an obſcure corner of the earth: An humble perſecuted teacher preaches a religion of peace, of forgiveneſs of injuries, of ſubmiſſion to temporal autho⯑rities, of meekneſs, piety, brotherly love and univerſal benevolence; he is tried, condemned and executed for his doctrines; he riſes from the tomb, and, breaking down the doors of death, ſets open to all mankind the evidence of a life to come, and at the ſame time points out the ſure path to everlaſting happineſs in that future ſtate: A few unlettered diſciples, his adherents and ſurvivors, take up his doctrines, and going forth amongſt the provinces of the Roman empire, then in its zenith, preach a religion to the Gen⯑tiles, directly ſtriking at the foundation of the moſt ſplendid fabric Superſtition ever reared on earth: Theſe Gentiles are not a rude and bar⯑barous race, but men of illuminated minds, acute philoſophers, eloquent orators, powerful reaſoners, eminent in arts and ſciences, and [222] armed with ſovereign power: What an under⯑taking for the teachers of Chriſtianity! What a conflict for a religion, holding forth no temporal allurements! On the contrary, promiſing no⯑thing but mortification in this world, and refer⯑ring all hope of a reward for preſent ſufferings to the unſeen glories of a life to come.

The next ſcene which this review preſents to us, ſhews the followers of Chriſtianity ſuffering under perſecution by the heathen, whom their numbers had alarmed, and who began to tremble for their gods: In the revolution of ages the church becomes triumphant, and, made wanton by proſperity, degenerates from its primitive ſimplicity, and running into idle controverſies and metaphyſical ſchiſms, perſecutes its ſeceding brethren with unremitting fury; whilſt the Popes, thundering out anathemas and hurling torches from their throne, ſeem the vicegerents of the furies rather than of the author of a reli⯑gion of peace: The preſent time affords a dif⯑ferent view; the temper of the church grown milder, though its zeal leſs fervent; men of dif⯑ferent communions begin to draw nearer to each other; as refinement of manners becomes more general, toleration ſpreads; we are no longer ſlaves to the laws of religion, but converts to the reaſon of it; and being allowed to examine [] the evidence and foundation of the faith that is in us, we diſcover that Chriſtianity is a reli⯑gion of charity, toleration, reaſon and peace, enjoining us to have compaſſion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous, not ren⯑dering railing for railing, but contrariwiſe bleſ⯑ſing; knowing that we are thereunto called, that we ſhould inherit a bleſſing.

N^o LXXXIV.

TASTE may be conſidered either as ſenſi⯑tive or mental; and under each of theſe denominations is ſometimes ſpoken of as na⯑tural, ſometimes as acquired: I propoſe to treat of it in its intellectual conſtruction only, and in this ſenſe Mr. Addiſon defines it to be that faculty of the ſoul, which diſcerns the beauties of an author with pleaſure, and the imperfections with diſlike.

This definition may very properly apply to the faculty which we exerciſe in judging and deciding upon the works of others; but how does it apply to the faculty exerciſed by thoſe who produced thoſe works? How does it ſerve [224] to develope the taſte of an author, the taſte of a painter or a ſtatuary? and yet we may ſpeak of a work of taſte with the ſame propriety, as we do of a man of taſte. It ſhould ſeem there⯑fore as if this definition went only to that de⯑nomination of taſte, which we properly call an acquired taſte; the productions of which gene⯑rally end in imitation, whilſt thoſe of natural taſte bear the ſtamp of originality: Another characteriſtic of natural taſte will be ſimplicity; for how can nature give more than ſhe poſſeſſes, and what is nature but ſimplicity? Now when the mind of any man is endued with a fine na⯑tural taſte, and all means of profiting by other men's ideas are out of the queſtion, that taſte will operate by diſpoſing him to ſelect the faireſt ſubjects out of what he ſees either for art or imagination to work upon: Still his production will be marked with ſimplicity; but as it is the province of taſte to ſeparate deformity or vulgarity from what is merely ſimple, ſo accord⯑ing to the nature of his mind who poſſeſſes it, beauty or ſublimity will be the reſult of the operation: If his taſte inclines him to what is fair and elegant in nature, he will produce beauty; if to what is lofty, bold and tremen⯑dous, he will ſtrike out ſublimity.

Agreeably to this, we may obſerve in all lite⯑rary [225] and enlightened nations, their earlieſt au⯑thors and artiſts are the moſt ſimple: Firſt, adventurers repreſent what they ſee or conceive with ſimplicity, becauſe their impulſe is un⯑biaſſed by emulation, having nothing in their ſight either to imitate, avoid, or excel; on the other hand their ſucceſſors are ſenſible, that one man's deſcription of nature muſt be like another's, and in their zeal to keep clear of imitation, and to outſtrip a predeceſſor, they begin to compound, refine, and even to diſtort. I will refer to the Venus de Medicis and the Laöcoon for an illuſtration of this: I do not concern myſelf about the dates or ſculptors of theſe figures; but in the former we ſee beau⯑tiful ſimplicity, the faireſt form in nature, ſe⯑lected by a fine taſte, and imitated without af⯑fectation or diſtortion, and as it ſhould ſeem without even an effort of art: In the Laöcoon we have a complicated plot; we unravel a maze of ingenious contrivance, where the artiſt has compounded and diſtorted Nature in the ambition of ſurpaſſing her.

Virgil poſſeſſed a fine taſte acccording to Mr. Addiſon's definition, which I before ob⯑ſerved applies only to an acquired taſte: He had the faculty of diſcerning the beauties of an author with pleaſure, and the imperfections with [226] diſlike: He had alſo the faculty of imitating what he diſcerned; ſo that I cannot verify what I have advanced by any ſtronger inſtance than his. I ſhould think there does not exiſt a poet, who has gone ſuch lengths in imitation as Virgil; for to paſs over his paſtoral and bucolic poems, which are evidently drawn from Theocritus and Heſiod, with the aſſiſtance of Aratus in every thing that relates to the ſcientific part of the ſigns and ſeaſons, it is ſuppoſed that his whole narrative of the deſtruction of Troy, with the incident of the wooden horſe and the epiſode of Sinon, are an almoſt literal tranſla⯑tion of Piſander the epic poet, who in his turn perhaps might copy his account from the Ilias Minor; (but this laſt is mere ſuggeſtion). As for the Aeneid, it does little elſe but reverſe the order of Homer's epic, making Aeneas's voyage precede his wars in Italy, whereas the voyage of Ulyſſes is ſubſequent to the operations of the Iliad. As Apollo is made hoſtile to the Greeks, and the cauſe of his offence is introduced by Homer in the opening of the Iliad, ſo Juno in the Aeneid ſtands in his place with every cir⯑cumſtance of imitation. It would be an end⯑leſs taſk to trace the various inſtances through⯑out the Aeneid, where ſcarce a ſingle incident can be found which is not copied from Homer: [227] Neither is there greater originality in the executive parts of the poem, than in the con⯑ſtructive; with this difference only, that he has copied paſſages from various authors, Roman as well as Greek, though from Homer the moſt. Amongſt the Greeks, the dramatic poets Aeſ⯑chylus, Sophocles, and principally Euripides; have had the greateſt ſhare of his attention; Ariſto⯑phanes, Menander and other comic authors, Callimachus and ſome of the lyric writers, alſo may be traced in his imitations. A vaſt col⯑lection of paſſages from Ennius chiefly, from Lucretius, Furius, Lucilius, Pacuvius, Suevius, Naevius, Varius, Catullus, Accius and others of his own nation, has been made by Macro⯑bius in his Saturnalia, where Virgil has done little elſe but put their ſentiments into more elegant verſe; ſo that in ſtrictneſs of ſpeaking we may ſay of the Aeneid, ‘"that it is a miſ⯑cellaneous compilation of poetical paſſages, compoſing all together an epic poem, formed upon the model of Homer's Iliad and Odyſſey; abounding in beautiful verſification, and juſtly to be admired for the fine acquired taſte of its author, but devoid of originality either of conſtruction or execution."’ Beſides its ge⯑neral inferiority as being a copy from Homer, it particularly falls off from its original in the [228] conception and preſervation of character: It does not reach the ſublimity and majeſty of its model, but it has in a great degree adopted the ſimplicity, and entirely avoided the ruſticity of Homer.

Lucan and Claudian in later ages were per⯑haps as good verſifiers as Virgil, but far in⯑ferior to him in that fine acquired taſte, which he excelled in: They are ingenious, but not ſimple; and execute better than they contrive. A paſſage from Claudian, which I ſhall beg the reader's leave to compare with one from Virgil (where he perſonifies the evil paſſions and plagues of mankind, and poſts them at the entrance of hell, to which Aeneas is deſcending) will ex⯑emplify what I have ſaid; for at the ſame time that it will bear a diſpute, whether Clau⯑dian's deſcription is not even ſuperior to Virgil's in poetical merit, yet the judicious manner of introducing it in one caſe, and the evident want of judgment in the other, will help to ſhew, that the reaſon why we prefer Virgil to Claudian, is more on account of his ſuperiority of taſte than of talents.

Claudian's deſcription ſtands in the very front of his poem on Ruffinus; Virgil's is woven into his fable, and will be found in the ſixth book of his Aeneid, as follows:

The productions of the human genius will borrow their complexion from the times in which they originate. Ben Jonſon ſays, that the players often mentioned it as an honour to Shakeſpear, that in his writing (whatſoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My anſwer hath been (adds he) Would he had blotted out a thouſand! which they thought a malevolent ſpeech. I had not told poſterity this, but for their ignorance, who choſe that circumſtance to commend their friend by, wherein he moſt faulted; and to juſtify mine own candour, for I loved the [231] man, and do honour his memory on this ſide ido⯑latry as much as any: He was indeed honeſt, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantaſie, brave notions and gentle expreſſions, wherein he flowed with that facility, that ſome⯑time it was neceſſary he ſhould be ſtopped; Suf⯑flaminandus erat, as Auguſtus ſaid of Haterius: His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been ſo too!

I think there can be no doubt but this kind of indignant negligence with which Shakeſpear wrote, was greatly owing to the ſlight conſi⯑deration he had for his audience. Jonſon treated them with the dictatorial haughtineſs of a pedant; Shakeſpear with the careleſſneſs of a gentleman who wrote at his eaſe, and gave them the firſt flowings of his fancy with⯑out any dread of their correction. Theſe were times in which the poet indulged his genius without reſtraint; he ſtood alone and ſuper⯑eminent, and wanted no artificial ſcaffold to raiſe him above the heads of his contempora⯑ries; he was natural, lofty, careleſs, and daringly incorrect. Place the ſame man in other times, amongſt a people poliſhed almoſt into general equality, and he ſhall begin to heſitate and re⯑tract his ſallies; for in this reſpect poetical are like military excurſions, and it makes a wide [232] difference in the movements of a ſkilful general, whether he is to ſally into a country defended by well-diſciplined troops, or only by an irre⯑gular mob of unarmed barbarians. Shakeſpear might vault his Pegaſus without a rein; moun⯑tains might riſe and ſeas roll in vain before him; Nature herſelf could neither ſtop nor circumſcribe his career. The modern man of verſe mounts with the precaution of a riding-maſter, and prances round his little circle full-bitted and capariſoned in all the formality of a review. Whilſt he is thus pacing and piaffering with every body's eyes upon him, his friends are calling out every now and then—‘"Seat your⯑ſelf firm in the ſaddle! Hold your body ſtraight! Keep your ſpurs from his ſides for fear he ſets a kicking! Have a care he does not ſtumble; there lies a ſtone, here runs a ditch; keep your whip ſtill, and depend upon your bit, if you have not a mind to break your neck!"’—On the other quarter his ene⯑mies are bawling out—‘"How like a taylor that fellow ſits on horſeback! Look at his feet, look at his arms! Set the curs upon him; tie a cracker to his horſe's tail, and make ſport for the ſpectators!"’—All this while perhaps the poor devil could have per⯑formed paſſably well, if it were not for the [233] mobbing and hallooing about him: Whereas Shakeſpear mounts without fear, and ſtarting in the jockey-phraſe at ſcore, cries out, ‘"Stand clear, ye ſons of earth! or, by the beams of my father Apollo, I'll ride over you, and trample you into duſt!"’

N^o LXXXV.

I WAS in company the other day with a young gentleman, who had newly ſucceeded to a conſiderable eſtate, and was a good deal ſtruck with the converſation of an elderly perſon preſent, who was very deliberately caſting up the ſeveral demands that the community at large had upon his property.—‘"Are you aware,"’ ſays he, ‘"how ſmall a portion of your revenue will properly remain to yourſelf, when you have ſatisfied all the claims which you muſt pay to ſociety and your country for living amongſt us and ſupporting the character of what is called a landed gentleman? Part of your income will be ſtopt for the maintenance of them who have none, under the denomination of poor⯑rates; this may be called a fine upon the par⯑tiality [234] of fortune, levied by the law of ſociety, which will not truſt its poor members to the precarious charity of the rich: Another part muſt go to the debts and neceſſities of the go⯑vernment, which protects you in war and peace, and is alſo a fine, which you muſt be content to pay for the honour of being an Engliſhman, and the advantage of living in a land of liberty and ſecurity. The learned profeſſions will alſo have their ſhare; the church for taking care of your ſoul, the phy⯑ſician for looking after your body, and the lawyer muſt have part of your property for ſuperintending the reſt. The merchant, tradeſ⯑man and artiſan will have their profit upon all the multiplied wants, comforts and indulgen⯑ces of civilized life; theſe are not to be enu⯑merated, for they depend on the humours and habits of men; they have grown up with the refinements and elegancies of the age, and they will further encreaſe, as theſe ſhall advance: They are the conductors, which, like the blood-veſſels in the human frame, cir⯑culate your wealth, and every other man's wealth, through every limb and even fibre of the national body: The hand of induſtry creates that wealth, and to the hand of [235] induſtry it finally returns, as blood does to the heart."’

If we trace the ſituation of man from a mere ſtate of nature to the higheſt ſtate of civilization, we ſhall find theſe artificial wants and dependen⯑ces encreaſe with every ſtage and degree of his improvements; ſo that if we conſider each na⯑tion apart as one great machine, the ſeveral parts and ſprings, which give it motion, naturally be⯑come more and more complicated and multifari⯑ous, as the uſes to which it is applied are more and more diverſified. Again, if we compare two nations in an equal ſtate of civilization, we may remark, that where the greater freedom ob⯑tains, there the greater variety of artificial wants will obtain alſo, and of courſe property will cir⯑culate through more channels: This I take to be the caſe upon a compariſon between France and England, ariſing from the different conſtitutions of them and us with reſpect to civil liberty.

The natural wants of men are pretty much the ſame in moſt ſtates, but the humours of men will take different directions in different coun⯑tries, and are governed in a great degree by the laws and conſtitution of the realm in which they are found: There are numbers of people in England, who get their living by arts and occu⯑pations, which would not be tolerated in a de⯑ſpotic [236] government. Men's manners are ſimpli⯑fied in proportion to the reſtraint and circum⯑ſcription under which they are kept. The coun⯑try ſports of Engliſh gentlemen furniſh mainte⯑nance and employment to vaſt numbers of our people, whereas in France and other arbitrary ſtates, men of the firſt rank and fortune reſide in the capital, and keep no eſtabliſhments of this ſort. What a train of grooms, jockies and ſtable-boys follow the heels of our horſes and hounds in tight boots and leather breeches! each of which carries the clothes of ſix men upon his back, caſed in one ſkin of flannel under another, like the coats of an onion. The loco⯑motive mania of an Engliſhman circulates his perſon, and of courſe his caſh, into every quarter of the kingdom: A Frenchman takes a journey only when he cannot help it, an Engliſhman has no other reaſon but becauſe he likes it; he moves with every ſhift of the weather, and fol⯑lows the changes of the moſt variable climate in the world; a froſty morning puts him from his hunting, and he is in London before night; a thaw meets him in town, and again he ſcampers into the country: He has a horſe to run at Epſom, another at Saliſbury, and a third at York, and he muſt be on the ſpot to back every one of them; he has a ſtud at Newmarket, a miſtreſs in Lon⯑don, [237] a ſhooting-box in Norfolk, and a pack of fox-hounds in the New Foreſt: For one wheel that real buſineſs puts in motion, pleaſure, whim, ennui turn one hundred: Sickneſs, which con⯑fines all the reſt of the world, ſends him upon his travels; one doctor plunges him into the ſea at Brighthelmſtone, a ſecond ſteeps him in warm water at Buxton; and a third ſends him to Bath; for the gentlemen of the learned faculty, whether they help us into life, or help us out of it, make us pay toll at each gate; and if at any time their art keeps us alive, the fine we muſt pay to their ingenuity makes the renewal in ſome caſes too hard a bargain for a poor man to profit by. In all other countries upon earth a man is content⯑ed to be well and pay nothing for being ſo, but in England even health is an expenſive article, as we are for ever contriving how to be a little better, and phyſicians are too conſcientious to take a fee and do nothing for it. If there is any th [...]g like ridicule in this, it is againſt the pa⯑tient and not againſt the phyſician I would wiſh to point it; it is in England that the profeſſion is truly dignified, and if it is here accompanied with greater emoluments, it is proportionably practiſed with ſuperior learning; if life is more valuable in a land of freedom than in a land of ſlavery, why ſhould it not be paid for ac⯑cording [238] to its value? In deſpotic ſtates, where men's lives are in fact the property of the prince, all ſubjects ſhould in juſtice be cured or killed at his proper charge; but where a man's houſe is his caſtle, his health is his own concern.

As to the other learned profeſſion of the law, to its honour be it ſpoken, there is that charm⯑ing perplexity about it, that we can ruin one another and ourſelves with the greateſt certainty and facility. It is ſo ſuperior to all other ſciences, that it can turn demonſtration into doubt, truth into contradiction, make improbability put mat⯑ter of fact out of countenance, and hang up a point for twenty years, which common ſenſe would decide in as many minutes. It is the glorious privilege of the freemen of England to make their own laws, and they have made ſo many, that they can neither count them up nor comprehend them. The parliament of England is without compariſon the moſt voluminous au⯑thor in the world; and there is ſuch a happy am⯑biguity in its works, that its ſtudents have as much to ſay on the wrong ſide of every queſtion as upon the right: In all caſes of diſcuſſion it is one man's buſineſs to puzzle, and another's to explain, and though victory be ever ſo certain, it is agreed between the parties to make a long battle: There muſt be an extraordinary faculty [239] of expreſſion in the law, when the only parts clearly underſtood are thoſe which it has not committed to writing.

I ſhall ſay very little in this place upon the ſacred profeſſion of divinity: It is to be lamented that the church of England is not provided with a proper competency for all who are engaged in performing its functions; but I cannot cloſe with their opinion, who are for ſtripping its dig⯑nities, and equalizing thoſe ſplendid benefices, which are at once the glory and the ſupport of its eſtabliſhment. Levellers and reformers will always have the popular cry on their ſide, and I have good reaſon to know with what inveteracy a man is perſecuted for an opinion which oppoſes it; and yet it is hard to give credit to the ſin⯑cerity and diſintereſtedneſs of him who courts popularity, and deny it to the man who ſacri⯑fices his repoſe and ſtands the brunt of abuſe in defence of what he believes to be the truth.

And now having fallen upon the mention of Popularity, I ſhall take leave to addreſs that divinity with a few lines picked up from an ob⯑ſcure author, which, though below poetry, are not quite proſe, and on that account pretty nearly ſuited to the level of their ſubject.

N^o LXXXVI.

WHEN it had entered into the mind of Shakeſpear to form an hiſtorical play upon certain events in the reign of Henry the fourth of England, the character of the Prince of Wales recommended itſelf to his fancy, as likely to ſupply him with a fund of dramatic incidents; for what could invention have more happily ſug⯑geſted than this character, which hiſtory pre⯑ſented ready to his hands? a riotous diſorderly young libertine, in whoſe nature lay hidden thoſe ſeeds of heroiſm and ambition, which were to burſt forth at once to the aſtoniſhment of the world and to atchieve the conqueſt of France. This prince, whoſe character was deſtined to exhibit a revolution of ſo brilliant a ſort, was not only in himſelf a very tempting hero for the dra⯑matic poet, who delights in incidents of novelty and ſurprize, but alſo offered to his imagination a train of attendant characters, in the perſons of his wild comrades and aſſociates, which would be of themſelves a drama. Here was a field for invention wide enough even for the genius of Shakeſpear to range in. All the humours, paſ⯑ſions and extravagancies of human life might be [243] brought into the compoſition, and when he had grouped and perſonified them to his taſte and liking, he had a leader ready to place at the head of the train, and the truth of hiſtory to give life and intereſt to his drama.

With theſe materials ready for creation the great artiſt ſate down to his work; the canvaſs was ſpread before him, ample and capacious as the expanſe of his own fancy; nature put her pencil into his hand, and he began to ſketch. His firſt concern was to give a chief or captain to this gang of rioters: this would naturally be the firſt outline he drew. To fill up the draw⯑ing of this perſonage he conceived a voluptu⯑ary, in whoſe figure and character there ſhould be an aſſemblage of comie qualities; in his perſon he ſhould be bloated and blown up to the ſize of a Silenus, lazy, luxurious, in ſenſu⯑ality a ſatyr, in intemperance a bacchanalian: As he was to ſtand in the poſt of a ringleader amongſt thieves and cutpurſes, he made him a notorious liar, a ſwaggering coward, vain-glori⯑ous, arbitrary, knaviſh, crafty, voracious of plunder, laviſh of his gains, without credit, ho⯑nour or honeſty, and in debt to every body about him: As he was to be the chief ſeducer and miſleader of the heir apparent of the crown, it was incumbent on the poet to qualify him for [244] that part in ſuch a manner as ſhould give proba⯑bility and even a plea to the temptation; this was only to be done by the ſtrongeſt touches and the higheſt colourings of a maſter; by hitting off a humour of ſo happy, ſo facetious and ſo alluring a caſt, as ſhould tempt even royalty to forget itſelf and virtue to turn reveller in his company. His lies, his vanity and his coward⯑ice, too groſs to deceive, were to be ſo ingenious as to give delight; his cunning evaſions, his witty reſources, his mock ſolemnity, his vapour⯑ing ſelf-conſequence, were to furniſh a continual feaſt of laughter to his royal companion; he was not only to be witty himſelf, but the cauſe of wit in other people; a whetſtone for raillery; a buffoon, whoſe very perſon was a jeſt: Com⯑pounded of theſe humours, Shakeſpear produced the character of Sir John Falſtaff; a character, which neither ancient nor modern comedy has ever equalled, which was ſo much the favourite of its author as to be introduced in three ſeveral plays, and which is likely to be the idol of the Engliſh ſtage, as long as it ſhall ſpeak the language of Shakeſpear.

This character almoſt ſingly ſupports the whole comic plot of the firſt part of Henry the fourth; the poet has indeed thrown in ſome auxiliary humours in the perſons of Gadſhill, [245] Peto, Bardolph, and Hoſteſs Quickly; the two firſt ſerve for little elſe except to fill up the action, but Bardolph as a butt to Falſtaff's rail⯑lery, and the hoſteſs in her wrangling ſcene with him, when his pockets had been emptied as he was aſleep in the tavern, give occaſion to ſcenes of infinite pleaſantry: Poins is contraſted from the reſt of the gang, and as he is made the com⯑panion of the prince, is very properly repreſented as a man of better qualities and morals than Falſtaff's more immediate hangers-on and de⯑pendants.

The humour of Falſtaff opens into full diſplay upon his very firſt introduction with the prince; the incident of the robbery on the highway, the ſcene in Eaſtcheap in conſequence of that ridicu⯑lous encounter, and the whole of his conduct during the action with Percy, are ſo exquiſitely pleaſant, that upon the renovation of his dramatic life in the ſecond part of Henry the fourth, I queſtion if the humour does not in part evapo⯑rate by continuation; at leaſt I am perſuaded that it flattens a little in the outſet, and though his wit may not flow leſs copiouſly, yet it comes with more labour and is farther fetcht. The poet ſeems to have been ſenſible how difficult it was to preſerve the vein as rich as at firſt, and has therefore ſtrengthened his comic plot in the [246] ſecond play with ſeveral new recruits, who may take a ſhare with Falſtaff, to whom he no longer entruſts the whole burthen of the humour. In the front of theſe auxiliaries ſtands Piſtol, a character ſo new, whimſical and extravagant, that if it were not for a commentator now living, whoſe very extraordinary reſearches, amongſt our old authors, have ſupplied us with paſſages to illumi⯑nate the ſtrange rhapſodies which Shakeſpear has put into his mouth, I ſhould for one have thought Antient Piſtol as wild and imaginary a being as Caliban; but I now perceive, by the help of theſe diſcoveries, that the character is made up in great part of abſurd and fuſtian paſſages from many plays, in which Shakeſpear was verſed and perhaps had been a performer: Piſtol's dialogue is a tiſſue of old tags of bombaſt, like the middle comedy of the Greeks, which dealt in parody. I abate of my aſtoniſhment at the invention and originality of the poet, but it does not leſſen my reſpect for his ingenuity. Shakeſpear founded his bully in parody, Jonſon copied his from nature, and the palm ſeems due to Bobadil upon a compariſon with Piſtol; Congreve copied a very happy like⯑neſs from Jonſon, and by the faireſt and moſt laudable imitation produced his Noll Bluff, one of the pleaſanteſt humouriſts on the comic ſtage.

[247]Shallow and Silence are two very ſtrong aux⯑iliaries to this ſecond part of Falſtaff's humours, and though they do not abſolutely belong to his family, they are nevertheleſs near of kin, and derivatives from his ſtock: Surely two pleaſant⯑er fellows never trode the ſtage; they not only contraſt and play upon each other, but Silence ſober and Silence tipſey make the moſt comical reverſe in nature; never was drunkenneſs ſo well introduced or ſo happily employed in any drama: The dialogue between Shallow and Falſtaff, and the deſcription given by the latter of Shallow's youthful frolicks, are as true nature and as true comedy as man's invention ever produced: The recruits are alſo in the literal ſenſe the recruits of the drama. Theſe perſonages have the further merit of throwing Falſtaff's character into a new caſt, and giving it the ſeaſonable relief of va⯑riety.

Dame Quickly alſo in this ſecond part reſumes her rôle with great comic ſpirit, but with ſome variation of character for the purpoſe of intro⯑ducing a new member into the troop in the per⯑ſon of Doll Tearſheet, the common trull of the times. Though this part is very ſtrongly co⯑loured, and though the ſcene with her and Fal⯑ſtaff is of a looſe as well as ludicrous nature, yet if we compare Shakeſpear's conduct of this in⯑cident [248] with that of the dramatic writers of his time, and even ſince his time, we muſt confeſs he has managed it with more than common care, and exhibited his comic hero in a very ri⯑diculous light, without any of thoſe groſs inde⯑cencies which the poets of his age indulged themſelves in without reſtraint.

The humour of the Prince of Wales is not ſo free and unconſtrained as in the firſt part; though he ſtill demeans himſelf in the courſe of his revels, yet it is with frequent marks of repugnance and ſelf-conſideration, as becomes the conqueror of Percy, and we ſee his cha⯑racter approaching faſt towards a thorough re⯑formation; but though we are thus prepared for the change that is to happen, when this young hero throws off the reveller and aſſumes the king, yet we are not fortified againſt the weakneſs of pity, when the diſappointment and baniſhment of Falſtaff takes place, and the poet executes juſtice upon his inimitable delinquent, with all the rigour of an unrelenting moraliſt. The reader or ſpectator, who has accompanied Falſtaff through his dramatic ſtory, is in debt to him for ſo many pleaſant moments, that all his failings, which ſhould have raiſed contempt, have only provoked laughter, and he begins to think they are not natural to his character, but [249] aſſumed for his amuſement. With theſe im⯑preſſions we ſee him delivered over to mortifi⯑cation and diſgrace, and bewail his puniſhment with a ſenſibility, that is only due to the ſuffer⯑ings of the virtuous.

As it is impoſſible to aſcertain the limits of Shakeſpear's genius, I will not preſume to ſay he could not have ſupported his humour, had he choſen to have prolonged his exiſtence thro' the ſucceeding drama of Henry the Fifth; we may conclude, that no ready expedient pre⯑ſented itſelf to his fancy, and he was not apt to ſpend much pains in ſearching for ſuch: He therefore put him to death, by which he fairly placed him out of the reach of his contempo⯑raries, and got rid of the trouble and difficulty of keeping him up to his original pitch, if he had attempted to carry him through a third drama, after he had removed the Prince of Wales out of his company, and ſeated him on the throne. I cannot doubt but there were re⯑ſources in Shakeſpear's genius, and a latitude of humour in the character of Falſtaff, which might have furniſhed ſcenes of admirable co⯑medy by exhibiting him in his diſgrace, and both Shallow and Silence would have been ac⯑ceſſaries to his pleaſantry: Even the field of Agincourt, and the diſtreſs of the king's army [250] before the action, had the poet thought proper to have produced Falſtaff on the ſcene, might have been as fruitful in comic incidents as the battle of Shrewſbury; this we can readily be⯑lieve from the humours of Fluellen and Piſtol, which he has woven into his drama; the former of whom is made to remind us of Falſtaff, in his dialogue with Captain Gower, when he tells him that—As Alexander is kill his friend Clytus, being in his ales and his cups, ſo alſo Harry Mon⯑mouth, being in his right wits and his goot judge⯑ments, is turn away the fat Knight with the great pelly-doublet: He was full of jeſts and gypes and knaveries, and mocks; I am forget his name.—Sir John Falſtaff.—That is he.—This paſ⯑ſage has ever given me a pleaſing ſenſation, as it marks a regret in the poet to part with a fa⯑vourite character, and is a tender farewel to his memory: It is alſo with particular propriety that theſe words are put into the mouth of Fluellen, who ſtands here as his ſubſtitute, and whoſe humour, as well as that of Nym, may be ſaid to have ariſen out of the aſhes of Falſtaff.

N^o LXXXVII.

OF all our dealers in ſecond-hand wares, few bring their goods to ſo bad a market, as thoſe humble wits who retail other people's worn-out jokes. A man's good ſayings are ſo perſonally his own, and depend ſo much upon manner and circumſtances, that they make a poor figure in other people's mouths, and ſuffer even more by printing than they do by repeat⯑ing: It is alſo a very difficult thing to pen a witticiſm; for by the time we have adjuſted all the deſcriptive arrangements of this man ſaid, and t'other man replied, we have miſerably blunted the edge of the repartee. Theſe diffi⯑culties however have been happily overcome by Mr. Joſeph Miller and other facetious compi⯑lers, whoſe works are in general circulation, and may be heard of in moſt clubs and com⯑panies where gentlemen meet, who love to ſay a good thing without the trouble of inventing it. We are alſo in a fair train of knowing every thing that a late celebrated author ſaid, as well [252] as wrote, without an exception even of his moſt ſecret ejaculations. We may judge how valuable theſe diaries will be to poſterity, when we reflect how much we ſhould now be edified, had any of the antients given us as minute a collectanea of their illuſtrious contemporaries.

We have, it is true, a few of Cicero's table-jokes; but how delightful would it be to know what he ſaid, when nobody heard him! how piouſly he reproached himſelf when he laid in bed too late in a morning, or eat too heartily at Hortenſius's or Caeſar's table. We are told indeed that Cato the Cenſor loved his jeſt, but we ſhould have been doubly glad to have par⯑taken of it: What a pity it is that nobody thought it worth their while to record ſome pleaſanter ſpecimen than Macrobius has given us of his retort upon Q. Albidius, a glutton and a ſpendthrift, when his houſe was on fire—What he could not eat, he has burnt, ſaid Cato; where the point of the jeſt lies in the alluſion to a par⯑ticular kind of ſacrifice, and the good-humour of it with himſelf. It was better ſaid by P. Syrus the actor, when he ſaw one Mucius, a malevolent fellow, in a very melancholy mood—Either ſome ill fortune has befallen Mucius, or ſome good has happened to one of his acquaint⯑ance.

[253]A man's fame ſhall be recorded to poſterity by the trifling merit of a jeſt, when the great things he has done would elſe have been buried in oblivion: Who would now have known that L. Mallius was once the beſt painter in Rome, if it was not for his repartee to Servilius Ge⯑minus?—You paint better than you model, ſays Geminus, pointing to Mallius's children, who were crooked and ill-favoured.—Like enough, replied the artiſt; I paint in the daylight, but I model, as you call it, in the dark.

Cicero it is well known was a great joker, and ſome of his good ſayings have reached us; it does not appear as if his wit had been of the malicious ſort, and yet Pompey, whoſe temper could not ſtand a jeſt, was ſo galled by him, that he is reported to have ſaid with great bit⯑terneſs—Oh! that Cicero would go over to my enemies, for then he would be afraid of me.—If Cicero forgave this ſarcaſm, I ſhould call him not only a better-tempered, but a braver man than Pompey.

But of all the antient wits Auguſtus ſeems to have had moſt point, and he was as remarkable for taking a jeſt, as for giving it. A country fellow came to Rome, who was ſo like the em⯑peror, that all the city ran after him; Auguſtus heard of it, and ordering the man into his pre⯑ſence [254]—Harkye, friend! ſays he, when was your mother in Rome?—Never, an pleaſe you! re⯑plied the countryman, but my father has been here many a time and oft. The anecdote of the old ſoldier is ſtill more to his credit: He ſolicited the emperor to defend him in a ſuit; Auguſtus ſent his own advocate into court; the ſoldier was diſſatisfied, and ſaid to the emperor—I did not fight for you by proxy at Actium—Auguſtus felt the reproof, and condeſcended to his requeſt in perſon. When Pacuvius Taurus greedily ſolicited a largeſs from the emperor, and to urge him to the greater liberality added, that all the world would have it, that he had made him a very bountiful donation—But you know better, ſaid Auguſtus, than to believe the world—and diſmiſſed the ſycophant without his errand. I ſhall mention one more caſe, where, by a very courtly evaſion, he parried the ſolici⯑tation of his captain of the guard, who had been caſhiered, and was petitioning the em⯑peror to allow him his pay; telling him that he did not aſk that indulgence for the ſake of the money which might accrue to him, but that he might have it to ſay he had reſigned his commiſſion, and not been caſhiered—If that be all your reaſon, ſays the emperor, tell [255] the world that you have received it, and I will not deny that I have paid it.

Vatinius, who was noted to a proverb as a common ſlanderer, and particularly obnoxious for his ſcurrility againſt Cicero, was pelted by the populace in the amphitheatre, whilſt he was giving them the Gladiators: He complained to the Aediles of the inſult, and got an edict for⯑bidding the people to caſt any thing into the area but apples. An arch fellow brought a fu⯑rious large fir-apple to the famous lawyer Caſ⯑cellius, and demanded his opinion upon the edict.—I am of opinion, ſays Caſcellius, that your fir-apple is literally and legally an apple, with this proviſo however, that you intend to throw it at Vatinius's head.

As there is ſome danger in making too free with old jokes, I ſhall hold my hand for the preſent; but if theſe ſhould ſucceed in being acceptable to my readers, I ſhall not be afraid of meeting Mr. Joſeph Miller and his modern witticiſms with my antients. In that caſe I ſhall not deſpair of being able to lay before the public a veritable Roman newſpaper, com⯑pounded of events in the days of Julius Caeſar: By what happy chance I traced this valuable relick, and with what pains I poſſeſſed myſelf of it, may be matter of future explanation: [256] I have the ſatisfaction however to premiſe to the reader, that it is written with great freedom, and as well ſprinkled with private anecdotes as any of the preſent day, whoſe agreeable fa⯑miliarity is ſo charming to every body but the parties concerned: It has alſo a good daſh of the dramatic; and as ſome faſtidious people have been inclined to treat our intelligencers and reviewers with a degree of neglect bor⯑dering upon contempt, I ſhall have pleaſure in ſhewing that they have claſſical authority for all their quirks and conceits, and that they are all written in the true quaint ſpirit of cri⯑ticiſm: It is to be lamented that the Roman theatre furniſhes no ladies to match the he⯑roines of our ſtage; but I can produce ſome encomiums upon Laberius, Roſcius and the famous Publius Syrus, which would not be unapplicable to ſome of our preſent capital actors: I am ſorry to be obliged to confeſs, that they were not in the habit of ſpeaking epilogues in thoſe days; but I have a ſubſti⯑tute in a prologue written and ſpoken by Decimus Laberius, which I am tempted to throw out as a lure to my newſpaper; but I muſt firſt explain upon what occaſion it was com⯑poſed.

This Laberius was a Roman knight of good [257] family, and a man withal of high ſpirit and pre⯑tenſions, but unfortunately he had a talent for the drama: He read his own plays better than any man then living could act them, for neither Garrick nor Henderſon were yet born. P. Clodius, the fine gentleman and rake of the age, had the indecorum to preſs Laberius to come forward on the public ſtage, and take the principal character in one of his own plays: Laberius was indig⯑nant, and Clodius proceeded to menaces:—Do your worſt, ſays the Roman knight, you can but ſend me to Dyracchium and back again—proudly intimating that he would ſuffer the like baniſh⯑ment with Cicero rather than conſent to his de⯑mand; for acting was not then the amuſement of people of faſhion, and private theatres were not thought of. Julius Caeſar was no leſs captivated with Laberius's talents than Clodius had been, and being a man not apt to be diſcouraged by common difficulties, took up the ſame ſolicita⯑tion, and aſſailed our Roman knight, who was now ſixty years of age, and felt his powers in their decline: Conſcious of this decline no leſs than of his own dignity, he reſiſted the degrading requeſt; he interceded, he implored of Caeſar to excuſe him: It was to no purpoſe, Caeſar had made it his point, and his point he would carry: The word of Caeſar was law, and Laberius, [258] driven out of all his defences, was obliged to ſubmit and comply. Caeſar makes a grand ſpec⯑tacle for all Rome; bills are given out for a play of Laberius, and the principal part is an⯑nounced to be performed by the author himſelf: The theatre is thronged with ſpectators; all Rome is preſent, and Decimus Laberius preſents himſelf on the ſtage, and addreſſes the audience in the following prologue:

The original is ſo ſuperiorly beautiful, that to prevent a bathos I ſhall inſert it after the tranſ⯑lation.

The play which this pathetic prologue was at⯑tached to was a comedy, in which Laberius took the character of a ſlave, and in the courſe of the plot (as uſual) was beaten by his maſter: In this condition, having marked his habit with counterfeited ſtripes, he runs upon the ſtage, and cries out amain—Porro, Quirites! libertatem per⯑dimus—In good faith, Countrymen, there is an end of freedom. The indignant ſpectators ſent up a ſhout; it was in the language of our preſent playhouſe bills, a burſt of applauſe; a moſt violent burſt of applauſe from a moſt crowded and brilliant houſe, overflowing in all parts. Laberius not yet content with this atonement to the manes of his knighthood, ſubjoins the following pointed alluſion: Neceſſe eſt multos timeat, quem multi timent—The man, whom many fear, muſt needs fear many. All eyes were now [261] turned upon Caeſar, and the degraded Laberius enjoyed a full revenge.

We may naturally ſuppoſe this conduct loſt him the favour of Caeſar, who immediately took up Publius Syrus, a Syrian ſlave, who had been manumitted for his ingenious talents, and was acting in the country theatres with much ap⯑plauſe: Caeſar fetched him out of his obſcurity, as we bring up an actreſs from Bath or York, and pitted him againſt Laberius. It was the triumph of youth and vigour over age and decay, and Caeſar with malicious civility ſaid to Labe⯑rius, Favente tibi me victus es, Laberi, a Syro—You are ſurpaſſed by Syrus in ſpite of my ſupport. As Laberius was going out of the theatre he was met by Syrus, who was inconſiderate enough to let an expreſſion eſcape him, which was very diſ⯑reſpectful to his veteran competitor: Laberius felt the unbecoming inſult, and, turning to Syrus, gave him this extemporary anſwer—

[262]I need not remind the learned Reader in what credit the ſayings of this Publius Syrus have been juſtly held by all the literati from Seneca to Scaliger, who turned them into Greek; and it is for the honour of the fraternity of the ſtage, that both he and Sophron, whoſe moral ſentences were found under Plato's pillow when he died, were actors by profeſſion.

I ſhall now only add that my Newſpaper con⯑tains a very intereſting deſcription of two young actors, Hylas and Pylades, who became great favourites with Auguſtus, when he was emperor, and made their firſt appearance at the time this journal was written. If the Reader ſhall find any alluſion to two very promiſing young per⯑formers, now living, whoſe initials correſpond with the above, I can promiſe him that our contemporaries will not ſuffer by the compariſon. I may venture to ſay in the words of Doctor Young—‘The Roman wou'd not bluſh at the miſtake.’

N^o LXXXVIII.

DR. Samuel Johnſon, in his life of Rowe, pronounces of The Fair Penitent, that it is one of the moſt pleaſing tragedies on the ſtage, where it ſtill keeps its turns of appearing, and pro⯑bably will long keep them, for that there is ſcarcely any work of any poet at once ſo intereſting by the fable, and ſo delightful by the language. The ſtory, he obſerves, is domeſtic, and therefore eaſily received by the imagination, and aſſimilated to common life; the diction is exquiſitely harmonious, and ſoft or ſprightly as occaſion requires. Few people, I be⯑lieve, will think this character of The Fair Peni⯑tent too laviſh on the ſcore of commendation; the high degree of public favour in which this tragedy has long ſtood, has ever attracted the beſt audiences to it, and engaged the talents of the beſt performers in its diſplay. As there is no drama more frequently exhibited, or more gene⯑rally read, I propoſe to give it a fair and impar⯑tial examination, jointly with the more unknown and leſs popular tragedy from which it is derived.

The Fair Penitent is in fable and character ſo cloſely copied from The Fatal Dowry, that it is impoſſible not to take that tragedy along with it; and it is matter of ſome ſurprize to me that Rowe [264] ſhould have made no acknowledgment of his imitation either in his dedication or prologue, or any where elſe that I am appriſed of.

This tragedy of The Fatal Dowry was the joint production of Maſſinger and Nathaniel Field; it takes a wider compaſs of fable than The Fair Penitent, by which means it preſents a very af⯑fecting ſcene at the opening, which diſcovers young Charalois attended by his friend Romont, waiting with a petition in his hand to be pre⯑ſented to the judges, when they ſhall meet, pray⯑ing the releaſe of his dead father's body, which had been ſeized by his creditors, and detained in their hands for debts he had incurred in the pub⯑lic ſervice, as Field Marſhal of the armies of Burgundy. Maſſinger, to whoſe ſhare this part of the tragedy devolved, has managed this pa⯑thetic introduction with conſummate ſkill and great expreſſion of nature; a noble youth in the laſt ſtate of worldly diſtreſs, reduced to the hu⯑miliating yet pious office of ſoliciting an unfeel⯑ing and unfriendly judge to allow him to pay the ſolemn rites of burial to the remains of an illuſ⯑trious father, who had fought his country's bat⯑tles with glory, and had ſacrificed life and fortune in defence of an ingrateful ſtate, impreſſes the ſpectators mind with pity and reſpect, which are felt through every paſſage of the play: One thing [265] in particular ſtrikes me at the opening of the ſcene, which is the long ſilence that the poet has artfully impoſed upon his principal character (Charalois) who ſtands in mute ſorrow with his petition in his hand, whilſt his friend Romont, and his advocate Charmi, urge him to preſent himſelf to the judges and ſolicit them in perſon: The judges now make their entrance, they ſtop upon the ſtage; they offer him the faireſt oppor⯑tunity for tendering his petition and ſoliciting his ſuit: Charalois remains fixed and ſpeechleſs; Romont, who is all eagerneſs in his cauſe, preſſes him again and again—

The judges point him out to each other; they lament the misfortunes of his noble houſe; they obſerve,

It is in vain; the opportunity paſſes off, and Cha⯑ralois opens not his mouth, nor even ſilently ten⯑ders his petition.

I have, upon a former occaſion, both generally and particularly obſerved upon the effects of dra⯑matic ſilence; the ſtage cannot afford a more beautiful and touching inſtance than this before us: To ſay it is not inferior to the ſilence of Ham⯑let upon his firſt appearance, would be ſaying too little in its favour. I have no doubt but Maſſin⯑ger had this very caſe in his thoughts, and I ho⯑nour him no leſs for the imitating, than I ſhould have done for ſtriking out a ſilence ſo naturally and ſo delicately preſerved. What could Chara⯑lois have uttered to give him that intereſt in the hearts of his ſpectators, which their own conclu⯑ſions during his affecting ſilence have already im⯑preſſed? No ſooner are the judges gone, than the ardent Romont again breaks forth—

[267] This is Hamlet himſelf, his inky cloak, and cuſtom⯑ary ſuits of ſolemn black. The character of Charalois is thus fixed before he ſpeaks; the poet's art has given the prejudice that is to bear him in our affections through all the ſucceeding events of the fable; and a ſtriking contraſt is eſta⯑bliſhed between the undiſcerning fiery zeal of Romont, and Charalois' fine ſenſibility and high⯑born dignity of ſoul.

A more methodical and regular dramatiſt would have ſtopped here, ſatisfied that the impreſ⯑ſion already made was fully ſufficient for all the purpoſes of his plot; but Maſſinger, according to the buſy ſpirit of the ſtage for which he wrote, is not alarmed by a throng of incidents, and pro⯑ceeds to open the court and diſcuſs the pleadings on the ſtage: The advocate Charmi in a ſet ha⯑rangue moves the judges for diſpenſing with the rigour of the law in favour of creditors, and for reſcuing the Marſhal's corpſe out of their clutches; he is brow-beaten and ſilenced by the preſiding judge old Novall: The plea is then taken up by the impetuous Romont, and urged with ſo much perſonal inſolence, that he is arreſted on the ſpot, put in charge of the officers of the court, and taken to priſon. This is a very ſtriking mode of introducing the ſet oration of Charalois; a ſon re⯑counting the military atchievments of a newly [268] deceaſed father, and imploring mercy from his creditors and the law towards his unburied re⯑mains, now claims the attention of the court, who had been hitherto unmoved by the feeble formality of a hired pleader, and the turbulent paſſion of an enraged ſoldier. Charalois' argument takes a mid⯑dle courſe between both; the pious feelings of a ſon, tempered by the modeſt manners of a gentle⯑man: The creditors however are implacable, the judge is hoſtile, and the law muſt take its courſe.

There was yet another incident, which the poet's paſſion for buſineſs and ſpectacle induced him to avail himſelf of, viz. the funeral of the Marſhal; this he diſplays on the ſtage, with a train of captains and ſoldiers following the body of their general: Charalois and Romont, under cuſtody of their jailors, appear as chief mourners, and a party of creditors are concerned in the groupe.

After this ſolemnity is diſpatched, the poet pro⯑ceeds to develop the amiable generoſity of old Rochfort, who being touched with the gallant ſpirit of Romont, and ſtill more penetrated with the filial piety of young Charalois, delivers them both from impriſonment and diſtreſs, by diſcharg⯑ing the debts of the Marſhal and diſmiſſing the creditors: This alſo paſſes before the eyes of the ſpectators. Before Charalois has given full ex⯑preſſion to his gratitude for this extraordinary be⯑nefaction, Rochfort follows it with a further act of bounty, which he introduces in the ſtile of a requeſt—

Beaumelle, Rochfort's daughter, is preſented to Charalois; the ſcene is hurried on with a pre⯑cipitation almoſt without example: Charalois aſks the lady,

The match is agreed upon as ſoon as propoſed, and Rochfort haſtens away to prepare the cele⯑bration.

In this cluſter of incidents I muſt not fail to remark, that the poet introduces young Novall upon the ſcene, in the very moment when the ſhort dialogue above quoted was paſſing: This Novall had before been exhibited as a ſuitor to Beaumelle, and his vain frivolous character had been diſplayed in a very ridiculous and contempt⯑ible light; he is now again introduced to be a witneſs of his own diſappointment, and his only obſervation upon it is—What's this change?—Upon the exit of the father however he addreſſes himſelf to the lady, and her reply gives the alarm⯑ing [271] hint, that makes diſcovery of the fatal turn which the plot is now about to take; for when Novall turning aſide to Beaumelle, by one word—Miſtreſs!—conveys the reproach of inconſtan⯑cy, ſhe replies,

Young Novall is left on the ſcene with certain followers and dependants, which hang upon his fortune, one of which (Pontalier by name) a man under deep obligations to him, yet of an ho⯑neſt nature, adviſes him to an honourable renun⯑ciation of all further hopes or attempts to avail himſelf of the affections of Beaumelle—

This honourable advice is rejected with con⯑tempt: Novall, in whoſe mean boſom there does not ſeem a trace of virtue, avows a determined perſeverance; and the poet having in this haſty manner compleated theſe inauſpicious nuptials, cloſes the ſecond act of his tragedy.

N^o LXXXIX.

WE have now expended two entire acts of The Fatal Dowry in advancing to that period in the fable, at which the tragedy of The Fair Penitent opens. If the author of this tra⯑gedy thought it neceſſary to contract Maſſinger's plot, and found one upon it of a more regular conſtruction, I know not how he could do this any otherwiſe than by taking up the ſtory at the point where we have now left it, and throwing the antecedent matter into narration; and though theſe two prefatory acts are full of very affecting incidents, yet the pathos, which properly apper⯑tains to the plot and conduces to the cataſtrophe of the tragedy, does not in ſtrictneſs take place before the event of the marriage. No critic will ſay that the pleadings before the judges, the in⯑terference of the creditors, the diſtreſſes of Cha⯑ralois, or the funeral of the Marſhal, are neceſſary parts of the drama; at the ſame time no reader will deny (and neither could Rowe himſelf overlook) the effect of theſe incidents: He could not fail to foreſee that he was to ſacrifice very much of the intereſt of his fable, when he was to throw that upon narration, which his original had given in ſpectacle; and the loſs was more enhanced by [273] falling upon the hero of the drama; for who that compares Charalois, at the end of the ſecond act of Maſſinger, with Rowe's Altamont at the opening ſcene of The Fair Penitent, can doubt which character has moſt intereſt with the ſpec⯑tators? We have ſeen the former in all the moſt amiable offices which filial piety could perform; enduring inſults from his inveterate oppreſſors, and voluntarily ſurrendering himſelf to a priſon to ranſom the dead body of his father from un⯑relenting creditors. Altamont preſents himſelf before us in his wedding ſuit, in the ſplendour of fortune and at the ſummit of happineſs; he greets us with a burſt of exultation—

The reſt of the ſcene is employed by him and Horatio alternately in recounting the benefits conferred upon them by the generous Sciolto; and the very ſame incident of the ſeizure of his father's corpſe by the creditors, and his redemp⯑tion of it, is recited by Horatio—

It is not however within the reach of this, or any other deſcription, to place Altamont in that inte⯑reſting and amiable light, as circumſtances have already placed Charalois; the happy and exulting bridegroom may be an object of our congratula⯑tion, but the virtuous and ſuffering Charalois engages our pity, love and admiration. If Rowe would have his audience credit Altamont for that filial piety, which marks the character he copied from, it was a ſmall overſight to put the following expreſſion into his mouth—

A cloſer attention to character would have re⯑minded him that it was poſſible for Altamont to expreſs his gratitude to Sciolto without ſetting him above a father, to whoſe memory he had paid ſuch devotion.

From this contraction of his plot, by the de⯑falcation of ſo many pathetic incidents, it became [275] impoſſible for the author of the Fair Penitent to make his Altamont the hero of his tragedy, and the leading part is taken from him by Horatio, and even by Lothario, throughout the drama. There are ſeveral other reaſons, which concur to ſink Altamont upon the compariſon with Charalois, the chief of which ariſes from the captivating colours in which Rowe has painted his libertine: On the contrary, Maſſinger gives a contemptible picture of his young Novall; he makes him not only vicious, but ridiculous; in foppery and impertinence he is the counterpart of Shakeſpear's Oſrick; vain-glorious, purſe⯑proud, and overbearing amongſt his dependants; a ſpiritleſs poltroon in his interview with Ro⯑mont. Lothario (as Johnſon obſerves) with gaiety which cannot be hated, and bravery which cannot be deſpiſed, retains too much of the ſpectator's kindneſs. His high ſpirit, brilliant qualities and fine perſon are ſo deſcribed, as to put us in dan⯑ger of falſe impreſſions in his favour, and to ſet the paſſions in oppoſition to the moral of the piece: I ſuſpect that the gallantry of Lothario makes more advocates for Caliſta than ſhe ought to have. There is another conſideration, which operates againſt Altamont, and it is an indelicacy in his character, which the poet ſhould have pro⯑vided againſt: He marries Caliſta with the full [276] perſuaſion of her being averſe to the match; in his firſt meeting with Sciolto he ſays—

I am aware that Sciolto attempts to parry theſe facts by an interpretation too groſs and unbe⯑coming for a father's character, and only fit for the lips of a Lothario; but yet it is not in nature to ſuppoſe that Altamont could miſtake ſuch ſymptoms, and it fixes a meanneſs upon him, which prevails againſt his character throughout the play. Nothing of this ſort could be diſco⯑vered by Maſſinger's bridegroom, for the cere⯑mony was agreed upon and performed at the very firſt interview of the parties; Beaumelle gave a full and unreſerved aſſent, and though her character ſuffers on the ſcore of hypocriſy on that account, yet Charalois is ſaved by it: Leſs [277] hypocriſy appears in Caliſta, but hers is the deeper guilt, becauſe ſhe was already diſhonoured by Lothario, and Beaumelle's coquetry with No⯑vall had not yet reached the length of criminality. Add to this, that Altamont appears in the con⯑temptible light of a ſuitor, whom Caliſta had apprized of her averſion, and to whom ſhe had done a deliberate act of diſhonour, though his perſon and character muſt have been long known to her. The caſe is far otherwiſe between Cha⯑ralois and Beaumelle, who never met before, and every care is taken by the poet to ſave his hero from ſuch a deliberate injury, as might convey contempt; with this view the marriage is precipitated; nothing is allowed to paſs, that might open the character of Charalois to Beau⯑melle: She is hurried into an aſſignation with Novall immediately upon her marriage; every artifice of ſeduction is employed by her confi⯑dante Bellaperte, and Aymer the paraſite of No⯑vall, to make this meeting criminal; ſhe falls the victim of paſſion, and when detection brings her to a ſenſe of her guilt, ſhe makes this penitent and pathetic appeal to Charalois—

Compare this with the conduct of Caliſta, and then decide which frail fair-one has the better title to the appellation of a Penitent, and which drama conveys the better moral by its cata⯑ſtrophe.

There is indeed a groſſneſs in the older poet, which his more modern imitator has refined; but he has only ſweetened the poiſon, not re⯑moved its venom; nay, by how much more pa⯑latable he has made it, ſo much more pernici⯑ous it is become in his tempting ſparkling cup, than in the coarſe deterring doſe of Maſſinger.

Rowe has no doubt greatly outſtepped his original in the ſtriking character of Lothario, [279] who leaves Novall as far behind him as Chara⯑lois does Altamont: It is admitted then that Caliſta has as good a plea as any wanton could wiſh to urge for her criminality with Lothario, and the poet has not ſpared the ear of modeſty in his exaggerated deſcription of the guilty ſcene; every luxurious image, that his inflamed ima⯑gination could crowd into the glowing rhapſody, is there to be found, and the whole is recited in numbers ſo flowing and harmonious, that they not only arreſt the paſſions but the memory alſo, and perhaps have been, and ſtill can be, as gene⯑rally repeated as any paſſage in Engliſh poetry. Maſſinger with leſs elegance, but not with leſs regard to decency, ſuffers the guilty act to paſs within the courſe of his drama; the greater re⯑finement of manners in Rowe's day did not allow of this, and he anticipated the incident; but when he revived the recollection of it by ſuch a ſtudied deſcription, he plainly ſhewed that it was not from moral principle that he omitted it; and if he has preſented his heroine to the ſpectators with more immediate delicacy during the com⯑paſs of the play, he has at the ſame time given her greater depravity of mind; her manners may be more refined, but her principle is fouler than Beaumelle's. Caliſta, who yielded to the gallant gay Lothario, hot with the Tuſcan grape, might [280] perhaps have diſdained a lover who addreſſed her in the holiday language which Novall uſes to Beaumelle—

The letter of Caliſta (which brings about the diſcovery by the poor expedient of Lothario's dropping it and Horatio's finding it) has not even the merit of being characteriſtically wicked, and is both in its matter and mode below trage⯑dy. It is Lothario's cruelty has determined her to yield a perfect obedience to her father, and give her hand to Altamont, in ſpite of her weakneſs for the falſe Lothario.—If the lady had given her perfect obedience its true denomination, ſhe had called it a moſt diſhonourable compliance; and if we may take Lothario's word (who ſeems full correct enough in deſcribing facts and particulars) ſhe had not much cauſe to complain of his being falſe; for he tells Roſſano—

It appears by this that Lothario had not been falſe to her in the article of marriage, though he might have been cruel to her on the ſcore of paſſion, which indeed is confeſt on his part with as much cold indifference, as the moſt barefaced avowal could expreſs.—But to return to the letter: She proceeds to tell him—that ſhe could almoſt wiſh ſhe had that heart, and that honour to beſtow with it, which he has robbed her of—But leſt this half wiſh ſhould ſtartle him, ſhe adds—But oh! I fear, could I retrieve them, I ſhould again be undone by the too faithleſs, yet too lovely Lothario.—This muſt be owned as full a reaſon as ſhe could give why ſhe ſhould only almoſt wiſh for her loſt honour, when ſhe would make ſuch an uſe of it, if ſhe had it again at her diſpoſal. And yet the very next paragraph throws every thing into contradiction, for ſhe tells him—this is the laſt weakneſs of her pen, and to-morrow ſhall be the laſt in which ſhe will indulge her eyes. If ſhe could keep to that reſolution, I muſt think the recovery of her innocence would have been worth a whole wiſh, and many a wiſh; unleſs we are to ſuppoſe ſhe was ſo devoted to guilt, [282] that ſhe could take delight in reflecting upon it: This is a ſtate of depravity, which human nature hardly ever attains, and ſeems peculiar to Caliſta. She now grows very humble, and concludes in a ſtile well ſuited to her humility—Lucilla ſhall conduct you, if you are kind enough to let me ſee you; it ſhall be the laſt trouble you ſhall meet with from—The loſt Caliſta.

It was very ill done of Horatio's curioſity to read this letter, and I muſt ever regret that he has ſo unhandſomely expoſed a lady's private correſpondence to the world.

N^o XC.

THOUGH the part which Horatio takes in the buſineſs of the drama is exactly that which falls to the ſhare of Romont in the Fatal Dowry, yet their characters are of a very different caſt; for as Rowe had beſtowed the fire and impetuoſity of Romont upon his Lo⯑thario, it was a very judicious oppoſition to contraſt it with the cool deliberate courage of the ſententious Horatio, the friend and bro⯑ther-in-law of Altamont.

[283]When Horatio has read Caliſta's letter, which Lothario had dropped (an accident which more frequently happens to gentlemen in comedies than in tragedies) he falls into a very long me⯑ditation, and cloſes it with putting this queſtion to himſelf:

At this moment he is interrupted in his re⯑flections by the preſence of Lavinia, whoſe tender ſolicitude fills up the remaining part of the dialogue, and concludes the act without any deciſive reſolution on the part of Horatio; an incident well contrived, and introduced with much dramatic ſkill and effect: Though preſſed by his wife to diſcloſe the cauſe of his uneaſi⯑neſs, he does not impart to her the fatal diſ⯑covery he has made; this alſo is well in cha⯑racter. Upon his next entrance he has with⯑drawn himſelf from the company, and being alone, reſumes his meditation—

This ſoliloquy is ſucceeded by the much-admired and ſtriking ſcene between him and Lothario; rigid criticiſm might wiſh to abridge ſome of the ſententious declamatory ſpeeches of Horatio, and ſhorten the dialogue to quicken the effect; but the moral ſentiment and har⯑monious verſification are much too charming to be treated as intruders, and the author has alſo ſtruck upon a natural expedient for pro⯑longing the dialogue, without any violence to probability, by the interpoſition of Roſſano, who acts as a mediator between the hoſtile parties. This interpoſition is further neceſſary to pre⯑vent a deciſive rencounter, for which the fable is not ripe; neither would it be proper for Ho⯑ratio to anticipate that revenge, which is re⯑ſerved for Altamont: The altercation therefore cloſes with a challenge from Lothario—

[285] The place of meeting is not well aſcertained, and the time is too long deferred for ſtrict pro⯑bability; there are however certain things in all dramas, which muſt not be too rigidly in⯑ſiſted upon, and provided no extraordinary vio⯑lence is done to reaſon and common ſenſe, the candid critic ought to let them paſs: This I take to be a caſe in point; and though Ho⯑ratio's cool courage and ready preſence of mind are not juſt the qualities to reconcile us to ſuch an overſight, yet I ſee no reaſon to be ſevere upon the incident, which is followed by his immediate recollection—

Whether this be a meaſure altogether in cha⯑racter with a man of Horatio's good ſenſe and diſcretion, I muſt own is matter of doubt with me. I think he appears fully ſatisfied of her actual criminality; and in that caſe it would be more natural for him to lay his meaſures for intercepting Lothario, and preventing the aſſig⯑nation, than to try his rhetoric in the preſent [286] criſis upon the agitated mind of Caliſta. As it has juſtly occurred to him, that he has been over-reached by Lothario in the poſtponement of the duel, the meaſure I ſuggeſt would natu⯑rally tend to haſten that rencounter. Now, though the buſineſs of the drama may require an explanation between Horatio and Caliſta, whereupon to ground an occaſion for his in⯑tereſting quarrel with Altamont, yet I do not ſee any neceſſity to make that a premeditated explanation, nor to ſacrifice character by a mea⯑ſure that is inconſiſtent with the better judg⯑ment of Horatio. The poet, however, has decreed it otherwiſe, and a deliberate interview with Caliſta and Horatio accordingly takes place. This, although introduced with a ſolemn invocation on his part, is very clumſily con⯑ducted—

Who can expect, after this preparation, to hear Horatio thus break his ſecret to Caliſta?

This I hold to be totally out of nature; firſt, becauſe it is a palpable departure from his re⯑ſolution to uſe gracious words; next, becauſe it has a certain tendency to produce rage and not repentance; and thirdly, becauſe it is founded in exaggeration and falſehood; for how is he warranted to ſay that the ſtory is the public talk and ſport of the city? If it were ſo, what can his interference avail? why ſeek this in⯑terview?

No judge of nature will think he takes the means to lead her into the paths of peace, by hurrying her to the very brink of deſperation. I need not enlarge upon this obſervation, and ſhall therefore only remark, that the ſcene breaks up, as might be expected, with the following proof of her penitence, and his ſucceſs in per⯑ſuaſion—

Let us now enquire how Romont (the Ho⯑ratio of Maſſinger) conducts this incident, a character from whom leſs diſcretion is to be expected than from his philoſophical ſucceſſor. Romont himſelf diſcovers Beaumelle and Novall engaged in the moſt wanton familiarities, and, with a warmth ſuitable to his zeal, breaks up the amorous conference by driving Novall off the ſcene with ineffable contempt; he then ap⯑plies himſelf to the lady, and with a very na⯑tural and manly ſpirit ſays,

She replies to him with contempt and ridi⯑cule; he reſumes the ſame characteriſtic ſtrain he ſet out with, and proceeds—

We have juſt now heard Horatio reproach Caliſta with the reports that were circulated againſt her reputation; let us compare it with what Romont ſays upon the ſame ſubject—

What avails it to attempt drawing a compa⯑riſon between this conduct and that of Hora⯑tio's, where no compariſon is to be made? I [290] leave it to the reader, and decline a taſk at once ſo unneceſſary and ungrateful.

When Romont finds no impreſſion is to be made upon Beaumelle, he meets her father, and immediately falls into the ſame reflection that Horatio had ſtruck upon—

If this ſtep needs excuſe, the reader will conſi⯑der that it is a ſtep of prevention. The ex⯑periment however fails, and he is rebuffed with ſome aſperity by Rochfort; this draws on a ſcene between him and Charalois, which, as it is too long to tranſcribe, ſo it is throughout too excellent to extract any part from it. I can only expreſs my ſurprize, that the author of The Fair Penitent, with this ſcene before him, could conduct his interview between Altamont and Horatio upon a plan ſo widely different, and ſo much inferior: I muſt ſuppoſe he thought it a ſtrong incident to make Altamont give a blow to his friend, elſe he might have ſeen an interview carried on with infinitely [291] more ſpirit, both of language and character, be⯑tween Charalois and Romont, in circumſtances exactly ſimilar, where no ſuch violence was committed, or even meditated. Was it be⯑cauſe Pierre had given a blow to Jaffier, that Altamont was to repeat the like indignity to Horatio, for a woman, of whoſe averſion he had proofs not to be miſtaken? Charalois is a cha⯑racter at leaſt as high and irritable as Altamont, and Romont is out of all compariſon more rough and plain-ſpoken than Horatio: Chara⯑lois might be deceived into an opinion of Beaumelle's affection for him, Altamont could not deceive himſelf into ſuch a notion, and the lady had teſtified her diſlike of him in the ſtrongeſt terms, accompanied with ſymptoms which he himſelf had deſcribed as indicating ſome rooted and concealed affliction: Could any ſolution be more natural than what Ho⯑ratio gives? Novall was a rival ſo contemptible, that Charalois could not, with any degree of probability, conſider him as an object of his jealouſy; it would have been a degradation of his character, had he yielded to ſuch a ſuſpicion: Lothario, on the contrary, was of all men living the moſt to be apprehended by a huſband, let his confidence or vanity be ever ſo great. Rowe, in his attempt to ſurprize, has ſacrificed [292] nature and the truth of character for ſtage-effect; Maſſinger, by preſerving both nature and character, has conducted his friends through an angry altercation with infinitely more ſpirit, more pathos and more dramatic effect, and yet diſmiſſed them with the following animated and affecting ſpeech from Charalois to his friend:

It is plain that Altamont at leaſt was an ex⯑ception to this remark upon Italian huſbands, I ſhall purſue this compariſon no further, nor offer any other remark upon the incident of the blow given by Altamont, except with regard to Horatio's conduct upon receiving it; he draws his ſword, and immediately ſuſpends reſentment upon the following motive:

We muſt ſuppoſe it was the martial attitude that Altamont had put himſelf into, which brought the reſemblance of his father ſo ſtrongly to the obſervation of Horatio, otherwiſe it was a very unnatural moment to recollect it in, when he had juſt received the deepeſt inſult one man can give to another: It is however worth a remark, that this father of Altamont ſhould act on both ſides, and yet miſcarry in his me⯑diation; for it is but a few paſſages before that Altamont ſays to Horatio,

What this mark was is left to conjecture; but it is plain it was as ſeaſonable for Horatio's reſcue at this moment, as it was for Altamont a few moments after, who had certainly over⯑looked it when he ſtruck the very friend againſt whom he could not, dared not lift his ſword.

When Lavinia's entrance has parted Alta⯑mont [294] and Horatio, her huſband complains to her of the ingratitude with which he has been treated, and ſays—

Theſe are very extraordinary terms for a man like Horatio to uſe, and ſeem to convey a charge very unfit for him to make, and of a very differ⯑ent nature from the haſty inſult he had received; in fact it appears as if the blow had totally re⯑verſed his character, for the reſolution he takes in conſequence of this perſonal affront is juſt ſuch an one as would be only taken by the man who dared not to reſent it—

That Horatio's heroiſm did not conſiſt in the ready forgiveneſs of injuries is evident from the obſtinate ſullenneſs with which he rejects the penitent apologies of Altamont in the further progreſs of the play; I am at a loſs therefore to know what colour the poet meant to give his character by diſpoſing him to quit his country with this inſult unatoned for, and the additional [295] ſtigma upon him of running away from his ap⯑pointment with Lothario for the next morning amongſt the rocks. Had he meant to bring him off upon the repugnance he felt of reſenting any injury againſt the ſon of a father, whoſe image was ſo viſible in his face, that his heart ran o'er with fondneſs in ſpite of his wrongs, and he could rather die than hurt him; ſurely that image would have interceded no leſs powerfully for him, when, penetrated with remorſe, he intercedes for pity and forgiveneſs, and even faints at his feet with agony at his unrelenting coduracy: It would be unfair to ſuppoſe he was more like his father when he had dealt him an inſulting blow, than when he was atoning for an injury by the moſt ample ſatisfaction and ſubmiſſion.

This is the light in which the conduct of Horatio ſtrikes me; if I am wrong, I owe an atonement to the manes of an elegant poet, which, upon conviction of my error, I will ſtudy to pay in the fulleſt manner I am able.

It now remains only to ſay a few words upon the cataſtrophe, in which the author varies from his original, by making Caliſta deſtroy herſelf with a dagger, put into her hand for that pur⯑poſe by her father: If I am to moralize upon this proceeding of Sciolto, I know full well the incident cannot bear up againſt it; a Roman [296] father would ſtand the diſcuſſion better than a Chriſtian one; and I alſo know that the moſt natural expedient is unluckily a moſt undramatic one; yet the poet did not totally overlook it, for he makes Sciolto's firſt thought turn upon a convent, if I rightly underſtand the following paſſage—

Whilſt I am tranſcribing theſe lines a doubt ſtrikes me that I have miſinterpreted them, and yet Caliſta's anſwer ſeems to point to the mean⯑ing I had ſuggeſted; perhaps however they are mere ravings in fine numbers without any deter⯑minate idea: Whatever they may be, it is clear they do not go to the length of death: He tells Altamont, as ſoon as ſhe is departed—

[297] He ſeems in this moment to have formed the reſolution, which he afterwards puts into execu⯑tion; he prompts her to ſelf-murder, and arms her for the act: This may ſave the ſpectators a ſight too ſhocking to behold, but does it convey leſs horror to the heart, than if he had put her to death with his own hand? A father killing his child for incontinence with the man whom he had not permitted to marry her, when he ſolicit⯑ed his conſent, is an act too monſtrous to reflect upon: Is that father leſs a monſter, who, deli⯑berately and after full reflection, puts a dagger into her hand and bids her commit ſelf-murder? I ſhould humbly conceive the latter act a degree in guilt beyond the former; eſpecially when I hear that father coolly demanding of his victim, if ſhe has reflected upon what may happen after death—

A parent ſurely would turn that queſtion upon his own heart before he precipitated his unpre⯑pared child to ſo awful and uncertain an ac⯑count: Rage and inſtant revenge may find ſome plea; ſudden paſſion may tranſport even a father to lift his hand againſt his own offspring; but [298] this act of Sciolto has no ſhelter but in heathen authority—

Did ever poetry beguile a man into ſuch an allu⯑ſion? And to what does that piece of information tend, that Rome was miſtreſs of the world? If this is human nature, it would almoſt tempt one to reply in Sciolto's own words—

But it is no more like nature, than the following ſentiments of Caliſta are like the ſentiments of a Penitent, or a Chriſtian—

And again,

[299] Such is the cataſtrophe of Rowe's Fair Peni⯑tant, ſuch is the repreſentation he gives us of human nature, and ſuch the moral of his tra⯑gedy.

I ſhall conclude with an extract or two from the cataſtrophe of The Fatal Dowry; and firſt, for the penitence of Beaumelle, I ſhall ſelect only the following ſpeech, addreſſed to her huſband:

I need not point out the contraſt between this and the quotations from Caliſta. It will require a longer extract to bring the conduct of Rochfort into compariſon with that of Sciolto: The reader will obſerve that Novall's dead body is now on the ſcene, Charalois, Beaumelle, and Rochfort her father, are preſent. The charge of adultery is urged by Charalois, and appeal is made to the juſtice of Rochfort in the caſe.

In conſequence of this the huſband ſtrikes her dead before her father's eyes: The act indeed is horrid; even tragedy ſhrinks from it, and Nature with a father's voice inſtantly cries out—Is ſhe dead then?—and you have kill'd her?—Charalois [301] avows it, and pleads his ſentence for the deed; the revolting, agonized parent breaks forth into one of the moſt pathetic, natural and expreſſive lamentations, that the Engliſh drama can pro⯑duce—

What concluſions can I draw from theſe compa⯑rative examples, which every reader would not [302] anticipate? Is there a man, who has any feeling for real nature, dramatic character, moral ſenti⯑ment, tragic pathos or nervous diction, who can heſitate, even for a moment, where to beſtow the palm?

N^o XCI.

I Believe there are few people, who have not at ſome time or other felt a propenſity to humour themſelves in that kind of melancholy, which ariſes in the mind upon reviſiting the ſcene of former happineſs, and contemplating the change that time has wrought in its appearance by the mournful compariſon of preſent with paſt impreſſions.

In this train of thought I was the other day car⯑ried almoſt imperceptibly to the country ſeat of a deceaſed friend, whoſe loſs I muſt ever lament. I had not been there ſince his death, and there was a drearineſs in the ſcene as I approached, that might have almoſt tempted me to believe even [303] things inanimate partook of my ſenſations. The traces of my friend, whoſe ſolicitude for order and ſeemlineſs reached to every thing about him, were no longer to be ſeen: The cottages and little gardens of his poor neighbours, which uſed to be ſo trim and neat, whilſt his eye was over them, ſeemed to be falling into neglect; the lawn before his houſe was now become a ſoli⯑tude; no labourers at their work; no domeſtics at their ſports and exerciſes: I looked around for my old acquaintance, that uſed to be grazing up and down upon their penſions of paſturage; they had probably been food for hounds long ago; Nature had loſt her ſmile of hoſpitality and benevolence; methought I never ſaw any thing more diſconſolate.

As I entered the houſe, an aged woman, whom I had long remembered as one of the family, met me in the paſſage, and, looking me in the face, cried out, ‘"Is it you, Sir?"’—and burſt into tears: She followed me into the common ſitting-room, and as ſhe was opening the ſhut⯑ters, obſerved to me—‘"That it did not look as it uſed to do, when my lord was living."’ It was true; I had already made the remark in ſilence:—‘"How the face of a friend,"’ ſaid I within myſelf, ‘"enlivens all things about him! What hours of placid delight have I paſſed [304] within theſe walls! Have I ever heard a word here fall from his lips, that I have wiſhed him to recall? Has the reputation of the abſent ever bled by a ſtab of his giving? Has the ſenſibility of any perſon preſent ſuffered for an expreſſion of his? Once, and only once, in this very ſpot, I drew from him the circum⯑ſtantial detail of an unfortunate period in his life: It was a recital ſo manly and ingenuous, ſo void of colouring, ſo diſdainful of complaint and ſo untainted by aſperity, that it carried conviction to my mind, and I can ſcarce con⯑ceive a degree of prejudice that could have held out againſt it; but I could perceive that the greateſt event in a man's hiſtory may turn by ſprings ſo ſubtle and concealed, that they can never be laid open for public exculpation, and that in the proceſs of all human trials there may be things too ſmall for the fingers of the law to feel; motives, which produce the good or ill fortunes of men and govern their actions, but which cannot guide the judgments, or even come under the con⯑templation of thoſe who are appointed to de⯑cide upon them."’

I ſoon quitted this apartment, and entered one which I contemplated with more ſatisfaction, and even with a degree of veneration; for it was [305] the chamber, in which I had ſeen my friend yield up the laſt breath of life. Few men had endured greater perſecution in the world; none could leave it in greater peace and charity: If forgiveneſs of injuries conſtitutes a merit, our enemies ſurely are thoſe to whom we are moſt beholden. How awful is the laſt ſcene of a man's life, who has filled a dubious and im⯑portant part on the ſtage of the world!—‘"Of a truth,"’ thought I, ‘"thou art happily re⯑moved out of an unfriendly world; if thou hadſt deceived my good opinion, it had been an injury to my nature: But though the living man can wear a maſk and carry on deceit, the dying Chriſtian cannot counterfeit: Sudden death may ſmite the hypocrite, the ſenſualiſt, the impoſtor, and they may die in their ſhame; but ſlow and gradual diſſolution, a lingering death of agony and decay, will ſtrip the human heart before it ſeizes it; it will lay it naked, before it ſtops it. There is no trifling with ſome ſolemnities; no prevaricating with God, when we are on the very threſhold of his pre⯑ſence: Many worldly friendſhips diſſolve away with his breath to whom they were pledged; but thy laſt moments, my friend, were ſo em⯑ployed as to ſeal my affection to thy memory cloſer than it was ever attached to thy perſon; [306] and I have it now to ſay, there was a man, whom I have loved and ſerved, and who has not deceived or betrayed me."’

And what muſt I now think of popularity, when I reflect upon thoſe who had it, and upon this man, who had it not? Fallacious teſt!—Contemptible purſuit! How often, ſince the exile of Ariſtides, has integrity been thy victim and villany thine idol? Worſhip it then, thou filthy idolater, and take the proper wages of thy ſervility; be the dupe of cunning, and the ſtalking-horſe of hypocriſy.

What a contraſt to the death I have now been reviewing, occurs to my mind, when I re⯑flect upon the dreadful conſummation of the once popular Antitheüs! I remember him in the height of his fame, the hero of his party; no man ſo careſſed, followed and applauded: He was a little looſe, his friends would own, in his moral character, but then he was the honeſteſt fellow in the world; it was not to be denied, that he was rather free in his notions, but then he was the beſt creature living. I have ſeen men of the graveſt characters wink at his ſallies, becauſe he was ſo pleaſant and ſo well bred, it was impoſſible to be angry with him. Every thing went well with him, and Antitheüs ſeemed to be at the ſummit of human [307] proſperity, when he was ſuddenly ſeized with the moſt alarming ſymptoms: He was at his coun⯑try houſe, and (which had rarely happened to him) he at that time chanced to be alone; wife or family he had none, and out of the mul⯑titude of his friends no one happened to be near him at the moment of this attack.

A neighbouring phyſician was called out of bed in the night to come to him with all haſte in this extremity: He found him ſit⯑ting up in his bed ſupported by pillows, his countenance full of horror, his breath ſtruggling as in the article of death, his pulſe inter⯑mitting, and at times beating with ſuch rapi⯑dity as could hardly be counted. Antitheüs diſ⯑miſſed the attendants he had about him, and ea⯑gerly demanded of the phyſician, if he thought him in danger: The phyſician anſwered that he muſt fairly tell him he was in imminent danger—How ſo! how ſo! do you think me dying?—He was ſorry to ſay the ſymptoms indicated death.—Impoſſible! you muſt not let me die: I dare not die: O doctor! ſave me, if you can.—Your ſitua⯑tion, Sir, is ſuch, ſaid the phyſician, that it is not in mine, or any other man's art, to ſave you; and I think I ſhould not do my duty, if I gave you any falſe hopes in theſe moments, which, if I am not miſtaken, will not more than ſuffice for [308] any worldly or other concerns, which you may have upon your mind to ſettle.—My mind is full of horror, cried the dying man, and I am incapa⯑ble of preparing it for death.—He now fell into an agony, accompanied with a ſhower of tears; a cordial was adminiſtered, and he revived in a de⯑gree; when turning to the phyſician, who had his fingers on his pulſe, he eagerly demanded of him, if he did not ſee that blood upon the feet-curtains of his bed. There was none to be ſeen the phyſician aſſured him; it was nothing but a vapour of his fancy.—I ſee it plainly, ſaid Anti⯑theüs, in the ſhape of a human hand: I have been viſited with a tremendous apparition. As I was lying ſleepleſs in my bed this night, I took up a letter of a deceaſed friend, to diſſipate certain thoughts that made me uneaſy. I believed him to be a great philoſopher, and was converted to his opinious: Per⯑ſuaded by his arguments and my own experience that the diſorderly affairs of this evil world could not be adminiſtered by any wiſe, juſt or provident Being, I had brought myſelf to think no ſuch Being could ex⯑iſt, and that a life, produced by chance, muſt ter⯑minate in annihilation: This is the reaſoning of that letter, and ſuch were the thoughts I was revolving in my mind, when the apparition of my dead friend preſented itſelf before me; and, unfolding the cur⯑tains of my bed, ſtood at my feet, looking earneſtly [309] upon me for a conſiderable ſpace of time. My heart ſunk within me; for his face was ghaſtly, full of horror, with an expreſſion of ſuch anguiſh as I can never deſcribe: His eyes were fixed upon me, and at length with a mournful motion of his head—‘"Alas, alas!"’ he cried, ‘"we are in a fatal error"’—and taking hold of the curtains with his hand, ſhook them violently and diſappeared.—This, I proteſt to you, I both ſaw and heard, and look! where the print of his hand is left in blood upon the curtains.

Antitheüs ſurvived the relation of this viſion very few hours, and died delirious in great ago⯑nies.

What a forſaken and diſconſolate creature is a man without religion!

Reader, whoſoever thou art, deceive not thy⯑ſelf; let not paſſion, or proſperity, or wit, or wantonneſs, ſeduce thy reaſon to an attempt againſt the truth. If thou haſt the faculties of a man, thou wilt never bring thyſelf to a fixed perſuaſion that there is no God: Struggle how thou wilt againſt the notion, there will be a mo⯑ment when the glaring conviction will burſt up⯑on thy mind. Now mark what follows—If there is a God, the government of the world is in that God; and this once admitted, the neceſſity of a future ſtate follows of conſequence. Aſk thy⯑ſelf then, what can be the purpoſes of that future [310] ſtate; what, but thoſe of juſtice and retribution, to reward the good, and to puniſh the evil? Our preſent life then is a life of probation, a ſtate of trial and of diſcipline, preparatory to that future ſtate. Now ſee what is fallen upon thee, and look well to thyſelf for the conſequences: Thou haſt let the idea of a God into thy mind, becauſe indeed thou couldſt not keep it out, and religion ruſhes through the breach. It is natural religion hither⯑to, and no more: But no matter; there is enough even in natural religion to make thee tremble. Whither wilt thou now reſort for comfort, whi⯑ther fly for refuge from the wrath to come?—Behold the aſylum is open, Chriſtianity is thy ſal⯑vation and redemption: That, which natural re⯑ligion hath ſhadowed out to thee in terrors, Chriſtianity will reveal in glory: It will clear up thy doubts, diſperſe thy fears, and turn thy hopes into certainty. Thy reaſonings about a future ſtate, which are but reaſonings, it will not only verify by divine authorities, but by poſitive proof, by viſible example, atteſted by witneſſes, con⯑firmed by the evidence of the ſenſes, and uncon⯑tradicted by the hiſtory of ages. Now thou wilt know to thy comfort, that there is a Mediator gone before thee, who will help out thy imperfect atonement, when thou art brought to judgment in a future ſtate. Thou wilt indeed be told for [311] certain, that this life is a ſtate of probation, and that thou ſhalt be brought to account for thine actions; but thou wilt be taught an eaſy leſſon of ſalvation; thou wilt be cheared with the mer⯑cies of thy God, and comforted with the aſſur⯑ance of pardon, if thou wilt heartily turn to re⯑pentance: Thou wilt find that all this ſyſtem of religion is conformable to thoſe natural notions, which reaſon ſuggeſted to thee before, with this advantage, that it makes them clearer, purifies, refines, enlarges them; ſhuts out every diſmal proſpect, opens all that is delightful, and points a road to Heaven through paths of peace and plea⯑ſantneſs.

N^o XCII.

I DO not know a man in England better received in the circles of the great than Jack Gayleſs: Though he has no one quality for which he ought to be reſpected, and ſome points in his character for which he ſhould be held in deteſtation, yet his manners are ex⯑ternally ſo agreeable, and his temper generally ſo ſocial, that he makes a holiday in every fa⯑mily where he viſits. He lives with the no⯑bility upon the eaſieſt footing, and in the great [312] houſes where he is in habits of intimacy, he knows all the domeſtics by name, and has ſomething to ſay to every one of them upon his arrival: He has a joke with the butler at the ſide-board during dinner, and ſets the footman a tittering behind his chair, and is ſo comical and ſo familiar—He has the beſt receipt book in England, and recommends himſelf to the cook by a new ſauce, for he is in the ſecrets of the King's kitchen at Verſailles: He has the fineſt breed of ſpaniels in Europe, and is never without a puppy at the command of a friend: He knows the theory of hunting from top to bottom, is always in with the hounds, can develop every hit in a check, and was never known to chear a wrong dog in a cover, when he gives his tongue: If you want an odd horſe to match your ſet, Jack is your man; and for a neat travelling carriage, there is not an item that he will not ſuperintend, if you are deſirous to employ him; he will be at your door with it, when the builder brings it home, to ſee that nothing is wanting, he is ſo ready and ſo obliging: No man canvaſſes a coun⯑ty or borough like Jack Gayleſs; he is ſo plea⯑ſant with the freeholders, and has ſo many ſongs and ſuch facetious toaſts, and ſuch a way with him amongſt their wives and daughters, that fleſh and blood cannot hold out againſt him: In ſhort, [313] he is the beſt leader of a mob, and of courſe the honeſteſt fellow in England.

A merchant's daughter of great fortune mar⯑ried him for love; he ran away with her from a boarding-ſchool, but her father after a time was reconciled to his ſon-in-law, and Jack, during the life of the good man, paſſed his time in a ſmall country houſe on Clapham Common, ſuperin⯑tending the concerns of about ſix acres of ground; being very expert however in the gar⯑dens and grape-houſe, and a very ſociable fellow over a bottle with the citizen and his friends on a Saturday and Sunday, he became a mighty fa⯑vourite: All this while he lived upon the beſt terms with his wife; kept her a neat little pal⯑frey, and regularly took his airing on the com⯑mon by her ſide in the moſt uxorious manner: She was in fact a moſt excellent creature, of the ſweeteſt temper and mildeſt manners, ſo that there ſeemed no interruption to their happineſs, but what aroſe from her health, which was of a delicate nature. After a few years the citizen died, and Jack, whoſe conviviality had given him a helping hand out of the world, found himſelf in poſſeſſion of a very handſome ſum of money up⯑on caſting up his affairs at his deceaſe.

Jack Gayleſs having no further purpoſe to ſerve, ſaw no occaſion to conſult appearances any [314] longer, and began to form connexions, in which he did not think it neceſſary for his wife to have a ſhare. He now ſet out upon the purſuit of what the world calls pleaſure, and ſoon found himſelf in the company of thoſe whom the world calls the Great. He had the addreſs to recom⯑mend himſelf to his new acquaintance, and uſed great diſpatch in getting rid of his old ones: His wife was probably his greateſt incumbrance on this occaſion; but Jack poſſeſſed one art in perfection, which ſtood him in great ſtead; he had the ci⯑villeſt way of inſulting that could be imagined; and as the feelings of his wife were thoſe of the fondeſt ſuſceptibility, operating upon a weak and delicate conſtitution, he ſucceeded to admiration in tormenting her by neglect, at the ſame time that he never gave her a harſh expreſſion, and in par⯑ticular, when any body elſe was preſent, behaved himſelf towards her in ſo obliging a manner, that all his acquaintance ſet him down as the beſt tempered fellow living, and her as a lady, by his report, rather captious and querulential. When he had thus got the world on his ſide, he detach⯑ed himſelf more and more from her ſociety, and became leſs ſtudious to diſguiſe the inſults he put upon her: She declined faſt in her health, and certain ſymptoms began to appear, which convinced Jack that a perſeverance in his ſyſtem [315] would in a ſhort time lay her in the grave, and leave him without any further moleſtation. Her habit was conſumptive, for where is the human frame that can long reſiſt the agony of the heart? In this extremity ſhe requeſted the aſſiſt⯑ance of a certain phyſician, very eminent in theſe caſes: This little gentleman has a way of hitting off the complaints of his patients, which is not always ſo convenient to thoſe expectant parties, who have made up their minds and reconciled themſelves to the call of nature. As Jack had one object, and the Doctor another, they did not en⯑tirely agree in their proceſs, and ſhe was ſent down by her huſband into a diſtant county for the benefit of the air, in a low ſituation and a damp houſe. Jack and the phyſician had now a ſcene of altercation, in which it was evident that the leaſt man of the two had the greateſt ſpirit and the largeſt heart, and Jack certainly put up with ſome expreſſions, which could only be paſſed over by perfect innocence or abſolute cowardice: The little Doctor, who had no objection to ſend Jack out of the world, and a very longing deſire to keep his lady in it, ſpoke like a man who had long been in the practice of holding death at de⯑fiance; but what Jack loſt in argument he made up in addreſs, and after profeſſing his acquieſcence in the meaſures of his antagoniſt, he ſilently de⯑termined [316] to purſue his own, and the Doctor's departure was very ſoon followed by that of his patient. The dying wife made a feeble ſtand for a while, but what can a broken heart do againſt a hardened one?

After Jack had taken ſuch zealous pains to over-rule the Doctor's advice, it is not to be ſup⯑poſed but he would have accompanied his wife to the place of her deſtination, if it had been only for the ſatisfaction of contemplating the effects of his own greater ſagacity in her caſe; and he proteſted to her, in the kindeſt manner, that nothing ſhould have robbed him of the pleaſure of attending her on the journey, but the moſt indiſpenſable and unexpected buſineſs: He had juſt then received letters from two friends, which would be attended with the greateſt breach of honour, if neglected; and ſhe knew his nicety of principle in thoſe affairs: He would not read them to her, as ſhe was in too weak a condition (he obſerved) to attend to buſineſs, but ſhe might reſt aſſured, he would, if poſſible, overtake her on the way, or be with her in a few hours after her arrival, for he ſhould be impatient to be a wit⯑neſs of her recovery, which he perſuaded himſelf would ſoon take place, when ſhe had made ex⯑periment of the place he had choſen for her. When he had finiſhed his apology, his wife [317] raiſed her eyes from the ground, where ſhe had fixed them whilſt he was ſpeaking, and with a look of ſuch mild languor, and ſuch dying ſoft⯑neſs, as would almoſt have melted marble into pi⯑ty, mournfully replied—farewell!—and reſigning herſelf to the ſupport of her maid and a nurſe, was lifted into her carriage, and left her huſband to purſue his buſineſs without reproach.

Jack Gayleſs now loſt no further time in ful⯑filling the promiſe he had made to his wife, and immediately began to apply himſelf to the letters, which had ſo indiſpenſably prevented him from paying her thoſe kind offices, which her ſituation was in ſo much need of. Theſe letters I ſhall now inſert, as ſome of my readers may probably think he wants a juſtification on this occaſion. The firſt was from a great lady of unblemiſhed reputation, who has a character for public chari⯑ty and domeſtic virtues, which even malice has not dared to impeach. Her ladyſhip was now at her country ſeat, where ſhe preſided at a table of the moſt ſplendid hoſpitality, and regulated a princely eſtabliſhment with conſummate judg⯑ment and decorum: In this great family jack had long been a welcome viſiter, and as he had received a thouſand kindneſſes at her hands, gratitude would diſpoſe him to conſider her re⯑queſts [318] as commands the moſt preſſing. The important contents were as follows, viz.

[319]As Jack Gayleſs was not one of thoſe milk-ſops, who let family excuſes ſtand in the way of the more amiable office of obliging his friends, and ſaw in its juſt light the ridicule he would naturally expoſe himſelf to, if he ſheltered himſelf under ſo ſilly a pretence as a wife's ſickneſs, he would infallibly have obeyed her ladyſhip's com⯑mands, and ſet out with the Highland tarrier inſtead of Mrs. Gayleſs, if he had not been di⯑vided by another very preſſing attention, which every man of the world will acknowledge the importance of. There was a certain young lady of eaſy virtue, who had made a tender impreſſion on his heart as he was innocently taking the air in Hyde Park: He had prevailed ſo far with her as to gain her conſent to an appointment for that day; not foreſeeing, as I ſhould ſuppoſe, or per⯑haps not juſt at that moment recollecting his wife's journey, and the call there would be upon him on that account. This young lady, who was wanting in no other virtue but chaſtity, had learnt ſome particulars of Mr. Gayleſs, which ſhe had not been informed of when ſhe yielded to the aſſignation, and in conſequence had writ⯑ten him the following perplexing billet:

The ſtile of this letter ſeemed ſo extraordinary to Jack, and ſo unlike what he had been uſed to receive from correſpondents of this lady's de⯑ſcription, that it is not to be wondered at, if it threw him into a profound meditation: Not that the rebuke made any other impreſſion on him, than as it ſeemed to involve a myſtery, [321] which he could not expound; for it never en⯑tered into his head to ſuppoſe that the writer was in earneſt. In this dilemma he imparted it to a friend, and with his uſual gaiety deſired his help to unriddle it: His friend peruſed it, and with a ſerious countenance told him he was ac⯑quainted with the lady, and gave her perfect credit for the ſincerity of the ſentiments it con⯑tained: She was a romantic girl, he told him, and not worth a further thought; but as he per⯑ceived he was chagrined with the affair, he ad⯑viſed him to take poſt for the country, and attend the ſummons of his noble correſpondent, for that he himſelf had always found the diſſipation of a journey the beſt remedy in all caſes of vexation, like the preſent. This friendly advice was im⯑mediately followed by an order for the journey, and Jack Gayleſs put himſelf into his poſt-chaiſe, with his tarrier by his ſide, ordering his groom to follow with Moll Roſs by eaſy ſtages.

Whilſt Jack was rapidly poſting towards the houſe of jollity and diſſipation, his ſuffering and forſaken wife by ſlow ſtages purſued her laſt me⯑lancholy journey: Supported in her coach by her two women, and attended by an old man ſervant of her father's, ſhe at laſt reached the allotted houſe, where her miſeries were to find a period. One indiſcretion only, a ſtolen and precipitate [322] marriage, had marked her life with a blemiſh, and the huſband, who in early youth had betrayed her artleſs affection into that fatal miſtake, was now the choſen inſtrument of chaſtiſement. She bore her complicated afflictions with the moſt patient reſignation; neither ſickneſs nor ſorrow forced a complaint from her; and Death, by the gentleneſs of his advances, ſeemed to lay aſide his terrors, and approach her with reſpect and pity.

Jack was ſtill upon his viſit, when he received the news of her death: This event obliged him to break off from a moſt agreeable party, and take a journey to London; but as the ſeaſon had happened to ſet in for a ſevere froſt, and the fox⯑hounds were confined to their kennel, he had the conſolation to reflect that his amuſements were not ſo much interrupted as they might have been. He gave orders for a handſome funeral, and deported himſelf with ſuch outward propriety on the occaſion, that all the world gave him cre⯑dit for his behaviour, and he continues to be the ſame popular character amongſt his acquaintance, and univerſally careſſed: In ſhort, Jack Gayleſs (to uſe the phraſe of faſhion) is the honeſteſt fel⯑low in England, and—a diſgrace to human na⯑ture.

N^o XCIII.

BEING now arrived at the concluſion of my Third Volume, and having hitherto given my readers very little interruption in my own perſon, I hope I may be permitted to make one ſhort valedictory addreſs to theſe departing ad⯑venturers, in whoſe ſucceſs I am naturally ſo much intereſted.

I have employed much time and care in rear⯑ing up theſe Eſſays to what I conceived maturity, and qualifying them, as far as I was able, to ſhift for themſelves, in a world where they are to inherit no popularity from their author, nor to look for any favour but what they can earn for themſelves. To any, who ſhall queſtion them who they are, and whence they come, they may truly anſwer—We are all one man's ſons—we are indeed Obſervers, but no Spies. If this ſhall not ſuffice, and they muſt needs give a far⯑ther account of themſelves, they will have to ſay, that he who ſent them into the world, ſent them as an offering of his good-will to mankind; that he truſts they have been ſo trained as not to hurt the feelings or offend the principles of any man, who ſhall admit them into his company; and that for their errors (which he cannot doubt are [324] many) he hopes they will be found errors of the underſtanding, not of the heart: They are the firſt-fruits of his leiſure and retirement; and as the mind of a man in that ſituation will natu⯑rally bring the paſt ſcenes of active life under its examination and review, it will ſurely be conſidered as a pardonable zeal for being yet ſerviceable to mankind, if he gives his expe⯑rience and obſervations to the world, when he has no further expectations from it on the ſcore of fame or fortune. Theſe are the real motives for the publication of theſe Papers, and this the Author's true ſtate of mind: To ſerve the cauſe of morality and religion is his firſt ambition; to point out ſome uſeful leſſons for amending the education and manners of young people of either ſex, and to mark the evil habits and un⯑ſocial humours of men, with a view to their reformation, are the general objects of his un⯑dertaking. He has formed his mind to be con⯑tented with the conſciouſneſs of theſe honeſt endeavours, and with a very moderate ſhare of ſucceſs: He has ample reaſon notwithſtanding to be more than ſatisfied, with the reception theſe Papers have already had in their proba⯑tionary excurſion; and it is not from any diſ⯑guſt, taken up in a vain conceit of his own merits, that he has more than once obſerved [325] upon the frauds and follies of popularity, or that he now repeats his opinion, that it is the worſt guide a public man can follow, who wiſhes not to go out of the track of honeſty; for at the ſame time that he has ſeen men force their way in the world by effrontery, and heard others ap⯑plauded for their talents, whoſe only recom⯑mendation has been their ingenuity in wicked⯑neſs, he can recollect very few indeed, who have ſucceeded, either in ſame or fortune, under the diſadvantages of modeſty and merit.

To ſuch readers, as ſhall have taken up theſe Eſſays with a candid diſpoſition to be pleaſed, he will not ſcruple to expreſs a hope that they have not been altogether diſappointed; for though he has been unaſſiſted in compoſing them, he has endeavoured to open a variety of reſources, ſenſible that he had many different palates to provide for. The ſubject of politics, however, will never be one of theſe reſources; a ſubject which he has neither the will nor the capacity to meddle with. There is yet another topic, which he has been no leſs ſtudious to avoid, which is perſonality; and though he profeſſes to give occaſional delineations of living manners, and not to make men in his cloſet (as ſome Eſſayiſts have done) he does not mean to point at individuals; for as this is a practice [326] which he has ever rigidly abſtained from when he mixed in the world, he ſhould hold himſelf without the excuſe, even of temptation, if he was now to take it up, when he has withdrawn himſelf from the world.

In the Eſſays (which he has preſumed to call Literary, becauſe he cannot ſtrike upon any appoſite title of an humbler ſort) he has ſtudied to render himſelf intelligible to readers of all deſcriptions, and the deep-read ſcholar will not faſtidiouſly pronounce them ſhallow, only be⯑cauſe he can fathom them with eaſe; for that would be to wrong both himſelf and their author, who, if there is any vanity in a pedantic margin of references, certainly reſiſted that va⯑nity, and as certainly had it at his choice to have loaded his page with as great a parade of authorities, as any of his brother writers upon claſſical ſubjects have oſtentatiouſly diſplayed. But if any learned critic, now or hereafter, ſhall find occaſion to charge theſe Eſſays on the ſcore of falſe authority or actual error, their author will moſt thankfully meet the inveſtigation; and the fair Reviewer ſhall find that he has either candour to adopt correction, or materials enough in reſerve to maintain every warrant⯑able aſſertion.

The Moraliſt and the Divine, it is hoped, will [327] here find nothing to except againſt; it is not likely ſuch an offence ſhould be committed by one, who has reſted all his hope in that Revela⯑tion, on which his faith is founded; whom nothing could ever divert from his aim of turning even the gayeſt ſubjects to moral pur⯑poſes, and who reprobates the jeſt, which pro⯑vokes a laugh at the expence of a bluſh.

The Eſſays of a critical ſort are no leſs ad⯑dreſſed to the moral objects of compoſition, than to thoſe which they have more profeſſedly in view: They are not undertaken for the invidious purpoſe of developing errors, and ſtripping the laurels of departed poets, but ſimply for the uſes of the living. The ſpecimens al⯑ready given, and thoſe which are intended to follow in the further proſecution of the work, are propoſed as diſquiſitions of inſtruction rather than of ſubtlety; and if they ſhall be found more particularly to apply to dramatic com⯑poſitions, it is becauſe their author looks up to the ſtage, as the great arbiter of more im⯑portant delights, than thoſe only which con⯑cern the taſte and talents of the nation; it is becauſe he ſees with ſerious regret the buffoonery and low abuſe of humour to which it is ſink⯑ing, and apprehends for the conſequences ſuch an influx of folly may lead to. It will be rea⯑dily [328] granted there are but two modes of com⯑bating this abaſement of the drama with any probability of ſucceſs: One of theſe modes is, by an expoſition of ſome one or other of the productions in queſtion, which are ſuppoſed to contribute to its degradation; the other is, by inviting the attention of the public to an exa⯑mination of better models, in which the ſtandard works of our early dramatiſts abound. If the latter mode therefore ſhould be adopted in theſe Eſſays, and the former altogether omitted, none of their readers will regret the preference that has been given upon ſuch an alternative.

If the ladies of wit and talents do not take offence at ſome of theſe Eſſays, it will be a teſt of the truth of their pretenſions, when they diſ⯑cern that the raillery, pointed only at affectation and falſe character, has no concern with them. There is nothing in which this nation has more right to pride itſelf, than the genius of its women; they have only to add a little more attention to their domeſtic virtues, and their ſame will fly over the face of the globe. If I had ever known a good match broken off on the part of the man, becauſe a young lady had too much modeſty and diſcretion, or was too ſtrictly educated in the duties of a good wife, I hope I underſtand myſelf too well to obtrude [329] my old-faſhioned maxims upon them. They might be as witty as they pleaſed, if I thought it was for their good; but if a racer, that has too great a ſhare of heels, muſt lie by becauſe it cannot be matched, ſo muſt every young ſpinſter, if her wits are too nimble. If I could once diſcover that men chuſe their wives, as they do their friends, for their manly atchiev⯑ments and convivial talents, for their being jolly fellows over a bottle, or topping a five-barred gate in a fox-chace, I ſhould then be able to account for the many Amazonian figures I encounter in ſlouched hats, great-coats and half-boots, and I would not preſume to ſet my face againſt the faſhion; or if my experience of the fair-ſex could produce a ſingle inſtance in the ſect of Sentimentaliſts, which could make me doubt of the pernicious influence of a Muſi⯑dorus and a Lady Thimble, I would not ſo ear⯑neſtly have preſſed the examples of a Sappho, a Calliope or a Meliſſa.

The firſt Numbers of the preſent collection, to the amount of forty, have already been pub⯑liſhed; but being worked off at a country preſs, I find myſelf under the painful neceſſity of diſ⯑continuing the edition. I have availed myſelf of this opportunity, not only by correcting the imperfections of the firſt publication, but by [330] rendering this as unexceptionable (in the ex⯑ternal at leaſt) as I poſſibly could. I ſhould have been wanting to the public and myſelf, if the flattering encouragement I have already received had not prompted me to proceed with the work; and if my alacrity in the further proſecution of it ſhall meet any check, it muſt ari [...] only from thoſe cauſes, which no human diligence can controul.