NUMB. I. Saturday, February 12.

THERE is ſcarcely a little Eſſayiſt now-a-days, who amuſes the world under any particular title, but gives himſelf airs of the greateſt conſe⯑quence, and claims ſome degree of affinity with the TATLER and SPECTATOR: in⯑deed, where the itch of reading is nearly equal to the cacoethes ſcribendi, a man has no great occaſion to be poſſeſſed of either much genius or education to become a literary legiſlator, and ſet himſelf up as a regulator of the public; the moſt material article of all is, the choice of a tolerable title to attract the attention of the reader, and if this can be happily ſtruck out, learning and abilities are not ſo much as ſecondary conſiderations.

[2]IN modern literature, a motto is a matter of no little conſequence, and an author, in the preſent anno domini, can no more pretend to circulate his writings without a motto, than without the aſſiſtance of the daily and evening papers: ma⯑ny an induſtrious pedlar, in the ſmall wares of letters, has got off an edition of his pamphlet without any other recommendation than the name and the motto, and alarmed the world with a very terrible title page, when the contents were as innocent as water gruel, and inſipid as a cold veal without either lemon or ſalt.

IN this univerſal purſuit after titles, I do not eſteem myſelf very unhapy in the choice of the BABLER; it is a character under which the ge⯑nerality of mankind are more or leſs diſtinguiſh⯑ed, and which is indiſcriminately applicable to all orders and ſituations; different people only differ in the manner, but they are always ſure of agree⯑ing in eſſentials; and the humble mechanic, who harangues for the good of his country ever a ſoli⯑tary pint of porter, is in fact no more a Babler than a perſonage of diſtinguiſhed rank, who talks about the national importance with all the uſual eaſe and inſipidity of diſtinction and importance. — In reality, the great buſineſs of mankind is babling; for, if we place the principal happineſs of ſociety in converſation, a very little regard to any com⯑pany we may happen to ſit with, will convince us that the generality of our acquaintance are nothing more than Bablers; ſo very limited is the number [3] which diſcourſes now-a-days with any inclination to improve or entertain, that, I dare ſay, my rea⯑ders will be ſurprized when I ſet down ſome of the moſt eminent names in the kingdom among the order of Bablers.

THE word Babler being principally confined to verbal indiſcretion and impertinence, I ſhall em⯑ploy the remaining part of this Eſſay in giving my readers ſuch particular deſcription of the Babler, that they can never be at a loſs in the application of the term when they meet with any of my re⯑lations.

WHENEVER a perſon ſeems extremely earneſt to engroſs the converſation of the company, there can be no manner of doubt that he is a Babler.

WHENEVER a perſon is uncommonly liberal in the payment of unneceſſary compliments, the moſt extenſive degree of good-nature cannot avoid ſet⯑ting him down a Babler.

WHENEVER a man is fond of remembering te⯑dious and unentertaining ſtories, and is apt to be put in mind of ſuch and ſuch a particular anecdote, by ſome correſponding circumſtance which may caſually ariſe in converſation, that man is, by every manner of means, a Babler.

WHENEVER we ſee a man making an unneceſ⯑ſary parade of his education, and interlarding his diſcourſe with technical terms, or ſentences not clearly underſtood, in the language of Dogberry, "ſet him down a — Babler."

[4]WHENEVER we find a man fond of repeating his own jokes, and deſirous of telling the good thing he ſaid to his friend Jack ſuch a-one, at ſuch a time — down with him — a Babler.

WHENEVER we ſee any perſon ready to circulate the laugh at the expence of decency and good manners, there is no occaſion to heſitate in pro⯑nouncing him a Babler.

WHENEVER we meet with a man diſpoſed to contradict, for no other reaſon but to ſhew the ſu⯑periority of his own abilities — O! a Babler, a Babler. And,

WHEN we hear him diſpute upon a ſubject he is totally unacquainted with, who can deny but he is a moſt conſummate Babler.

HAVING thus given the out-lines of a Babler, any perſon with a very indifferent pencil may work up a ſtriking likeneſs of the greateſt number of his acquaintance: for my own part, like the reſt of my brethren, I ſhall ſpeak of men and things as I find myſelf prompted by humour or inclination; the only reſtriction I ſhall lay myſelf under, is ever to have decency and candour in view, and never entirely to loſe ſight of my little judgment and underſtanding.—Upon theſe principles I hope to entertain the public; and, ſhould I fail in the attempt, I muſt condole myſelf with a line of my friend Horace,

Numb. II. Saturday, February 19.

IN the variety of courſes which the generality of mankind purſue for the attainment of happineſs, it is not a little ſurpriſing, that they ſhould be ſhamefully inattentive in one of the moſt material points that can poſſibly inſure it. — The point I mean is, that union of the ſexes, which, proper⯑ly concluded, is the foundation of felicity to indi⯑viduals, and of ſecurity to the public. — Nature has given every parent a power of directing the in⯑clinations of their children, but allows of no un⯑reaſonable authority to force them; and ſuch as have a ſenſible concern for the happineſs of their offspring, ſhould be particularly careful that a re⯑ciprocal paſſion ſubſiſted between the parties before they conſented to an inviolable union. — The ill-directed tenderneſs of parental affection, has often been productive of the moſt unhappy conſequences: and many a father has made his children miſerable for life, by a miſtaken ſolicitude for their welfare, and by making a proviſion for their happineſs which was not in the leaſt eſſential, and for which they had not, in all probability, any manner of occaſion. — I am led naturally to this ſubject by a paper now lying before me, the contents of which are here preſented to the reader:

Numb. III. Saturday, February 26.

WHEN I firſt commenced Periodical Eſſayiſt, my fears preſented a thouſand difficulties to my imagination, in the proceſs of my deſign. — I dreamed of inceſſant application to pen and ink, and of continual viſits from thoſe very worthy gentlemen, who are honoured with the appellation of Devils to the Preſs: but my apprehenſions were entirely groundleſs. — I no ſooner appeared in print than a whole army of good-natured per⯑ſons inſtantly drew up in my favour, amongſt the reſt the wife of a city man of faſhion, who writes to me after the following manner:

NUMB. IV. Saturday, March 5.

OF all the enemies to ſociety, there is none which ſhould be held in a greater abhorrence than a man of gallantry profeſſed; and yet, in this faſhionable age, it is a character which the generality of our young fellows, and but too ma⯑ny of our old ones, are uncommonly ſolicitous to obtain. But the ſtrongeſt invectives againſt this infamous diſpoſition, may not, perhaps, be half ſo ſerviceable as a little ſtory, which a very worthy gentleman of my acquaintance, favoured me with laſt night, for which reaſon I ſhall lay aſide declaration and proceed to my narrative.

NOT many weeks ago, at the firſt reduction of our forces, among many other officers who were diſmiſſed, a young lieutenant, one Mr. Franſham, received his diſcharge. As the income of this gentleman's commiſſion, during his continuance in the army, could not ſuffer him to lay by any migh⯑ty matters for an emergency, his half pay would have been but a ſlender ſubſiſtence, had not an old ſchool-fellow of his, one Mr. Harold, a coun⯑try gentleman, made him a cordial offer of his houſe and table, till he ſhould be fortunately pro⯑vided for in ſome reputable employ. Mr. Harold was the moſt amiable of men; he had a handſome perſon, a fine underſtanding, an affluent fortune, and a benevolent heart: He had been but newly married to a young lady, of whom he was paſſi⯑onately [15] fond; and who, if wit and beauty were capable of conſtituting matrimonial felicity, could not fail of making him the moſt happy of men.

MR. Franſham was one of thoſe people who pro⯑feſſed a Covent-Garden ſort of knowledge, and, like a maggot in a cheeſe, knew no part of the world but the rotten: His converſation was lively, but not improving, and he carried the appearance of much underſtanding, though, in reality, he had but little ſenſe: his company, however, was entertaining enough: he talked of the polite di⯑verſions; told a ſtory tolerably well; and ſung with ſome voice, and much taſte. As the flaſhineſs of his converſation carried the appearance of wit, Mrs. Harold was not a little pleaſed with her new viſitant; and Mr. Franſham, from the firſt mo⯑ment he came into the houſe, had formed a deſign of rendering himſelf as agreeable as poſſible to her, and without either being confined by the rules of friendſhip, or the principles of gratitude, he thought he could not be in reality a fine gentle⯑man, without endeavouring to alienate her affec⯑tions from her huſband. — To dwell upon the cir⯑cumſtances is unneceſſary; he left no art uneſſay⯑ed to gain his point, and, in an evil hour, too fatally ſucceeded.

POOR Mr. Harold, not in the leaſt ſuſpecting the nature of their intimacy, was really pleaſed at the countenance ſhewn to Mr. Franſham, by his wife: every mark of complacency ſhewn to that gen⯑tleman, he looked upon as a particular inſtance [16] of her affection for himſelf; — but one evening returning from a viſit, which he had paid alone to a gentleman in his neighbourhood, conſiderably ſooner than he was expected, upon going up to Mrs. Harold's chamber, he found the door locked, and fancied he heard her voice, and Mr. Fran⯑ſham's, in a very familiar ſort of converſation. An inſtinctive kind of terror ſtruck inſtantly to his heart: — He knocked at the door, which not being immediately unlocked, he burſt it open, and juſt as he entered, ſaw his perfidious friend eſcape out of the window into the garden. Fran⯑tic at this ſight, the violence of his paſſion pre⯑vented him from purſuing the infamous villain, by whom he had been ſo barbarouſly wronged: He gazed in a violent ſit of horror for ſome time upon his wife, who ſat trembling on the bed-ſide; then running to a caſe of piſtols, which were kept generally in the bed-chamber, he ſnapt one of them at Mrs. Harold, and ran immediately after to find the partner of her crime; but Mr. Franſham, knowing Mr. Harold's temper too well to ſtay within his reach, made ſuch good uſe of his time, that he was quite out of danger before the other began the purſuit.

HAPPILY for Mrs. Harold, the piſtol was not charged which was directed at her, though the fright threw her into a ſwoon: — but recovering, and finding herſelf entirely ſafe, ſhe thought it moſt prudent to retire to a friend's houſe for a little time, till a reconciliation could be effected [17] with her huſband: Here ſhe remained for about a month, and tried every means of obtaining his forgivneſs, but to no purpoſe; and the following letter, which he wrote to her in his cooler mo⯑ments, put a total ſtop to any future attempts of that nature.

THE ſequel of the ſtory is,—Mrs. Harold, through ſhame and remorſe, is pining at the houſe of a re⯑lation in the country, and ſuppoſed to be in a very declining ſituation.—As for Franſham, he eſcaped over into France; but falling into a number of exceſſes, reduced himſelf to the neceſſity of the road; but being apprehended in his firſt robbery, will in all probability, if he eſcapes death, be con⯑fined during life to the gallies. Mr. Harold is grown more compoſed, and all his friends are bu⯑ſied in keeping up his ſpirits, and with ſuch ſucceſs, [19] that it is hoped in a little time his tranquility will be reſtored, eſpecially as they all carefully avoid mentioning a ſingle ſyllable of Mrs. Harold.— We may conclude our little narrative with a few lines from Rowe's Fair Penitent.

Numb. V. Saturday, March 12.

IT was a common expreſſion of the late Boling⯑broke's, that if he was but an hour in the com⯑pany of a ſtranger, and heard him ſpeak but fifty words, he could tell the particular turn or bias of his temper. — When I conſider the general pro⯑penſry of mankind to enhance the idea of their own characters, and reflect that there is a particu⯑lar ſomething in the opinion of every man which gives him an advantage over the reſt of the world, I am inclined to belive that his lordſhip's declara⯑tion is not altogether ſo extraordinary as a perſon at firſt might poſſibly imagine it.

IN people of underſtanding the particular qua⯑lity upon which they principally value themſelves, is rather eaſier to be diſcovered than in thoſe of [20] ordinary capacities, becauſe converſation taking a more liberal turn, furniſhes a greater number of opportunities to draw it out. I was laſt night ſit⯑ting with two or three friends, who are not a little eſteemed in the literary world, when I immedi⯑ately reflected upon lord Bolingbroke's obſervation.

—One of them opened the diſcourſe with a com⯑pliment to the abilities of Mr. Pope, and ſeemed intent to make that celebrated author the ſubject of converſation. Poetry he talked of as the firſt of all the ſciences, and conſequently hinted, that ſuch as excelled in this were ſuperior to the moſt eminent profeſſors of any other. It is almoſt need⯑leſs to tell, that my friend has himſelf publiſhed ſome pieces in this way of writing, which are uni⯑verſally admired; and that while he was expatiat⯑ing on the merit of Mr. Pope, he had a ſecret intention of reminding us of his own character. — This gentleman, though a very ſenſible man, carries his zeal for the poetical muſe a little too far: he looks upon every one with an eye of in⯑difference who has not received ſome marks of that lady's favour, and very lately refuſed a woman of ten thouſand pounds who was paſſionately in love with him, for no other reaſon in life, than becauſe ſhe left the room, about ſome domeſtic occurrence, while he was reading an imitation of one of H [...]race's odes, which he had written, it ſeems, that morning.

MY poetical friend entertained us for ſome time, when a mathematical acquaintance turned [21] the diſcourſe upon Sir Iſaac Newton; in a little time my good friend Dr. Nettletop beat Sir Iſaac out of the field with Boerhaave; Mr. Longwind, the hiſtorian, however, quickly conquer'd Boer⯑haave with Rapin; and the wide field of hiſtory itſelf was not long after covered by Mr. Choleric, the politician, with the triumphs of his immortal King of Pruſſia.

BUT if ſo great a fondneſs of ſhewing the par⯑ticular qualification wherein we excel, though it be a meritorious one, is deſerving of our cenſure, how much more to be condemned are thoſe ſort of people, who build their reputation upon trifles of the moſt ridiculous nature, and are conſtantly taking up the time of every company they are ad⯑mitted into with recitals of no conſequence to themſelves, and no entertainment to any body elſe. My couſin Jack Babler gives me great offence this way: Jack particularly piques himſelf upon a very ſmall ſtomach, and an unconquerable aver⯑ſion to a buttock of beef. Hence, wherever he goes we are always ſure of a diſſertation upon eat⯑ing; the ſmallneſs of his appetite is a never-failing ſource of converſation; and I have known him to take up two hours and a half to convince a large company that he has not eat a pound of meat in a fortnight. If by a revolution in his habit of body my poor couſin ſhould unfortunately get a good ſtomach, he muſt reſign all pretenſion to merit, and baniſh himſelf from ſociety for the want of common converſation.

[22]BUT the moſt extraordinary character I ever know that was not abſolutely vicious, is my friend Sir Harry Whimſey's:—Sir Harry has underſtand⯑ing, and yet he only uſes it to be a fool; he has a fortune capable of providing all the pleaſures of life, and yet he is never happy till he is com⯑pletely miſerable.—Sir Harry, if he happens to be indiſpoſed, is a little eaſy in his mind, but if he be really ill, 'tis then he experiences the higheſt ſatisfaction; his friends are all ſummoned, and with an air of the utmoſt conſequence, told of his melancholy ſituation; how the pain in his head has torn him to pieces, and how he has not had a wink of ſleep for three nights. When he finds any concern expreſſed for his condition, his pride begins to ſwell, and the notion of his own import⯑ance encreaſes in proportion to the pity of his friends and the danger of his diſorder.—He has been a man of very little merit however theſe three years, for, being naturally of a good conſtitution, and not much addicted to intemperance of any nature, he has unhappily eſcaped the ſmalleſt in⯑diſpoſition.

THE knowledge of theſe foibles in other people is of no advantage to us, unleſs they teach us to correct whatever may be amiſs of the ſame nature in ourſelves; the beſt of us have our little abſur⯑dities; for which reaſon when we laugh at the peculiarities of our acquaintance, we ſhould by no means neglect an examination into our own.

NUMB. VI. Saturday, March 19.

AT a time when the whole Kingdom is run⯑ning mad with political diſquiſitions, it would be ſomething hard if the BABLER was not allowed to dwell upon the ſubject; but as he is very unlike the generality of his name-ſakes, and dreads no⯑thing ſo much as offending, he declares himſelf publicly a lover of truth, yet an advocate of no party, and ſets up for the title of a good En⯑gliſhman without being either a Whig or a Tory. Party diſtinctions are to him, the moſt diſguſting circumſtances imaginable, and an intemperate zeal in the ſupport of any faction, not only the moſt ridiculous commotion in ſociety, but the moſt dangerous.

SIR Robert Walpole, who knew human nature as well as moſt people, has been very open and very honeſt upon this ſubject. I have a letter of his this moment before me, which has never yet appeared in print, and which will, I dare ſay, be no leſs a curioſity than an inſtruction to my readers.—Sir Robert, I need not obſerve, had been for a long time the idol of the people, and was even committed to the Tower for too ſtre⯑nuous an aſſertion of their liberties.—After his intereſt had got the better of his Patriotiſm, and that the fondneſs of fame had yielded to a paſſion for power, Sir Robert wrote the following letter [22] [...] [23] [...] [24] to an intimate friend who had reproached him for deſerting the welfare of the public.

Numb. VII. Saturday, March 26.

THE ſubject of my correſpondent's letter in a former number, has procured me a very ſenſible complaint from an honeſt buckle-maker near Cornhill; and as it may ſerve by way of ſup⯑plement, I think it moſt proper not to poſtpone the publication of it.

NUMB. VIII. Saturday, April 2.

NUMB. IX. Saturday, April 9.

I DO not know any thing in the preſent age which has done ſuch eſſential diſſervice to the cauſe of virtue and morality as the ridiculous affectation of wit, which prevails in almoſt every order of the people. Under a pretenſion to this quality, the moſt blameable levities become uni⯑verſally admired; and, what is much worſe, the moſt dangerous of all our vices are ſet up as a ſtandard for public imitation, to deſtroy the tran⯑quility of a deſerving friend by ſome occaſional ſtroke of impertinence, is, now-a-days, ſufficient foundation for the character of a wit, and we frequently reckon that perſon as poſſeſſed of ex⯑traordinary abilities, who bids defiance to the mandates of his God.

THERE is one great unhappineſs attending this propenſity to faſhionable wit, which is, that men of the beſt ſenſe very often think themſelves ob⯑liged to give in to the general opinion of their acquaintance; and, in order to merit the eſteem of the world, ſubmit to the very errors which their own underſtanding muſt naturally lead them to condemn.—Among the number of my own friends who are unhappily, victims to the world in this reſpect, I cannot, without the utmoſt concern, re⯑flect upon poor Ned Froilby.

WHEN Ned came from the Univerſity, which was at the age of nineteen, he had a doating old [37] grand-mother, who ſupplied him plentifully with money, and by whoſe fondneſs he was enabled to indulge all the luxurious depravities incident to his years: Upon his firſt coming to town he was introduced, as a hopeful young fellow at a ſociety of wits, who frequented a faſhionable coffee-houſe in the neighbourhood of Covent garden. Unacquainted with the world, their manners were perfectly new to our young adventurer, and it was not without an infinite pain he heard obſcenity and execration form the principle part of the firſt night's diſcourſe. Notwithſtanding this, there was a ſomething in the company which produced an involuntary attachment, and he was overheard whiſpering to the friend who introduced him, ‘that it was a pity ſuch and ſuch gentlemen were not leſs immoral, for he looked upon them as exceſſively agreeable.’

THERE is, in the human mind, a natural promp⯑titude of imitating manners wherever we happen to like a man. This was poor Ned's caſe; in leſs than a week an oath was not altogether ſo ſhock⯑ing, and it was rather too reſerved for a young fellow to baniſh an innocent freedom in talking of women that ſuited with his years and conſtitution. There is no neceſſity for circumſtantial particu⯑larities; ſuffice it, that Ned, before the month was over, grew paſſionately fond of the character of a wit, and ſhewed, that in purchaſing ſo honourable an appellation, he was utterly regardleſs of the means.

[38]THE firſt ſtroke of wit that procured him any reputation, was the overturning of his Grandmo⯑ther's coach, in a little excurſion to Richmond, where he inſiſted on mounting the coach-box, and commencing driver: Our Phaeton, unable to ma⯑nage the horſes, drove againſt a mile-ſtone, upon which the carriage inſtantly gave a violent jerk, and pitched him headlong into a cucumber bed on the road ſide, where he was miſerably cut with the glaſſes: the good old lady had her arm broke by the accident, and what with the acuteneſs of the pain, and her terrors for her Neddy, a fever enſued, which carried her off in a fortnight. When he was able to come abroad, his next ſally of wit was upon an unfortunate waiter, whoſe eye he knocked out with the head of a tobacco-pipe; this coſt him two hundred pounds to ſuppreſs a proſecution, excluſive of a twenty pound annuity during the life of the ſufferer.—A duel with a Highland officer for ſome reflexions on brimſtone was his next exploit; after which he ſucceſſively bred four riots at the playhouſe, and carried off ſeven milliners apprentices within the purlieus of Covent Garden. It is remarkable, that when our modern men of wit endeavour at a character, they generally employ themſelves in proving their ſpirit, and the moment they arrive at the pitch of doing what they think proper, the itch of heroiſm naturally diſappears, and they content themſelves with ſaying what they pleaſe.—This is exactly Ned's caſe; finding the reputation of his courage [39] ſufficiently eſtabliſhed, he reſts ſatisfied with diſ⯑turbing every converſation he over hears, and has humility enough to be no more than very imper⯑tinent whenever he engages in an argument. At the playhouſe I have heard him affect a horſe laugh in the moſt diſtreſſing paſſage of a tragedy; and at a concert I never knew him pleaſed with the performers till he had put them entirely out. Fatigued with this inſipid round, his wit has taken a different turn; religion and it's members are now the objects of his ridicule, and poſſibly from ſome paſſages in his life, having reaſon to fear that there is another world after this, he always endeavours to convince his acquaintance that there is not.— Unhappy Ned Frailby, ſetting out a faſhionable wit, he has ſunk into a real infidel, and, to gain the admiration of a blockhead he ſhould deſpiſe, has forfeited the favour of his God. The people who wiſh him beſt can only pity him; but where he is not perſonally known, he is looked upon as what he is; yet Ned has a thouſand good qualities; his ear is never turned from the complaint of ſor⯑row, nor his bounty with-held from the tear of diſtreſs: he is the beſt of maſters, the kindeſt of landlords, and the warmeſt of friends. He has a fine fancy, a ſound underſtanding, and a bene⯑volent heart; but a paſſion for admiration has un⯑done him, and he is an amiable reprobate at beſt.

To ſuch a picture there needs no comment: let any man of wit clap his hand upon his heart, and examine if he has not all of Ned's bad quali⯑tries; [40] and then let him try how far they are exte⯑nuated by the good. If, upon examination, he ſhould appear to have a great deal of the firſt and very little of the latter, he is really a very wretched being, and we may very fairly cry out with the poet,

NUMB. X. Saturday, April 16.

THE following letter, which has been com⯑municated by a perſonage of the firſt diſtinc⯑tion, having ſomething in it ſo applicable to the preſent times, we fancy our readers will for that reaſon, readily accept it for the entertainment of the day, were they even to pay no regard to the extraordinary merit and uncommon reputation of the author.

NUMB. XI. Saturday, April 23.

AMONG the variety of correſpondents, who favour me with their pieces, a humourous gentlemen has ſent me the following little nar⯑rative, by way of Eſſay on Happineſs, which I ſhall make no apology for laying before my readers.

NUMB. XII. Saturday, April 30.

UNIVERSAL ſoever as the ſpirit of amour may be, and great ſoever as the countenance may be which it receives from the polite world, there is no one ſource from which ſuch a number of calamities are produced, nor any one ſpring which pours in ſuch a variety of misfortunes upon Society. Unhappily in this gay age the depravity of manners has ariſen to ſo enormous a degree, that it is in ſome meaſure neceſſary for a young fellow to give into the faſhionable follies, and practice vices to which he has a real abhorrence, if he would eſtabliſh the character of a man of taſte, or ſhew himſelf tolerably well acquainted with the world.

IN the proſecution of modern amour, more than in any other vice, there are allurements which very few think themſelves capable of reſiſting, or even chuſe to reſiſt, if they could. A man finds his vanity tickled, as well as his inclination gratified, in the ſeduction of unwary innocence, and, ab⯑ſtracted from the tranſport reſulting from poſſeſſion itſelf, the generality of our ſex think, with an in⯑finity of ſatisfaction, upon their own accompliſh⯑ments, and ſuppoſe they muſt be poſſeſſed of ſome extraordinary qualifications when a woman ſhews her ſenſibility of them at no leſs a price than her everlaſting diſgrace.

[50]THE ſame vanity which impels the one ſex to a purſuit of unwarrantable amour, is the very reaſon why the other is ſo ſeldom offended, when they even know that a man's deſign is repugnant to ho⯑nour and virtue. The pleaſure ariſing from the adoration paid to a pretty face, caſts a veil over the infamous intention of him who offers it, and the generality of women are content to be addreſſed upon the footing of ſtrumpets, provided the offence which is offered to the purity of their hearts, is mingled with a well-turn'd compliment to the beauty of their perſons. Hence, actuated by va⯑nity, and perhaps rendered weak from conſtitution, the amiable ideot of the ſofter ſex is immediately undone, and the remorſeleſs libertine of ours feels no compunction in the ruin of her character, ſince the monſtrous depravity of general opinion induces him to conſider it as an enhancement of his own. Nay, this vanity on the ſide of the ladies has ſometimes been ſo unaccountably abſurb, that two ſiſters have quarrelled about the adreſſes of an agreeable ſpoiler, and contended, with an inflexi⯑ble ſedulity, for the honour of ſacrificing their peace of mind in this world, and endangering their everlaſting happineſs in the next.

INDEPENDANT of the lamentable conſequences in point of character, which on the woman's part moſt commonly attend a deviation from virtue, the effects which ſuch a deviation has upon her ſpi⯑rits, is generally fatal. There is a ſoftneſs in the female mind, ſo very ſuſceptible of tender impreſ⯑ſions, [51] that it is next to impoſſible the idea of a fa⯑voured lover ſhould ever be eraſed; and as it is equally impoſſible that the libertine profeſſed can confine himſelf to any ſingle attachment, the wo⯑man muſt neceſſarily be wretched when ſhe knows that thoſe vows and proteſtations are indiſcrimi⯑nately paid to the whole ſex, which ſhe once vainly imagined were engroſſed by herſelf. Beſides this there is an ingrateful ſort of indolence in the temper of the man, which renders him indifferent in proportion to the ſtudy taken to pleaſe him, and a ſpaniel-like kind of fondneſs in the diſpoſition of the woman, which increaſes her tenderneſs in proportion as ſhe experiences his indifference or abuſe. I ſeldom or never heard of a man who be⯑haved commonly civil to a woman who had grant⯑ed him all ſhe could grant, nor knew a woman one forget a man, by whom ſhe was deſtroyed. I have an elegy before me, in which a lady ru⯑ined and forſaken, paints the general ſituation of the ſex in ſuch circumſtances, with no little ſenſi⯑bility, and as the performance has much merit, I ſhall make no excuſe for tranſcribing a ſtanza or two, and ſubmiting them to the judgment of my readers.

I SHALL conclude this paper with a letter ſent by a young fellow of my acquaintance, lately married to a moſt amiable woman, to a lady who officiated as bride-maid to his wife, and who was weak enough to make him ſome overtures in a little time after the wedding-day.

NUMB. XIII. Saturday, May 7.

HAVING taken the liberty in one of my former Papers to publiſh a POLITICAL DIC⯑TIONARY, which was communicated to me by a perſonage of eminence in the literary world, whoſe friendſhip would do me the greateſt honour if it was not a ſort of vanity to reveal his name; I ſhall now lay before my readers a VOCABULARY of a more general nature, written by the ſame hand, [55] which I preſume will be no way diſagreeable to ſuch as remember the Political Dictionary, as there was ſcarcely a periodical production in the Britiſh dominions which did not immediately take it in.

Religion.] A ridiculous compoſition of unfa⯑ſhionable ordinances, inſtituted with no other de⯑ſign than to check every laudable impulſe of vice and immorality, and calculated for no other pur⯑poſe than to deſtroy the very eſſence of a fine gen⯑tleman.

Generoſity.] A pitiful under-bred promptitude to reward the merit of the deſerving, like

Humanity.] Which is nothing more than a child⯑iſh waſhineſs of nature at the ſufferings, and an inclination to remove the misfortunes, of other people.

Gratitude.] A narrow-minded deſpicable re⯑membrance of benefits received, and a ſcandalous deſire of embracing every opportunity to return them.

Honcur.] An idle regard to the dictates of friend⯑ſhip and benevolence, and a paltry adherence to the minuteſt law of order and morality.

Honeſty.] A fooliſh regard to the ſanctity of our words upon every occaſion, and a ſervile abhor⯑rence to the ſmalleſt treſpaſs upon the property of our neighbours.

Courage.] A low-minded averſion of brutality to ſuch as, from ſituation in life, muſt not preſume to reſent a horſe whipping, or complain at the loſs [56] of an eye; and a ſilly deſire of avoiding all quar⯑rels but ſuch as relate to the honour of our king or the glory of our country.

Decency.] A mean obſervation of common civility, and an infamous ſuppreſſion of oaths and obſcenity in the preſence of the ladies.

A tradeſman.] A ſuperior ſort of Coach-horſe, created entirely for the convenience of the great, without either paſſions, reſentment, underſtanding, or inclination.

Unpardonable impudence.] An humble ſolicitation for a perſon's own property, and a prudent con⯑cern for the maintenance of our wives and chil⯑dren.

Pride and prodigality.] The ſmalleſt diſtaſte to poverty and rags, and the leaſt inclination to a light coloured ſhirt.

Debt.] A Word under which perſons of faſhion have a right to rob the honeſt and induſtrious, without any fear of ſuffering from the laws of the kingdom, or the reproach of their acquaintance.

Tranſgreſſion of the law.] An exertion of that natural right which every man has to a Hare or a Patridge belonging to his own grounds, and which deſtroy both his corn and graſs by the authority of parliament.

Liberty and property.] An indiſpenſible neceſſity of keeping game for other people to kill, with pains and penalties of the moſt arbitrary kind, if we think of appropriating the minuteſt article to the uſe of our own families.

[57] A free-born Engliſhman.] One who is continually bragging of liberty, and independance, when he has neither will nor property of his own, and laughs at the wretchedneſs of other countries, while he himſelf is indulged with no other privi⯑lege than the right of nominating the perſon by whom he chooſes to be enſlaved.

Magna charta.] An idle word made uſe of by the Populace, ſignifying a natural right of being go⯑verned by laws which they conſtantly ſuffer to be trampled on, and an inherent claim to the poſſeſſion of thoſe privileges, which they have neither ſenſe or ſpirit enough to poſſeſs.

A ſecretary of ſtate.] A great officer in whom crimes are no crimes, and who, by a political ſpecies of infallibility, can exerciſe acts of op⯑preſſion, without ever dreading the rod of cor⯑rection, or regarding the poignancy of general re⯑proof.

The people of Ireland.] A noble and ſpirited na⯑tion, inviolably attached to us by every tie of friendſhip and eſteem, and who, on every occaſion, hazard both their lives and fortunes in our de⯑fence; yet to whom we conſtantly make ſuch juſt and grateful returns, as to omit no opportunity (however illegal and arbitrary) of beggaring them, though the ruin of their intereſt lays a manifeſt foundation for the deſtruction of our own.

The lords of the ocean.] The ſenſible and ſpirited people of Great Britain, who have a naval force conſiderably ſuperior to all the other ſtates of [58] Europe put together, yet ſervilely do homage to a neſt of little African pirates on the coaſt of Bar⯑bary, and pay a yearly tribute to a ſet of robbers, whom they ought to root out from the face of the earth.

An independent freeholder and lover of his country.] One who, on every election for a member of par⯑liament, ſacrifices his conſcience to his conve⯑nience, ſets up his dear country, and his darling freedom to the beſt bidder, yet impudently finds fault with his repreſentative for following ſo lau⯑dable an example, nor ſuffers any body to be a ſcroundrel, without reproach, but himſelf.

A peerage.] In former days an honour conferred upon ſuch as had rendered themſelves conſpicuous for their merit, and eminent for their virtues; but in the more modern ages it has been, in general, the wages of venality and corruption, and a diſtinc⯑tion not to be purchaſed at a ſmaller price than everlaſting infamy and diſgrace.

A regard for the royal prerogative.] A worn out pretence to infringe upon the laws, and a glaring deſign upon the privileges of the people.

National egotiſm or gaſconade.] An unpardonable cuſtom among the French of extolling their own merit to the ſkies, but never practiſed among the modeſt natives of this kingdom, though our preſſes are every moment teeming with ſons of liberty, roaſt-beef and pudding, noble-minded Britons, and free-born Engliſhmen.

[59] A bleſſed martyr.] A perjured prince, who broke his coronation oath in the moſt material of all points, governed without a parliament, impriſoned his ſubjects for refuſing to lend him money, com⯑menced a falſe villainous proſecution for high treaſon, againſt a moſt deſerving nobleman, (the earl of Briſtol) whom he knew to be innocent, be⯑cauſe that lord had impeached the duke of Buck⯑ingham, whom he knew to be guilty; reduced his people to the dreadful neceſſity of taking up arms in their own defence, which produced the utmoſt confuſion in religion and ſtate; and by his ſhame⯑ful diſſimulation when he was about to be reſtored, left it utterly impoſſible to confide in his honour, his humanity, or his oath; but drove the principal officers of the adverſe party in their own defence, to ſit in trial upon their ſovereign and ſentence him to death. — Truly a very bleſſed Martyr! — Had this prince been a private man, who would have dared to ſay a word in his defence, though ſuch a number of writers have pleaded his royalty, which ought to be an aggravation, as a conſiderable palliative, nay a total excuſe, for his crimes. —

NUMB. XIV. Saturday, May 14.

I AM never more diverted than when I ſee your grave important ſet of gentlemen who would paſs upon the world as men of extraordinary ſaga⯑city, running into a number of little petulancies, which they imagine themſelves to be conſiderably above, and fretting at the verieſt trifles we can think of, when they affect a ſuperiority of reſolu⯑tion, which the moſt ſtriking calamities of life are not ſufficiently powerful to diſturb.

THIS ſpecies of philoſophers is generally com⯑poſed of men who have much pride, or little un⯑derſtanding, and who, through a contemptible ſort of vanity, make themſelves not a little leſs than human, that they may have an opportunity of ap⯑pearing in the eyes of the injudicious to be in⯑finitely more. Of this caſt was the elder Brutus, who paſſed ſentence of death upon his own ſons, without the ſhadow of a pang, yet, at another time, knocked one of his ſervants down for putting a grain of ſalt too much in his broth.

BUT without going ſo very far back for inſtances of this extraordinary claſs of mankind, my old friend Frank Surly is one of the moſt remarkable, which it has ever produced.—Frank and I were bred together at Weſtminſter, and before he was twelve years of age, he was diſtinguiſhed from [61] every other boy in the ſchool by the uncommon moroſeneſs of his temper, and his contempt of thoſe puniſhments which the generality of his age and ſtanding, always held in the greateſt dread. — There were few lads in the whole ſchool ſuperior to Frank either in application or abilities, yet I have known him frequently inattentive and care⯑leſs about his leſſons, that we might ſee with how much fortitude he could bear to be flogged.—Nay, if any of his intimates had been guilty of any roguiſh prank which deſerved the diſcipline of the rod, he would often deſire them to lay the blame on him, and ſuffer, with all the compuſure in the world, a hearty flagellation in their ſtead. — Un⯑happily however, upon one of theſe occaſions, when Frank was going to be puniſhed for ſome petty crime, which he begged might be laid to his charge, the lad who was really guilty of the fact, ſtruck with his behaviour, went up to the maſter, and without diſguiſe, related the affair, acknow⯑ledged the fault, and declared he would rather be cut to pieces than ſee another ſuffer for an action which he had committed himſelf. — The lad's ge⯑neroſity had an effect upon the maſter, nor was he without ſome ſurprize at the behaviour of Frank.—He diſmiſſed them both to their ſeats, and, to the inexpreſſible concern of the latter, never flogged him after. — Frank finding he could have no opportunity of ſhewing his ſtoiciſm any longer, through downright pride, paid an application to his [62] ſtudies, that in a little time made him the beſt ſcholar in the whole ſchool, and reſolving to be re⯑markable for the extremities of his behaviour, the moment the maſter had declared he would never gratify him with another whipping, he grew re⯑markably well behaved, and piqued himſelf upon keeping up a conſequence and dignity in his actions, to prove that the fear of puniſhment had nothing to do in the reformation of his manners.

THE ſame diſpoſition which diſtinguiſhed Frank in his earlier years, has all along rendered him conſpicuous ſince his reach to maturity. — As he and I ſtill hold up an intimacy, whenever I go down into Oxfordſhire, I paſs a week at his houſe. — The laſt time I was there, he was laid up with a very violent fit of the gout, and whenever the pain was at an extremity, he would converſe with unuſual chearfulneſs, or divert himſelf with one of the ſongs which was in vogue when he and I were younkers. — If any body pitied him, he inſtantly flew into a paſſion; but if you ſeemed to make ſlight of bodily anguiſh and infirmity, he ſhook you by the hand, and told you, you were a man of un⯑derſtanding. — About ten years ago, my old friend married a moſt valuable woman, of whom he was paſſionately fond, and who returned his affection almoſt to madneſs. — As their circumſtances were affluent, this reciprocal regard, one would imagine, ſhould have produced their mutual felicity: — But far on the contrary, — Frank was too proud to be happy, and as his love for Mrs. Surly was univer⯑ſally [62] known to be exceſſive, he was never ſatisfied, unleſs he treated her as the object of his hate. — He only lived in her looks, and yet he has torn himſelf from her preſence for three whole weeks, and ſo unaccountably headlong was he hurried by this ridiculous ſtoiciſm, that, upon her death, which happened in childbed, though his ſoul was tortured with all the anguiſh of conſummate pity and diſtracted love, he went to the aſſembly an hour after her deceaſe, and ſat up — (a tear now and then ſtraying down his cheek) — along with Colonel Tierce, Major Piquet, and Sir Oliver Ombre, at a party of whiſt.

A PERSON ſo apparently ſteeled againſt the cala⯑mities of life, we ſhould reaſonably expect, would hold the little impertinencies or interruptions of it in the greateſt contempt: but this is far from be⯑ing the caſe with my friend Frank. — A plait more or leſs in his ſhirt ſleeve will ſet him raving for an hour, and I remember that he ſhot a favourite Dog one day, in the ſtable-yard, for leaping accidentally up and dirtying the ſkirt of his coat. — It is im⯑poſſible to enumerate the various inconſiſtencies of my poor friend's character. — I once knew him ſet up a careleſs drunken fellow of a coachman, who overturned him in a ditch, in a very hand⯑ſome inn, three weeks after; and at another time diſcharge his footman at a moment's warning, for wearing too little powder in his wig.

WERE we to make an eſſay into human nature, and examine the lives of our modern philoſophers [64] with any degree of circumſpection, we ſhould find the principal number approach ſo very near the ſtandard of Frank Surly, that the account given of him will ſerve as no improper deſcription of them all. — The ridiculous light in which one of the moſt ſenſible is ſet, will, I hope, ſerve for as good an admonition as I can poſſibly give to this tribe of very important beings; and I ſhall think myſelf particularly happy if the foregoing picture is at⯑tended with any ſalutary effect.

NUMB. XV. Saturday, May 21.

I did myſelf the pleaſure a few evenings ago to call at the houſe of an old friend, with whom I have been intimate theſe thirty years, and for whom I have infinitely more than a common reſpect. An affair of arbitration had, however, called him abroad, and I found no-body at home but Miſs Maria his younger daughter, who is now the moſt lively picture of innocence and beauty which I ever ſaw, and cloſely bordering upon twenty-one. As I always avoid ſtiffning my converſation with the ſtarch of antiquity, and conſtantly endeavour at appearing more ready to be inſtructed than to in⯑ſtruct, the young people are very fond of admitting me into their company; and there is ſcarcely a day that I have not an invitation or two from ſome of the moſt ſprightly tea-tables in town, which is [65] more, I fancy, than can be ſaid by any other old fellow of ſixty within the weekly bills.

ON my enquiring for her papa, Miſs Maria ſtepped out of the parlour, and ſeizing one of my hands, cried, "O Mr. Babler, is it you? I inſiſt upon your coming in." Few intreaties are ne⯑ceſſary to make a man do what he likes. I imme⯑diately aſſented, ſat down, and paſſed two of the moſt agreeable hours I ever experienced in my whole life.

OUR converſation, after turning upon a variety of topics, at laſt fell upon that divine part of our church-worſhip, in which the congregation ſing praiſes to the moſt high. If it is proper, ſays Maria, for a perſon of my years to ſpeak of ſo im⯑portant a ſubject as religion, and not too preſump⯑tuous for the petticoats to comment upon the wor⯑ſhip of the church, I ſhould think, Mr. Babler, that this part of our liturgy might be very much improved. Great complaints have been often made, that ſo ſmall a number of the congregation join in the ſinging of pſalms, and though I admit the neglect is highly unpardonable, and the cen⯑ſure extremely juſt, yet reformation would, in my opinion, be infinitely ſuperior to reprehenſion, and I think every room for complaint might be remov⯑ed by a proper ſuppreſſion of the cauſe.

THE end of poetry and muſic, if I am right in my information, is to actuate upon the paſſions, and, in all religious compoſition, to raiſe the mind to an elevated deſire of acknowledging the won⯑derful [66] mercy and goodneſs of the divine Being. How far the hymns uſed in the eſtabliſhed church for this purpoſe are from anſwering ſo ſalutary an end, it is no leſs painful than unneceſſary to ob⯑ſerve: in the verſification of the very beſt pſalms all the rapture of the original text is loſt, and in that the muſic ſhould be no way ſuperior to the poetry; there is hardly any one tune which can create the leaſt emotion but ſleep. In fact, Sir, the moſt triffling compoſitions, which are form'd for the buſineſs of amuſement, have twenty times more merit than thoſe ſet apart for the ſervice of religion, and infinitely greater pains are taken in the writing or ſetting of a Ranelagh ballad, than in a hymn to the honour of the living God.

FROM what I have ſaid, Mr. Babler, I would by no means infer, that either the poetical or muſi⯑cal part of our hymns ſhould be light, trifling or airy; but ſurely, Sir, the ſpirit of devotion would breathe conſiderably ſtronger in theſe pieces, and have a much greater effect, if an author of repu⯑tation ſhould give us a fine verſification of the pſalms, and a maſter of eminence ſhould receive proper encouragement to ſee them exquiſitely ſet. We have a number of tunes plaintive, ſolemn and enchanting to a miracle, which are nevertheleſs as familiar as they are charming, and calculated to bewitch the careleſs and inattentive to a ſenſe, to a paſſion for that duty which they now treat with a lifeleſs indifference, or an inſupportable neglect. Religion, Sir, by this means, would become fa⯑ſhionable, [67] and it would be deemed no longer in⯑elegant for a fine lady or a fine gentleman to join in the praiſes of their God.

LORD, Mr. Babler, how can you have patience to hear me chatter ſo much, but I ſhall not treſ⯑paſs on your patience much longer. Mr. Well⯑worth (who you know viſits us every day) and I were talking on this very ſubject a few evenings ago, and as he has a really ſweet taſte for poetry, I took the liberty of requeſting he would write me a hymn, whether penitential or thankſgiving, I left to himſelf. He called on me this morning and brought it in his hand. I think it mighty pretty, and ſhall be very happy, if my opinion ſhould re⯑ceive ſuch a ſanction as yours, Mr. Babler. Mr. Wellworth read it to me with great ſenſibility, and I own I thought he never looked ſo well in all his life.

SOME how or other my eye encountered with Miſs Maria's at the end of this ſpeech; ſhe ſeemed conſcious, and on my obſerving that Mr. Wellworth was an excellent young man, ſhe reddened exceſ⯑ſively, and ſeemed at a ſtand for words. As I would not confuſe her by any means, I ſhifted the converſation; but ſhe reſumed it immediately, and ſaid, well, Mr. Babler, you muſt give me your ſentiments on this little production, here it is, con⯑tinued ſhe, taking it out of her pocket-book,—and here; no not here, but in the next number I ſhall preſent it with ſomething elſe of conſequence, which it occaſioned to my readers.

NUMB. XVI. Saturday, May 28.

IN my laſt I promiſed my readers a Hymn, and as I would by no means be worſe than my word or delay their expectations, I give it with⯑out further introduction.

WHEN I had done reading, Miſs Maria de⯑manded my opinion of this performance, which I could not but praiſe very much. — I told her how⯑ever, that the thought of concluding every ſtanza with the name of the Deity, was borrowed from Eve's hymn, in the death of Abel, though I could not think of making any compariſon, pretty as that hymn was, with this of Mr. Wellworth's — The young lady ſeemed vaſtly delighted at my com⯑mendation, [70] and was beginning to make a verbal acknowledgment of her ſatisfaction, when her fa⯑ther's rap was heard at the door — My old friend entered the parlour with an air of mingled anger and dejection, and inſtead of taking any notice of me, began at once upon his daughter — ‘So ma⯑dam, this is fine information I have received — What you are under an engagement to Mr. Wellworth are you? O! Maria, Maria!’

THE ſecret was now out, and I found my ſuſpi⯑cions of Miſs Maria's attachment had conſiderably more than a tolerable ground. The poor girl ſtood quite confounded, and ſeemed utterly inca⯑pable of making a reply. As I ſaw nothing cul⯑pable in her regard for a worthy young fellow, I took upon me to intercede in her behalf, and at laſt reduced her father to the temper I could wiſh. I found a diſparity of fortune was the only objec⯑tion which the old gentleman had to his daughter's choice; for though my friend has as benevolent a heart as any man alive, yet he has the caution of all old fellows, and keeps a ſtrict eye on the main chance. When I had brought him to ſome de⯑gree of good humour, I took an opportunity of turning the converſation, and read him the fore⯑going hymn. He was charmed with it, and aſked me if I knew the author. "Yes, ſays I, Mr. Wellworth." ‘Fore God, (returned he) though I do not approve of his connection with my daughter, I am mightily taken with his works.’ This was all I wanted, ‘and pray my good Sir, [71] (anſwered I,) which is it more for your credit and your child's happineſs, to beſtow her on a deſerving young man, whom ſhe loves, and you cannot but admire, or to run the precarious iſſue, of matching her with one, who, though he may have twice Mr. Wellworth's fortune, either may not have ſenſe or inclination, to reward either her merit, or your goodneſs, as he ought—you can ſettle them both, if not ſplendidly, at leaſt elegantly, in the world, and my life for it, in a year or two, you would not change your ſon in-law for the Indies.’ I ſaw my old friend was ſtruck with the juſtice of the caſe, yet ſtill he ſeemed deſirous of being perſuaded to act, as he knew he ought—I indulged him, and Saturday laſt he and I obtained a ſpecial licence, and to the in⯑expreſſible happineſs of the young folks, got them married that morning.

NUMB. XVII. Saturday, June 4.

NUMB. XVIII. Saturday, June 11.

UNFASHIONABLE ſoever as it may be to enter upon religious ſubjects in ſuch an age as the preſent, there are ſome who I flatter myſelf will nevertheleſs pay a little attention to a topic of ſuch importance without a bluſh, and think it no diſgrace either to their gentility or their underſtanding, to employ a few moments in the conſideration of ſome points, for which, at the [76] awful period of their diſſolution, eternities upon eternities will hardly ſeem too much.

WHEN we conſider the differences which daily ſubſiſt in the various modes or ſyſtems of the chriſ⯑tian religion, and think upon the inflexible par⯑tiality which every man entertains in favour of his own, we ought to be abſolutely certain that the particular form which each of us glories to poſſeſs, is perfectly conformable to our notions of the Deity, and conſiſtent in the minuteſt degree with thoſe divine leſſons which were inculcated by the Saviour of the world, in his myſterious miſſion to man. — If we are not poſitive in this, let our belief be diſ⯑tinguiſhed by what name ſoever we think proper, let us be proteſtants or papiſts, quakers or preſby⯑terians, I can take upon me to aver, that we have no right to the name of chriſtians, and may with equal propriety, take a leſſon from the ALCORAN as the GOSPEL.

IT is not the ceremony uſed at baptiſm, the ſprinkling of water, nor the promiſes of our pa⯑rents in the preſence of GOD, which conſtitute the CHRISTIAN; no, it is an actual conformity to the precepts of our BLESSED LORD, and an undevi⯑ating obedience to the tenets which are laid down in the hiſtory of his life and miracles. — Nothing can be more abſurd, nor in reality more criminal, than for a man to aſpire at the glorious title of a Chriſtian, who is regardleſs of the duties which that appellation renders indiſpenſibly neceſſary; or a ſtranger to the obligations which are particularly [77] enjoined by the name; it is at once a fatal decep⯑tion of his own moſt important expectations, an in⯑ſult to his Saviour, and a defiance of his God.

WITH what propriety ſhall I beg leave to aſk, can the various ſects of religion in this kingdom call themſelves Chriſtians, when, in the unremitting hatred which they conſtantly entertain towards one another, they utterly deſtroy that univerſal principle of Charity which ought to be the foun⯑dation, nay, the very eſſence of their belief. — With what propriety can he, who is bleſt with un⯑bounded affluence, ſtile himſelf a Chriſtian, if his ear is turned away from the ſight of affliction, or his heart unaffected with the tear of diſtreſs. — Chriſtianity obliges him to a conſtant relief of the wretched; and without a behaviour entirely con⯑ſonant to the duties of this belief, what poſſible pretention can he have to a name that exalts him to a fellowſhip with angels, and lifts him above the ſtars? — Will a conſtant attendance on the public place of his worſhip, exculpate the oppreſſor of the widow and the fatherleſs, or give the name of Chriſtian to the villain who infamouſly lifts a dagger to the breaſt of his benefactor, or baſely ſtrives to murder the reputation of his friend? — Can the betrayer of unſuſpecting innocence think on the pangs of ſome violated virgin, left without aſſiſtance, without comfort, without bread: expoſed to all the upbraidings of a relentleſs world, to aggravate the ſeverity of her own reflexions, and poſſibly plunged in the additional miſery of having a helpleſs little [78] innocent, and an unalterable affection for the mon⯑ſter by whom ſhe is ſo cruelly undone? I ſay can the perpetrator of an act like this, ſit down calmly, ſatisfied with the rectitude of his behaviour, and think himſelf as a Chriſtian ſincerely acquitted to his God? Alas, if any man thus culpable can be ſo preſumptuouſly daring as to think himſelf a Chriſtian, it is doubtful whether he is moſt a reprobate or an idiot, or whether he is moſt regardleſs or ignorant of his crimes.

IN every profeſſion of the Chriſtian faith there is a number of good natured people who are always uneaſy about the fate of the Mahometans, and ter⯑ribly afflicted leſt the ignorant ſavages of America ſhould not, at the laſt day, be received into the favour of the Supreme Being. — Theſe people en⯑tertain ſtrange notions of the Deity, if they can ſuppoſe that a power all-wiſe, all-merciful, and all-juſt, will require, at the hands of ſuch ignorant nations, a knowledge which he has not thought proper to beſtow: a ſuppoſition of ſuch a nature is highly derogatory to the divine eſſence; it is a tacit implication that the great father of the univerſe exerciſes a ſeverity, which would be cruel in his creatures but to think of; and a palpable inſinu⯑ation, that the Being of beings, is capable of a ty⯑ranny which would utterly degrade the meaneſt, in the human race, among the wonders of his hand. — No, from ſuch only, as have received much, much is expected; and perhaps at the laſt day, myriads of our nominal chriſtians, who look [79] upon the American Savage with pity or contempt, would give a hecatomb of worlds, had they power to change ſituations, to ſee ſo little to anſwer for, as him: conformable to what he knows, he in⯑variably regulates the tenor of his conduct, main⯑tains an unalterable reverence for ſome great ob⯑ject which he looks upon as his God, and pays an implicit obedience to his laws; whatever his ſyſtem of belief may be, he endeavours to do it all the honour in his power, and ſhudders at nothing ſo much as the thought of bringing it into diſgrace. — Who amongſt us can honeſtly ſay the ſame? Enlightened with the lamp of ſcience and the ſun of true religion, our actions are a perpetual ſtigma on our belief; we acknowledge the wonderful merceies of a Suffering Redeemer, yet are continually uttering blaſphemies againſt his name; we own the infinite merits of his goſpel, and yet act in ma⯑nifeſt contradiction to every precept it contains; the Deity, we are ſenſible can think us into aſhes for the enormity of our crimes, and yet we con⯑tinue to behave in open diſobedience to his will; in ſhort, both hoping and fearing the exiſtence of another world, we ſacrifice every valuable oppor⯑tunity in this, and conſtantly boaſting the advan⯑tages accruing from our religion, we are always acting as if we had no religion at all. — Let us, therefore, inſtead of condemning the errors of our neighbours, begin with correcting whatever is amiſs in ourſelves; and inſtead of finding fault with the religion of other people, be ſatisfied that real [80] chriſtianity is the baſis of our own. — The whole myſtery, both of religion and government will be found in theſe admirable lines of Mr. Pope.

NUMB. XIX. Saturday, June 18.
ORASMIN and ALMIRA, an ORIENTAL TALE.

SON of man learn reſignation to the appoint⯑ments of providence, nor dare to drop a mur⯑mur at the diſpenſations of the moſt juſt. Think not of diſputing with the wiſdom of infinity; nor dream of wreſting the vindictive thunderbolt from the dread right hand of God.

IN the city of Bagdad, ſo celebrated by the ſages of antiquity, lived Oraſmin, the ſon of Ibrahim, whoſe name was an Aromatic that perfumed the remoteſt corners of the Eaſt. His perſon was as noble as the riſing oak in the foreſt, and his mind as unſullied as a meridian beam from the ſun; his bounty wiped away the tear from the eye of the fatherleſs, nor did the mourning of the widow ever paſs unregarded at his gate. — To ſum up his character at once, complacency and benevolence were always ſeated on his brow, and humanity [81] was a virtue ſo natural to his heart, that it formed the very core, and twiſted round the ſtrings. Thus amiable, it was no wonder, that by all who ſaw him he ſhould be inſtantly admired; and thus de⯑ſerving, no way ſtrange, that by all who knew him he ſhould be cordially reſpected and beloved.

AMONG a variety of virgins who languiſhed for Oraſmin, Almira, a damſel of Balſora, newly ar⯑rived at Bagdad, was the only perſon bleſt with a reciprocal eſteem; the bluſh of the morning was leſs roſy than her cheek, and the diamond of gol⯑conda not ſo brilliant as her eye; her boſom was as white as the ſwan upon the waters, and gentle as the midſummer murmur of the ſtream. — How oft O ye groves of Balſora, have ye echoed with the ſame of her beauty! how oft, O ye vallies of Bag⯑dad, have ye reſounded with her praiſe. You know that her voice would chain the tyger of the deſart, and unnerve the wild ſtag as he darted from the hill; you know that the ſpices of Ormus could not equal her in breath, nor the daughters of paradiſe excel her in dignity and grace.

ORASMIN and Almira were not more diſtinguiſh⯑ed for their merit, than remarkable for their loves; and as neither had any parent living to oppoſe their wiſhes, a day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials, to the univerſal ſatisfaction of their friends.—Oraſmin, all impatient for poſſeſſing the only object that had ever engroſſed his heart, long⯑ed for the happy hour with the utmoſt anxiety, and feaſted his imagination continually with the [82] raptures he was to experience in the arms of Almira. She not leſs impatient, though more confined in her expreſſions of the approaching felicity, painted equally warm to her fancy, the uninterrupted enjoyment of all ſhe held dear, and counted over the weeks, the months, and the years, ſhe had a probable expectation of paſſing in the tendereſt intercourſe with her adored Oraſmin. — But alas! while our lovers were thus enhancing the preſent, by reflecting on the future, an order arrived for Almira to attend the Caliph, who had for ſome time been entertained with various reports of her unparallelled beauty, and wanted to ſee if the encomiums laviſhed ſo frequently upon her, Were juſt. Neither her religion nor her allegiance could allow her to form any excuſe for not attending the commander of the faithful, much leſs admit of a reſolution to diſobey; he was worſhipped with an implicit reverence, as a ſucceſſor of the holy Ma⯑homet, by all his people, and his word was ever looked upon as the irrevocable voice of Fate. Al⯑mira therefore was immediately carried with a bleeding heart to the palace, and the moment ſhe was beheld by the Caliph, declared the moſt fa⯑vourite of his queens.

IT is not in language to tell the diſtraction of the two lovers, at being thus unexpectedly torn for ever from each others arms; the moment Oraſmin heard that his Almira had captivated the Caliph, he looked upon the buſineſs of life to be entirely over, and unable to ſupport the inexpreſſible agonies [83] of his own mind, conſidered the angel of death as the only miniſter of repoſe: for two whole days and nights he wandered through the various rooms of his houſe in an abſolute ſtate of phrenzy, calling out at every interval in the moſt paſſionate tone, on the name of his raviſhed Almira. On the third day, growing ſomewhat calmer, he began to reflect on all the circumſtances of his paſt life, in order to find out in what particular he had given Mahomet ſuch unpardonable offence, as to meet with ſo ſevere a chaſtiſement at his hands. After revolving a long time, and finding nothing but ſome youthful indiſcretions to anſwer for, which were infinitely overballanced by a number of meritorious actions, he inſenſibly dropt upon one knee, and began to expoſtulate, in the following manner, with his God:

‘THOU great creator of the univerſe, who ſits't enthroned above the ſeven heavens, where even the conception of no prophet but the holy ma⯑homet, can dare to ſoar: look down in mercy on a wretch, who numbers himſelf with the moſt unhappy of human beings, though he has conſtantly maintained the deepeſt reverence for thy laws; tell him, O thou infinitely high! in⯑form him, O thou inexpreſſibly juſt! why he, who has ever made it his unalterable ſtudy, to deſerve thy awful ſanction on his deeds, is deem⯑ed to ſuffer what the moſt impious prophaner of thy divine will, would look upon as a ſeverity, [84] and confidently exclaim, was too great a puniſh⯑ment for the moſt enormous of his crimes.’

ORASMIN had ſcarcely ended, when a clap of thunder ſhook the houſe, and an unuſual bright⯑neſs lightened the room, where he ſtill continued on his knee, aſtoniſhed at this apparent meſſage from the Deity. — When he recovered himſelf a lit⯑tle, a voice as awful as the trumpet of heaven, de⯑ſired him carefully to attend, and thus went on. — ‘Ceaſe, O miſtaken man, to doubt the mercy and juſtice of the Supreme Being, who though he acts by unknown ſprings and ſeeming ſeverities, is ever watchful for the happineſs of the virtuous, and perfectly conſiſtent in all his laws. — Con⯑ſider, Oraſmin, that this world is a tranſitory bubble, which muſt ſhortly burſt upon the ocean of time; that it is at beſt but a ſhort voyage, in which every paſſenger muſt meet with ſome diſ⯑greeable gales, in order to prove his dependance on the hand of infinite goodneſs, and ſhew that he is worthy of entering into an everlaſting port. —Without ſome adverſe ſtorms to ruffle the ſea of life, the tide of proſperity would frequently ſwell the creature into a forgetfulneſs of the Creator, and reduce him to a more dangerous ſituation than the bittereſt blaſt he can expe⯑rience, will ever bring him to; a total indiffe⯑rence of his God. Out of mercy therefore, a variety of ſhoals and quickſands are thrown in his way, which keeping the ſenſe of his dependance on the divine Being conſtantly alive in this world, [85] puts him in a capacity of ſteering his bark in the proper channel, and enables him to arrive at end⯑leſs happineſs in the next. — But abſtracted from this general order in the ſtate of things; know, Oraſmin, that becauſe thou wert a particular favourite of heaven, it was decreed to ſnatch Almira from thy arms: ſhe was, O man, thy ſiſter:—Ibrahim thy father, journeying to Balſora, was admitted to the Cade's wife, and the product of their guilty commerce was Almira: here again obſerve the kindneſs of heaven in it's very ſeverities, which, in order to deter the parent from the commiſſion of enormities, denounces a judgment againſt what he values more highly than worlds, his race — Oraſmin be comforted; I have viſited Almira, and informed her of theſe things; ſhe is at eaſe, remain thou ſo too, and remember never again to doubt the goodneſs of providence, which in it's own time will reward thoſe who place their confidence in it's hands.’ Oraſmin after this lived many years in happineſs, and left many children, who ſucceeded to his vir⯑tues and fortune, the eldeſt of whom was grand viſier to the Caliph Haroun Alraſchid, and ordered theſe matters to be recorded in the hiſtories of Bagdad.

NUMB. XX. Saturday, June 25.

Numb. XXI. Saturday, July 2.

FEW of the nobler qualifications are ſo gene⯑rally pretented to as Friendſhip, or a capacity of entertaining ſo cordial a regard for the intereſt of another perſon, as to make it equally an object of importance with our own. — I was talking laſt night with my old acquaintance Will Threadbare, on this very ſubject, at the Queen's Arms in St. Paul's Church-yard, when Will related over the hiſtory of his friendſhips to me for the ninety-ninth time, and concluded with his uſual invective againſt all the world, and the little confidence which is to be placed in the honour or honeſty of any man.— To ſave him the trouble of repeating his narrative again, I ſhall take take liberty of making it the ſub⯑ject [91] of the preſent paper; more eſpecially as I know the publication can be no way diſagreeable to him, and may probably prove of ſome enter⯑tainment to my readers.

FROM my very infancy up, Mr. Babler, ſays Will, I found that all thoſe attachments which we are weak enough to diſtinguiſh by the name of Friend⯑ſhip, were nothing more than the effects of our folly or the conſequence of our deſign — A parity of ſentiments always created an intimacy between a couple of raſcals, who, willing to believe that they were capable of feeling the exalted glow of a virtuous friendſhip, imagined they really did feel it, and having once flattered themſelves with this opinion, reſted wonderfully pleaſed with the ſuper⯑ſtructure, without ever examining the foundation upon which it was built.

WHEN I was at Eaton, no two in the world could be more intimate; that is, in the language of the world, entertain a greater friendſhip for each other, than a fellow who now poſſeſſes one of the moſt valuable employments in the kingdom and your humble ſervant: how often have we ſwore that nothing ſhould ever ſeparate us when we came into the great theatre of life, as actors for ourſelves. — This regard we carried to ſuch an exceſs, that we have frequently boxed one another's battles, and always looked upon the leaſt affront offered to either, as an unpardonable injury to both. — But, alas, Mr. Babler, one Whitſun-Monday the pro⯑voſt, who was an old acquaintance of my father's [92] took me out in a chaiſe with him to a neighbouring gentleman's houſe, and as my friend was not treated with the ſame diſtinction, he grew envious of his Pylades, behaved intolerably cold at our next meet⯑ing, which I could not but obſerve, and being per⯑haps a little too tart in my reproaches, he took an occaſion to quarrel with me; the conſequence of which was that he and I never ſpoke a word toge⯑ther after. This lad's eſteem for me commenced firſt of all from my dexterity in robbing orchards; an amuſement of which he was particularly fond, and therefore could not help eſteeming a temper that bore ſo ſtrong a reſemblance to his own; but as the baſis of our regard was ſo very trivial in itſelf, our friendſhip muſt be ſuppoſed to have but a ſlender ſupport, and therefore a miſunderſtanding was but a matter of courſe.

AT Oxford I commenced an everlaſting friend⯑ſhip, to be ſure, with Ned Guzzle, becauſe I was unalterably attached to the bottle myſelf, and he was reckoned the hardeſt drinker in the Univerſity; our everlaſting friendſhip however continued but ſix weeks, for a couple of unlucky rogues pitted us againſt one another to drink for a rump of beef and a dozen of Maderia, in which it being my fortune to ſwallow half a pint more than my an⯑tagoniſt, he wrote me a letter when he got up next evening, deſiring that all manner of correſ⯑pondence might be dropt between us for the future.

WHEN I came up to town and got poſſeſſion of my little fortune, Dick Wildman and I were in⯑ſeparable; [93] we lodged in the ſame houſe, ſpent every evening at the ſame tavern together, and retired every morning with a ſtrumpet to the ſame bagnio under the piazza. — We were always coupled in our amours, and never attacked a milliner's apprentice or a tradeſman's wife unleſſ there were two to find us both employment in the ſame family. — This was not all; I once fought a duel for him behind Montague-houſe, and ran the double chance both of the gallows and cold iron: yet ſee the fatality attending all ſublunary things; Dick ſurprized me one morning in bed with one of the maids where we lodged, whom he had been ſoliciting for ſome time, though unknown to me, and was ſo offended at the un⯑pardonable preference which the huſſey gave me, that he inſtantly ordered his man to pack up his things and decamped next day, without ſaying a ſingle ſyllable.

I COULD recount a variety of inſtances where my friendſhips were equally unſucceſsful, though I never refuſed either my ſword, or my purſe, to any of thoſe partners of my heart; but finding by fatal experience, that no friendſhip is laſting which is not founded on Virtue, and believing in my ſoul, that there is not a ſpark of virtue in any man alive, — I am abſolutely determined never to have another friendſhip, but to ſtarve as decently as I can upon my ſeventy pounds a year, and to repeat that admirable ſentiment of Swift, when any well-behaved [94] behaved ſcoundrel makes me the ſmalleſt declaration of his eſteem.

NUMB. XXII. Saturday, July 9.

I DO not know any one circumſtance ſo produc⯑tive of diſorder and confuſion, as the general propenſity among all ranks of people, when they meet in company to be joyous, as it is called; nor any thing, where, in the purſuit of pleaſure and the hope of ſpending an agreeable evening, they are ſo utterly miſtaken in the means. — I am led into this reflexion, as well from the experience of my own younger days, as the univerſal confeſſion of all my juvenal acquaintance of the preſent times, with whom I very frequently [...]hat half an hour upon the ſubject; and as a diſcuſſion of this point may perhaps prove as pleaſing to my readers as a diſcourſe upon any other topic, I ſhall make a little narrative which I had yeſterday from my nephew, Harry Rattle, the ſubſtance of the enſuing paper.

I HAVE often told my ſubſcribers, that though conſiderably on the wrong ſide of fifty, an unaſ⯑ſuming [95] air of gaiety and freedom ſtill renders me tolerable to the ſociety of the young people, and that there is ſeldom a day in which I have not a viſit or an invitation from ſeveral to whom I might almoſt be a grandfather. — Among the many by whom I am thus favourably diſtinguiſhed, my ſiſter Rattle's youngeſt ſon Harry, treats me with a chearful familiarity, without ever tranſgreſſing the ſmalleſt bound of reſpect: — There is a ſomething in this young fellow, which, abſtracted from his affinity to me, I cannot help admiring: — An open ingenuity of carriage, mixed with a fund of ex⯑cellent ſenſe, are not the leaſt of his accompliſh⯑ments; he has read a great deal, and what is in⯑finitely more, he never took up an author without perfectly underſtanding him. — As well as a com⯑plete ſcholar, Harry is really a pretty gentleman, and poſſeſſes no leſs a good heart than a fine un⯑derſtanding. — As my nephew's qualifications are very well known, it is impoſſible but every body muſt be fond of his company: This ſometimes leads him into foibles; and in ſpite of his good ſenſe, an eaſineſs of temper, that cannot reſiſt the ſolicitations of his friends, frequently runs him into errors, which with all my partiality for him, I can by no means approve, notwithſtanding the rogue would make any body overlook them by the ſelf accuſing honeſt and readineſs of his own re⯑flexions: Whenever I get Harry for a ſubject of diſcourſe, I ſcarce know how to end, I am ſo fond of dwelling upon what I cordially eſteem; [96] but not to treſpaſs upon the patience of my read⯑ers, who are no way intereſted in his qualities, it is high time I ſhould proceed to the purpoſe I ſet out with, and aſſume the matter inſtead of preach⯑ing on the man. — Well then, yeſterday morning Harry called upon me about eleven, his face ſpirit⯑leſs and pale, his lips livid and ſwoln, a viſible fatigue ſpread all over his features, and his eyes ſunk in his head: I began inſtantly to open at the young rogue, gueſſing juſtly enough the cauſe of his rueful appearance, when he flopped into my great chair, and prevented all the ſeverity I in⯑tended to treat him with, by being conſiderably more ſevere upon himſelf.

MY dear Sir, ſays he, I am not worth your anger; advice is thrown away upon me; I ſin againſt the conviction of my own reaſon and am no leſs an obſtinate puppy, than a ridiculous fool. Why laſt night again, notwithſtanding all my late reſolutions, Dick Bumper only aſked me a ſecond time to ſup with a few friends at his houſe, and though I was very ſenſible what the conſequence muſt inevitably prove, do you know that I had not fortitue enough to refuſe him: at four this morn⯑ing we broke up after the uſual manner, heartily weary of each other, fatigued to death with our entertainment, and utterly diſſatiſfied with our⯑ſelves.

I WISH Sir, you would ſay ſomething on this ſubject, and point out the monſtrous abſurdity, which generally prevails in a joyous evening; [97] when a few friends meet together, inſtead of in⯑dulging a rational converſation, you hear of no⯑thing but a toaſt and a ſong: the chairman calls in turn upon every one for his toaſt, and frequently puts us to a ſtand for the want of ſomething ſpirited or new: in this dilemma, obſcenity or prophana⯑tion is but too general a reſource, and it is no un⯑common thing to hear men, of reputed underſtand⯑ing, extol the name of ſome public proſtitute, and ridicule the precepts of their GOD.

THE cuſtom of every man's ſinging in turn, is ſtill conſiderably more ridiculous, and commonly as prophane: at any of theſe joyous meetings, even I, who have a voice more diſagreeable than the grating of a gate upon hinges, and know no more of muſic than a Hottentot, can never get excuſed, but muſt make myſelf ridiculous in at⯑tempting what I am utterly incapable of, and diſ⯑turb the very people who drive me moſt importu⯑nately on: how often have I been teized to ſing by a number of my intimate acquaintance, and yet the moment I began, there was no poſſibility of concealing their diſguſt; they whiſpered one another, gave a forced attention, or lolled inſipidly in their chairs, ſtroking the pleats of their ruffles, or playing with the chain of their watch, then longing impatiently till I had finiſhed, gave a faint bravo, and called out for a toaſt from the next member in rotation; whilſt I ſat frying the whole time, from a conſcious incapacity to pleaſe, [98] and a ſtrange neceſſity of giving a general diſ⯑ſatisfaction.

PERHAPS, Sir, no cuſtom in the world is ſo very dangerous or unpardonable as toaſting; it levels all diſtinction in conſtitutions, and obliges a man in an indifferent ſtate of health, to drink as much as him that is bleſt with the ſtrength of a Hercules. It is the immediate parent of noiſe and intoxica⯑tion, and amongſt people of the beſt ſenſe, an⯑ſwers no other purpoſe but to leave them without any ſenſe at all.

How prepoſterous a notion is it, my dear Sir, to ſuppoſe our joyous ſocieties ſtimulated by the prin⯑ciples of true benevolence or real eſteem; when every man has a deſign upon the weakneſs or con⯑ſtitution of his friend, and puſhes the glaſs about for no other purpoſe, but to prejudice his health and deſtroy his underſtanding: nay, when we make it our chiefeſt glory to have drank him out of all knowledge of order, all regard for himſelf, and all veneration for his God; when we reduce him to a ſtate of abſolute phrenzy or ſtupefaction, and either expoſe him to the numberleſs quarrels attending the firſt, or the multitude of accidents peculiar to the laſt of theſe ſituations; but Sir, I want to acquaint you with an affair of ſome conſequence: here Harry heſitated, and here I poſtpone the account of this affair, till my next paper.

NUMB. XXIII. Saturday, July 16.

I SHALL now reſume the ſubject of my forego⯑ing paper, and ſhew one of the many thou⯑ſand ill conſequences which proceed from the modern method of being joyous, and the illiberal in⯑dulgence of the glaſs at the moſt friendly of our general entertainments.

THE matter of conſequence which my nephew Harry wanted to acquaint me with, was the fol⯑lowing note, which he received from Mr. Bumber, (at whoſe houſe he had ſpent the preceding even⯑ing) juſt as he was ſtepping out to chat half an hour with me at my chambers.

I HAD no ſooner read the letter, than Harry cried out ‘You ſee, Sir the conſequence of being an advocate for common ſenſe. — Here I muſt have my throat cut for refuſing to drink the health of an infamous ſtrumpet, or in vindication of my conduct, cut the throat of my friend. — What would you adviſe me to? the time draws on and I would not have Mr. Bumper wait a moment for the univerſe?’ ‘Why Harry, ſays I, go inſtantly and hear what the gentleman has to ſay, but be ſure remember that your life is not to be ſet at ſtake for a glaſs of wine, or an abandoned woman, little regard ſoever as Mr. Bumper may entertain for his; and let matters turn out as they will, come back as ſoon as poſ⯑ſible, and tell me the conſequence of your in⯑terview.’ — Harry promiſed a punctual obſerv⯑ance of my advice and requeſt, and accordingly came back in a couple of hours after, and related the ſubſtance of his converſation with Mr. Bumper, which, for the greater eaſe of my readers, I ſhall [101] ſet down as it was ſpoken, inſerting the name of the ſpeaker, at the ſame time in the margin: —

HERE the affair happily terminated much to the honour of both parties, who are now warmer friends than ever, and afford, by the propriety of their re⯑conciliation, a ſenſible leſſon to the giddily ſpirited part of the public.

NUMB. XXIV. Saturday, July 23.

NUMB. XXV. Saturday, July 30.

OF all the requiſites eſſentially neceſſary to form a matrimonial felicity, a parity of ages may poſſibly be the very firſt; and if we were to take a nice ſurvey of the various diſproportioned matches which unhappily might be found within the Weekly Bills, the endleſs anxieties ſubſiſting between each, would be ſufficient to frighten any prudent parent from beſtowing his daughter's hand where there was not ſome equality of years; and at leaſt a probability that her reaſon would in time reconcile her to a huſband, who, perhaps, might not at firſt be the object of her choice.

I AM very well aware, that many a careful father and antiquated lover, will be apt to exclaim againſt this aſſertion: the firſt from an oeconomical con⯑ſideration of the main chance, and the latter from a natural inſenſibility which every man entertains for his own imperfections and infirmities: but could the one be brought to a belief that wealth, at the beſt of times, is a very precarious founda⯑tion for happineſs; and the other be only pre⯑vailed upon to throw ſelf aſide for a moment or two, extraordinary as the poſition may ſeem on a partial conſideration, both would nevertheleſs allow it to be of no little force.

CASUAL averſions may be leſſened in time, by an invariable tenderneſs, and an unexceptionable [109] conduct in a huſband; perſonal defects, by being habitual to the eye, gradually leſſen on the imagi⯑nation, and by an uninterrupted familiarity, very frequently ceaſe to be diſagreeable, much more continue to give perpetual diſguſt: but a diſparity of years is an obſtacle never to be ſurmounted; every day gives it an additional force, and contrary to the general nature of all other evils, for in this caſe we muſt inevitably call it an evil, inſtead of being mitigated by the lenient hand of time, it becomes every moment more and more incapable of alleviation or cure.

BUT beſides the long train of diſagreeable re⯑flexions which the bare circumſtance of age is of itſelf capable of exciting in the boſom of any young woman, the innumerable liſt of diſeaſes, which are it's inſeparable attendants, occaſion ſtill ſtronger averſion; and in reality a young lady has but too much ground for anxiety and diſtreſs when ſhe conſiders herſelf as a ſacrifice to ſame venerable dotard, and inſtead of the reaſonable pleaſures ſhe might juſtly promiſe herſelf upon entering the world as a wife, ſees nothing before her but the gloomy proſpect of becoming a nurſe to an emaciated wretch, worn away with the conſequences of juvenile intemperance, and abſolutely dying with gouts, palſies, rheumatiſms, coughs, and catarrhs.

CONTRADICTIONS ſo very oppoſite as extreme youth and age, there is hardly a poſſibility of reconciling; — a fine ſprightly girl of nineteen or twenty, muſt naturally wiſh for amuſements [110] adapted to her time of life, and languiſh for ſuch enjoyments as are naturally repugnant to the ſenti⯑ments as well as the infirmities of crazy fourſcore. The ſituation of ſuch a couple is eaſily imagined; the lady muſt be continually unhappy at being thus debarred, after the ſacrifice ſhe has made, from every entertainment ſuitable to her temper and her years, and the gentleman as conſtantly miſerable at poſſeſſing an impotent authority, productive of nothing but eternal ſuſpicions of her conduct, and the ſharpeſt reflexions on his own.

IT is in vain to expect that the rectitude of a woman's education, thus circumſtanced, or the excellence of her underſtanding, will be a means of procuring even a tolerable tranquility or content; the more underſtanding ſhe poſſeſſes, the more ſhe muſt deſpiſe the ſelf-intereſted dotard, who was utterly regardleſs of her inclinations; who in all probability uſed his utmoſt influence with a miſ⯑guided and inexorable parent, to tear her from ſome deſerving young fellow on whom her ſoul was unalterably fixed, and perhaps, had her dragged to the bridal bed, like another Niobe, ſtiffning into horror, or diſſolving in her tears.

IN a ſituation of this nature, how a man can be weak enough to look for tenderneſs or affection, from any young lady, is to me a miracle; nor am I leſs ſurprized how he can think of exciting her gratitude, by indulging her in trivial points, when he has ſo infamouſly injured her in the moſt capital [111] of all; her everlaſting hatred and abhorrence are the only returns he can reaſonably look for, and if there is a poſſibility for her to view him with leſs than an inſuperable contempt, I am ſatisfied, he muſt look upon her as a creature utterly diveſted of ſenſibility and ſoul, and view her with an abſo⯑lute contempt himſelf.

AN infinity of reaſons might be urged againſt the diſparity of age in matrimonial connections, but as I have lately received a ſtory on this ſub⯑ject which will ſet this affair in a ſtronger light than a volume of declamatory arguments, I ſhall conclude the ſubject, for the preſent, with this obſervation, that he who marries a woman whom he knows has an attachment for another man, muſt look for wretchedneſs; and he that marries a woman contrary to her inclination, in reality deſerves it.

NUMB. XXVI. Saturday, Auguſt 6.

NUMB. XXVII. Saturday, Auguſt 13.

I SUPPED laſt Night at my ſiſter Rattle's, where the diſcourſe turning upon the edudation of children, my favourite Harry related a little ſtory, with which I was prodigiouſly affected; and as it conveys a very pretty moral, I ſhall make no apology for preſenting it to my readers

A WORTHY old gentleman, who had by an in⯑flexible induſtry acquired a large fortune, with great reputation, at length declining buſineſs; devoted his ſole attention to the ſettlement of an only ſon, of whom he was uncommonly fond.— In a little time he married him to a woman of fa⯑mily, and judging of the ſon's affection by his own, made over every ſhilling he was worth to the young gentleman, deſiring nothing more than to be a witneſs of his happineſs in the ſame houſe, and depending upon his gratitude for any curſory trifle he might want, for the private uſe of his purſe. — The ſon had not been married however above ſix weeks, before he was under the ſole do⯑minion of his wife, and prevailed upon to treat the old gentleman with the moſt mortifying neg⯑lect. — If he wanted the carriage for an airing, why truly, "My Lady has engaged it:" If he deſired to mix in any little party of pleaſure, "They were quite full:" He was ſuffered to ſit whole evenings without being once ſpoken to; [117] at table he was obliged to call three or four times for a glaſs of wine, or a bit of bread, and if he ever entered into a narrative of any tranſaction which occurred in his youth, his obliging daughter in-law immediately broke in upon him, and politely in⯑troduced a converſation upon ſomething elſe. — This unpardonable contempt was at laſt carried to ſuch a degree, that his cough was complained of as troubleſome, and under a pretence that his to⯑bacco box was inſupportable, he was requeſted to eat in his own room.

FOUR or five years paſſed on in this manner, which were rendered a little tolerable by the birth of a grandſon, a moſt engaging boy, who, from the moment he was capable of diſtinguiſhing, ſeem⯑ed to be very fond of the old gentleman, and by an almoſt inſtinctive attachment, appeared as if providentially deſigned to atone for the unnatural ingratitude of it's father. — He was now turned of four, when one day ſome perſons of faſhion dining at the houſe, the old gentleman, who knew no⯑thing of the company, came down into the back parlour to enquire for his little favourite, who had been two whole hours out of his apartment: he had no ſooner opened the door, than his dutiful ſon, before a room full of people, aſked him how he dare break in upon him without leave, and de⯑ſired him to get inſtantly up about his buſineſs. — The old gentleman withdrew according to order, returned to his own room, and gave a very hearty freedom to his tears.

[118]LITTLE Tommy, who could not bear to hear his grand-papa chided at ſuch a rate, followed him inſtantly, and obſerving how heartily he ſobbed, came roaring down to the parlour, and before the whole company bawled out, ‘papa has made poor grand-papa break his heart; he will cry his eyes out above ſtairs.’ — The ſon, who was really ſhamed of his conduct, eſpecially as he ſaw no ſign of approbation in the faces of his friends, endea⯑voured to put an eaſy appearance on the affair, and brazen it out; turning round therefore to the child, he deſired him to carry a blanket to grand-papa, and bid him go beg. — Ay, but I will not give him all the blanket, returned the child; — why ſo my dear? ſays the father; Becauſe (anſwered he) I ſhall want half for you, when I grow up to be a man, and turn you out of doors. — The child's re⯑proof ſtung the father to the ſoul, and held up at once both the cruelty and ingratitude of his conduct in their proper dyes: nay, the wiſe ſeem⯑ed affected and wanted words: a good natured tear dropped from more than one of the company, who ſeized this opportunity of condemning, in a very candid manner, their behaviour to ſo effectio⯑nate a father, and ſo bountiful a friend; and in ſhort, made them ſo heartily aſhamed of themſelves, that the old gentleman was immediately ſent for by both, who, in the preſence of all, moſt hum⯑bly entreated his forgiveneſs for every thing paſt, and promiſed the buſineſs of their lives would be to oblige him for the future. — The poor old gen⯑tleman's [119] joy threatened now to be much more fatal than his affliction a little before: — he looked upon his ſon and daughter for ſome time with a mute aſtoniſhment, mixed with a tenderneſs im⯑poſſible to be deſcribed; and then fixing his eyes upon the company with a wildneſs of inconceiv⯑able rapture, ſnatched up his little Tommy to his boſom, who joined him in a hearty flood of Tears.

THERE is nothing, in reality, where people are ſo very wrong, as the education of children, though there is nothing in which they ought to be more abſolutely certain of being right: if we ſeriouſly reflect upon the cuſtomary method in which chil⯑dren are brought up, we muſt almoſt imagine, that the generality of parents inculcate principles of religion and virtue into their offspring, for the meer ſatisfaction of bringing both religion and virtue into contempt; and paint the precepts of morality in the moſt engaging colours, to ſhew, by their practice, how much theſe precepts are to be deſpiſed.

MY friend Ned Headſtrong is a parent of this caſt; he is continually preaching up a rectitude of conduct to a very ſenſible young fellow his ſon, and yet as continually deſtroying by his example what he labours to effect by his advice. Ned expatiates largely about patience under the diſpenſations of providence, and yet will fly into a paſſion of the moſt ungovernable nature, if a leg of mutton is boiled a minute too much. — I have heard him launch forth in the praiſe of fortitude, while he [120] has not been able to overcome the chagrin occaſi⯑oned by ſpilling a drop of port upon the table⯑coth; and very frequently liſtened to a lecture againſt a profligate mention of the divine name, interſperſed with a variety of horrid execrations.

THE ſame prepoſterous inconſiſtency in the edu⯑cation of an only daughter is a diſtinguiſhing pecu⯑liar of lady Dye Dawd e. — Her ladyſhip is no great gadabout, for ſhe lies in bed all the day, and plays at cards all night; ſhe cannot be accuſed of miſbehaviour in church, for I am not ſuppoſe ſhe has been once at a place of public worſhip theſe twenty years. — A tradeſman can never call twice at her houſe for a bill, for there is not one who has the leaſt acquaintance with her character that would truſt her with a yard of ribbon or a row of pins. — Her reputation has never been ſuſpected, for there is not a man in England who would think it worth his while to accept of the higheſt favour ſhe ſhould poſſibly grant; and as for her veracity, that can by no means admit of a de⯑bate, for it is a queſtion with me if ſhe ſpoke a ſyllable of truth ſince her arrival at maturity. — Yet notwithſtanding all theſe negative perfections, ſhe is continually preſcribing a contrary practice to her daughter, and perpetually condemning the young lady for the leaſt imitation of what ſhe is unceaſing practiſingly herſelf.

I SHALL conclude this paper with a bit of advice addreſſed to every order of my readers: — if a pa⯑rent in reality would have his ſon a good man, let [121] him teach by his practice as much as by his pre⯑cept, and never, through a doating partiality, over⯑look thoſe actions in a child which he would in⯑evitably condemn in any body elſe. Finally, let all parents, from the introductory part of this paper, conſider that it is no diſgrace for a ſon to be de⯑pendant on a father's bounty, but that nothing can be more dangerous than for a father to be dependant on a ſon's.

NUMB. XXVIII. Saturday, Auguſt 20.

THERE is no ſet of men to whom I have a greater averſion than your profeſſed ſayers of bon mots, or ſputterers of good things, who go into company for no other reaſon in nature, but to catch at every little opportunity of being ſmart, and build a reputation of wit and vivacity upon the harmleſs peculiarities or caſual indiſcretions of their acquaintance. This ſpecies of impertinents, if we properly examine the principles upon which they act, are not more to be deſpiſed for the continual air of ſelf-ſufficiency they aſſume, than for the malevolence of their diſpoſitions, in wiſhing to diſ⯑concert, where real good-nature and true politeneſs ſhould be ſtudious to oblige. Yet notwithſtanding the greateſt number of theſe worthy gentlemen affect a ſuperiority of underſtanding above the reſt of the world, a ſenſible obſerver will find, that the very beſt is ſeldom more than a ſquirt charged [122] with the trite relations of deſpicable jeſt books and common-place remarks, to be let off as occaſion may ariſe, in whatever company it may be their fortune to be introduced.

AS the vanity of being admired engroſſes their whole ambition, a Wit of this claſs is not leſs a diſagreeable acquaintance than a dangerous friend: he is incapable of confidence, and where-ever a ſecret of the moſt important nature with which he is truſted, may unhappily interfere with an opportunity of gratifying his natural propenſity, his diſcretion is in an inſtant kicked down ſtairs by his pride, and the peace of a whole family, in all probability, ſacrificed to an indeli⯑cate repartee, or an ignorant joke. Nay, no conſideration, either moral or religious, is able to reſtrain the torrent of his impertinence; and is it not too common a circumſtance, that where hu⯑man obligations afford him no ſubject of exerciſing his talents, that he burſts at once through the moſt awful of the divine, and circulates a daring laugh at the mandates of his God! In ſhort the moſt bearable of this fraternity is always a plague to ſociety, and not very ſeldom a diſgrace.

SHOULD we carry our ſpeculations on this ſub⯑ject ſtill farther, it might probably be found, that one half of our modern infidels is produced by the abſurd affection of ſaying a good thing, and the deſire of being thought uncommonly ſhrewd by the generality of the world. In order to effect this, a ſingularity of opinion is firſt of all adopt⯑ed, [123] and the more dangerous this opinion is, the more it anſwers the purpoſe of being talked of, and renders the perſon who adopts it, pointed out from the ordinary claſſes of mankind. This ſingula⯑rity of ſentiment of courſe occaſions a ſingularity of expreſſion, and the conſequence at laſt is, that the unhappy wretch who thus aims at univerſal admiration, jeſts himſelf out of every ſenſible and worthy man's eſteem here, and laughs away his hopes of hereafter too.

AN old ſchool-fellow of mine, poor Dick Brazen, is one of thoſe men whoſe principal ſtudy is to attract the attention of their acquaintance by a ſmartneſs of repartee, and a poignancy of ſatire in the application of a joke. Dick's whole labour theſe forty years, has been to make himſelf a very diſagreeable companion; and I cannot help ſay⯑ing he has been no way diſappointed in his end. The moment he enters a room, and makes his bow, he ſits with the utmoſt patience to catch at any expreſſion which may admit of a ſarcaſm, and is ſure, without any regard to the condition or ſex of the ſpeaker, to uſe his beſt endeavours to turn it into ridicule or contempt. If nothing of this kind happens, he make himſelf the hero of ſome little tale, and perhaps tells a hundred im⯑pertinent ſtories for the ſake of relating what he ſaid upon ſuch and ſuch a circumſtance; how he put lady This-thing, out of countenance with an obſervation upon a pincuſhion, and cut up Sir John T'other, with a ſtroke upon a ſnuff-box. The [124] worſt of all is, the ſame obſervation which that ce⯑lebrated reprobate the earl of Rocheſter made on Charles the ſecond for the continual repetition of his ſtories, may, with all imaginable juſtice, be applied to Mr. Brazen. That monarch had a cuſ⯑tom of telling every day, in the circle, a thou⯑ſand trifling occurrences of his youth, and would conſtantly repeat them over and over again, with⯑out the ſmalleſt variation; ſo that ſuch of his courtiers as were acquainted with his majeſty's foible, would inſtantly retreat whenever he began any of his narrations.—My lord Rocheſter being with him one day, took the liberty of being very ſevere upon that head; ‘Your majeſty, (ſays he) has undoubtedly the beſt memory in the world; I have heard you repeat the ſame ſtory, without the variation of a ſyllable, every day theſe ten years; but what I think extraordinary is, that you never recollect you generally tell it to the ſame ſet of auditors.’—This is Mr. Brazen's fault, and indeed the fault of ever worthy member of his brotherhood; they are very happy in remembering every good thing they have ſaid, but conſtantly forget, they have retailed it perhaps five hundred times upon the ſame company.

I SHALL conclude this paper with an anecdote of the identical Mr. Brazen, whom I have thus taken the liberty of introducing to my readers, and which I think is a general picture of all the clever fellows of this claſs within the bills of mortality. Being carried to ſup one night, by a friend, with a [125] company of very ſenſible people whom he had ne⯑ver ſeen before, Dick was ſo very much pleaſed, that he was extremely mortified, or in other words, found no opportunity of exerciſing his talent for bon mots. — Being aſked to the ſame party a ſecond time, ‘No, no, ſays he, I have been diſappointed already, and will never ſit twice in a company which I cannot laugh at, by G—d.’

NUMB. XXIX. Saturday, Auguſt 27.

NUMB. XXX. Saturday, September 3.

THERE is nothing at which I am more offended, than the unpardonable vein of ignorance and brutality ſo generally introduced in our drinking ſongs; nor any thing, in my opinion, which throws a greater reflexion upon the under⯑ſtanding of a ſenſible ſociety. If we examine the principal number of theſe pretty compoſitions, we ſhall find, that abſolute intoxication is recommend⯑ed as the higheſt felicity in the world, and receive the moſt poſitive aſſurances of being upon an equality with angels, the very moment we ſink ourſelves into a ſituation conſiderably lower than men.

To look back to the original deſign of all poe⯑tical compoſition is needleſs, ſince every body knows that it was to praiſe and honour the Supreme Being with a fervency of devotion, which could not be found in the common form of words. — This glorification of the Deity, and the inſtruction of his creatures, appearing therefore to be the grand view of poetry, how much is it to be lamented, that a ſcience of ſo ſublime a nature, ſhould be proſtituted to ſuch infamous ends; and, inſtead of being applied to the purpoſes of religion and virtue, be directed to the ſupport of a vice, productive of innumerable ills.

[130]IT has been juſtly obſerved, that every nation, in proportion as it is civilized, has aboliſhed in⯑temperance in wine, and conſequently muſt be bar⯑barous in proportion as it is addicted to exceſs: — the remark I am rather apprehenſive will be found no very great compliment to the people of this kingdom; we are apt to place good fellowſhip in riot, and have but too natural a promptitude in imagining, that the happineſs of an evening is pro⯑moted by an extravagant circulation of the glaſs; hence are our ſongs of feſtivity, (as I have already taken notice) fraught with continual encomiums on the pleaſures of intoxication, and the whole tribe of Bacchanalian Lyrics perpetually telling us how wonderfully ſenſible it is to deſtroy our ſenſes, and how nothing can be more rational in a human creature, than to drink till he has not left himſelf a ſingle glimmer of reaſon at all.

BUT if, abſtracted from the brutal intention of our drinking ſongs, in general we ſhould come to conſider their merit as literary performances, how very few of them ſhould we find worth a ſtation on a cobler's ſtall, or deſerving the attention of an auditory at Billingſgate; — the beſt are but ſo many deſpicable ſtrings of unmeaning puns and ill-imagined conceits, and betray not more the ig⯑norance of their encouragers, than the barrenneſs of their authors. — Let me only aſk the warmeſt advocate for this ſpecies of compoſition, what, upon a cool reflexion, he thinks of the following ſong:

THE foregoing little ſong, though one of the leaſt offenſive in the whole round of a bon vivant col⯑lection, has neither thought nor expreſſion to re⯑commend it, and can, when ſung, be termed no more than an agreeable piece of impertinence, cal⯑culated to ſupply a want of underſtanding in a company. I forbear to mention the big-bellied bottle, and a variety of ſimilar productions, which are univerſally known, and deſerve to be as uni⯑verſally deſpicable; but I ſhall conclude this pa⯑per, however, with a ſong which I would recom⯑mend as an example to ſuch gentlemen as are fond of celebrating the grape, though no way ambi⯑tious to do it at the expence of good ſenſe and morality.

NUMB. XXXI. Saturday, September 10.

AN eaſineſs of behaviour through the common occurrences of life, is a point in which al⯑moſt every perſon thinks himſelf an admirable proficient; yet it is nevertheleſs a matter in which almoſt every perſon is very widely deceived. We are all of us too apt to miſtake the groſſeſt extre⯑mities for the criterion of perfection, and ſeldom imagine that we have reached the neceſſary goal of good-breeding, till we have left it at an aſtoniſh⯑ing diſtance behind.

[133]AN endeavour at an extraordinary degree of politeneſs, is a rock upon which numbers are per⯑petually ſplitting, and what is moſt ſurprizing, the variety of examples, inſtead of deterring us from [...]n imitation of the practice, are rather additional incentives for the continuation of the purſuit: na⯑turally prompt to think we ourſelves poſſeſs more abilities than our neighbours, we are perpetually ſolicitous for their being diſplayed; and confining our obſervations for ever to the agreeable ſide of things, we abſolutely forget that they have the ſmalleſt reverſe.

MRS. NOTABLE, an old widow couſin of my own, is the very quinteſcence of modern politeneſs and good nature; once every Chriſtmas I have the honour of an invitation among a great number of other relations, and then have a perfect opportu⯑nity of contemplating the elaborate eaſe of this obliging gentlewoman; the moment we enter, ſhe makes it a particular rule to enquire after the health of the whole company, and the inſtant we are ſeated, comes regularly round to every indivi⯑dual, and demands a circumſtantial account of the minuteſt occurrence ſince ſhe had laſt the happineſs of ſeeing us: if any one by accident has laboured under a ſlight cold, all the recipes in the complete houſewife are thundered about our ears, and an infinity of lamentations poured out for ſo irrepara⯑ble a misfortune. Unhappily indeed, at our laſt meeting none of us had the leaſt complaint to men⯑tion, which I found was a mortification of no [134] trifling kind to my couſin; however ſhe would not be robbed of an opportunity of ſhewing both her knowledge and politeneſs, and therefore intro⯑duced her favourite topic with the greateſt facility, good naturedly lamenting a ſecond time for a ſore throat which my ſiſter Rattle had been laid up with the preceding twelvemonth.

BUT if this preparatory account of Mrs. No⯑table's politeneſs, has given the reader a high opi⯑nion of her character, what will he ſay, when I carry him through the ceremony of dinner, and touch upon the unremitting ſollicitude which ſhe manifeſts for the accommodation of the company: notwithſtanding her table is generally as well ſup⯑plied as any woman's in the kingdom, and not⯑withſtanding ſhe does not a little pique herſelf upon the elegance of this annual entertainment, yet the moment it is brought up, we have a thou⯑ſand excuſes made for the poverty of our dinner. — Well! lord! I don't believe you can touch a bit on't— but you are ſo good — though I wonder how you come a ſecond time to a place ſo utterly unprovided! — this we underſtand as a proper cue to praiſe every thing before us, and then are obliged to ſtand a whole volley of encomiums on our extraordinary goodneſs, till at laſt, when we have in a manner half burſt ourſelves, and are told how very little we have eat; a freſh concern for the badneſs of our entertainment concludes the feaſt, and relieves us a little from the fatigue of ſuch extraordinary politeneſs.

[135]How widely different is the conduct of Sir Harry Downright? — From an utter averſion to ceremony, he becomes actually the rudeſt fellow alive, and when he borders upon a brutality of behaviour, calls it an eaſineſs ariſing from good-nature and friendly familiarity. In the company of the ladies he ſits conſtantly covered, never helps a ſoul at his own table, though he has an abſolute ſtranger at dinner; nor ever makes any ſcruple to tell a woman ſhe lies, in plain Engliſh: as Sir Harry would not be thought a coxcomb for the univerſe, he carefully avoids the ſmalleſt indica⯑tion of that character in his appearance; he ſeldom ſhaves above once a week, ſcarcely ever combs his hair, chews an enormous quantity of tobacco, and makes a point of going into well dreſt companies with a dirty ſhirt: upon the whole, to eſcape the imputation of ceremonious, he becomes in all places offenſive, and for fear of deviating into an effeminate puppy, as he calls it, he throws off all pretenſion to decency, and ſinks into an abſolute brute.

THE extremes of behaviour are what every per⯑ſon of ſenſe ſhould cautiouſly ſtudy to avoid, ſince an exceſs of ceremony cannot fail of ſubjecting us to ridicule, and a total riſregard of politeneſs muſt naturally expoſe us to contempt: difficult however as the proper ſyſtem of conduct may appear, I ſhall be bold enough to lay down one rule, which will, in my opinion, intirely comprize it, and ſerve as a juſt concluſion to the preſent paper: In all [136] companies let a man endeavour to pleaſe, rather than expect to be pleaſed, and if this does not gain him many friends, I ſhall not ſcruple to affirm, that it will never procure him a ſingle enemy.

NUMB. XXXII. Saturday, September 17.

FILIAL piety is a flower of ſo delicate a nature, that we meet but very few places which can produce it; and though we frequent⯑ly hear of parents who ruin themſelves for the ſake of their children, yet, we ſeldom or ever hear of children who do any extraordinary acts of kindneſs to their parents. — Perhaps na⯑ture has formed the parental ſenſibility, infinitely more exquiſite than the filial, and, for ſome wiſe purpoſe, implanted a much greater fondneſs on our minds for thoſe we beget and educate, than for thoſe by whom we are begotten and edu⯑cated ourſelves; at leaſt cuſtom has firmly eſta⯑bliſhed ſuch different ſentiments relative to the be⯑haviour of parent and child, that it is thought a matter of the higheſt praiſe in a wealthy ſon to ſettle a paltry fifty pound for life on a diſtreſſed and worthy father; but an action of little or no merit in a father to ſettle twenty times the ſum upon an indigent ſon. I ſupped laſt night at my ſiſter Rattle's, where I generally hear ſomething new, and was entertained by my nephew Harry, [137] with the following exception to the foregoing po⯑ſition, which I flatter myſelf will prove no diſa⯑greeable relation to my readers.

AN eminent merchant, whoſe name I think ne⯑ceſſary to conceal under that of Webley, married a moſt amiable woman, with whom he received a conſiderable fortune, and by whom he was bleſt in the firſt year with a daughter, called Maria: Mrs. Webley however unhappily catching a cold during the time of her lying-in, did not long ſurvive the birth of her child, but died in about three months after; with her laſt breath conjuring her huſband to be particularly attentive to the welfare of the unfortunate little Maria.

MR. WEBLEY for two years before his marriage had been connected with a ſubtle deſigning woman, by whom he alſo had a daughter, nor did his having a wife put an end to the guilty intercourſe: under pretence of important buſineſs, he fre⯑quently ſtaid in town with her a night or two in the week, while Mrs. Webley was down at the country houſe in Hertfordſhire; and as frequently carried her into the country with him, whenever he knew his lady could not conveniently leave town: — His marriage, in fact, was rather an engage⯑ment of intereſt, than a union of inclination; and Mrs. Webley's fortune enabling him to live up to the ſummit of his wiſhes, the moment ſhe was in⯑terred, he thought there was no farther neceſſity for reſtraint or diſguiſe. — In ſhort, ſix weeks had ſcarcely elapſed, when he married the abandoned [138] woman we have been ſpeaking of, and pitched upon the moſt profligate of her ſex, to ſupply the place of the very beſt.

WE ſhall paſs over the time of Maria's infancy, when ſhe experienced little more than the dimini⯑tive cruelty of a narrow-minded mother in-law, and come at once to that period, which may be juſtly reckoned the moſt important of her life: ſhe had juſt entered on her eighteenth year, and was blooming into all the perfections of her ſex, when Mrs. Webley began to think of executing a ſcheme which ſhe had long in agitation. — She ſaw Maria treated by every body with the greateſt reſpect, and beheld her own daughter, though dreſt out in all the faſhionable foppery of the times, and infinitely more attended to, received with a degree of inſipid civility, that bordered upon contempt. — The ſhameful neglect which Maria experienced at home, gave a conſtant luſtre to her merit when abroad, and if ſhe found no kind of countenance in her own family, ſhe met with the higheſt in every other place. — This was a circumſtance which galled Mrs. Webley to the very ſoul, and being more over fearful that the regard ſo univerſally ſhewn to Maria, would be a means of obſtructing any favourable addreſſes which might be made to her own daughter, ſhe took a ſpeedy opportunity of quarrelling with that unhappy young lady, and being, as the generality of thoſe of her principles moſt commonly are, both maſter and miſtreſs of the houſe, very fairly turned her out of doors, [139] — Maria was not however deſtitute of a protector, though ſhe had loſt a father. — A young fellow, with a good underſtanding and a ſplendid eſtate, who had long ſolicited her favourable opinion, and gained it, took that opportunity of preſſing for her hand, and was made the happieſt of men.

MARIA was married about five years, during which time, though ſhe had often entreated for a reconciliation, ſhe never could be admitted to the preſence of her father; when, taking up the Ga⯑zette, one Saturday evening, ſhe met with his name amongſt the liſt of bankrupts, and inſtantly fainted on the floor: ſhe was however ſoon brought to herſelf, when, forgetting in a moment how ſhe had been turned out upon the charity of an in⯑hoſpitable world, and expoſed to the moſt pinching poverty and diſgrace; how for a ſeries of years ſhe had been treated as an alien to her father's family, and even denied the moſt trivial neceſſaries, while ſtrangers were riotting on her mother's for⯑tune; ſhe flew to her huſband, whoſe happineſs was centred in obliging her, and painting out the miſerable ſituation of her father, obtained his con⯑ſent to ſettle three hundred a year out of a ſum which he would allow her for pin money on him, to alle⯑viate ſo diſtreſſing an incident: with this ſhe imme⯑diately took coach, and proceeded to her father's; the door was now thrown open at her approach; and being introduced to the old gentleman's pre⯑ſence, they gazed upon one another for ſome mo⯑ments, and then burſt into a mutual flood of tears.

[140]MR. WEBLEY'S misfortunes had opened his eyes to the ſtrangeneſs of his conduct, and nobody could be more ready to condemn it than h [...]mſelf. What then muſt we judge his emotions to be, when a daughter, whom he had left deſtitute of bread, came to offer him a genteel allowance for life; and the ſame eyes which he had ſteeped in tears of the keeneſt diſtreſs, came to fill his with drops of unutterable joy; his gratitude as a man, his feelings as a father, inſtantly ruſhed upon his ſoul; he dried his eyes, looked full in his daugh⯑ter's face for ſome moments, then capering about the room with the phrenzy of a bedlamite, burſt afreſh into tears. Suffice it, however, that after his affairs were ſettled, he retired into the country, upon this yearly allowance, but did not live long enough to enjoy the firſt quarter: the mortification of being a bankrupt, the conſciouſneſs of his family errors, and finally, the very generoſity of his daughter, which was intended to ſweeten the re⯑mainder of his life, proved a means of hurrying him to his end: the agitation of his mind threw the gout in his ſtomach, and he died in Maria's arms, in the fiftieth year of his age. His wife and daughter now thought themſelves utterly undone; but Maria, with a greatneſs of mind peculiar to herſelf, in an inſtant diſpelled their apprehenſions by a continuation of two hundred a year, during her life, and without ever ſtooping to hint any thing of their former behaviour, told them, that [141] they muſt conſider it as no compliment, ſince ſhe looked upon it as an indiſpenſible duty, which ſhe ought to pay to the memory of her father.

NUMB. XXXIII. Saturday, September 24.

NUMB. XXXIV. Saturday, October 1.

NUMB. XXXV. Saturday, October 8.

NUMB. XXXVI. Saturday, October 15.

AN exceſs of ſenſibility, though nothing can be more amiable than a feeling heart, is per⯑haps one the greateſt misfortunes which the human mind can labour under, becauſe there is an ever⯑laſting ſource of objects to intereſt it's tenderneſs, and a conſtant round of accidents to work upon it's fears. — Happily indeed, we are not overſtocked with people who poſſeſs this quality to any extra⯑ordinary degree, but the few who do, might poſſi⯑bly for their own ſakes, as well as the happineſs of others, be much better, if they were endued with no ſenſibility at all.

POOR Tom Frankly, is a ſtriking proof of this obſervation: at one and twenty he ſtepped into an eſtate of fifteen hundred pounds a year, and was looked upon by every body, as a very promiſing young fellow; before the year was out, however, Tom's exceſſive ſenſibility made him find out all the neceſſitous, and whether their poverty was the fault of their ill-fortune, or the conſequence of their crimes; whether they were to be pitied or condemned, he was indifferent in his relief: indi⯑gence was a never-failing recommendation, and the villain profeſſed, taſted equally of his bounty with the worthieſt of men: his character once known, the paraſite and the gambler were continually at his table, and working on his humanity with unceaſing [154] repetitions of penury and want: fraud was per⯑petually peſtering him with letters of ſupplication, and the looſeſt proſtitutes of the town, teazed his ears forever with imaginary amendments and artificial diſtreſs; his hand was ſtill open to all, and though his friends very frequently remonſtrated on the injudicious diſtribution of his fortune, his an⯑ſwer was eternally, that he could not bear to ſee any boſom ſwelled with affliction, nor any eye reddening with wretchedneſs and deſpair: in leſs than ten years however, his eſtate was reduced to a fifteenth part of its worth; the great decay of his own cir⯑cumſtances, now obliged him to be leſs attentive to the affairs of other people, and ſeeing that nothing but beggary was before him if he went on much farther, he bound himſelf under a large penalty never to give away above a tenth part of the pitiful little hundred a year which was left: this he con⯑ſtantly diſpoſes of in halfpence and pence to the common beggars, and the moment it is expended, locks himſelf up in his room, to avoid both the ſight and the importunity of theſe vagrant mendi⯑cants, till the receipt of his next year's ſupply.

LADY Catherine Nettleworth, is another in⯑ſtance of exceſſive ſenſibily, but it is however, en⯑tirely confined to her children, and her lap-dogs; if one of the young gentlemen goes abroad, ſhe is under the moſt violent agitation, leſt ſome accident ſhould happen in the ſhorteſt excurſion; if he goes in the coach, ſhe is in a continual uneaſneſs, for fear it ſhould overſet; if he rides, her apprehenſion [155] is equally alive, leſt the horſe ſhould unhappily take fright; if he walks, ſhe dreads the conſequence of the fatigue, and let the day be either wet or dry, ſhe trembles alike with a terror of his catching cold, or being parched to death with the ſun: in order to quiet herſelf in all theſe different reſpects, ſhe ſometimes keeps the young gentlemen within doors for a whole week; but then ſhe is miſerable in the other extreme; ſhe ſickens, leſt they ſhould ſuffer for want of exerciſe, and dies, for fear they ſhould be ſtifled for want of air; at table, if they eat hearty, ſhe dreads their being ſurfeited, and is wretched from a ſuppoſition of being indiſ⯑poſed, if they do not: in fact, whatever they do ſhe ſeldom has a moment's peace for thinking about their welfare; and wherever ſhe goes, rarely ſuffers any body elſe to enjoy a moment's ſatis⯑faction for talking about their various accompliſh⯑ments.

HER concern for her lap-dogs is no leſs remark⯑able than her ſolicitude about her children; if the maid neglects to comb them twice a day, ſhe flies into the vapours; or ſuffers them to go into a damp room, ſhe falls into fits; in ſhort, there is ſcarcely a circumſtance in which her ſenſibility is not creat⯑ing her a new ſource of diſquiets, nor a friend in the world whom ſhe does not render unhappy with her endleſs apprehenſions and complaints. Upon the whole, I may with certainty enough conclude this paper as I ſet out, with affirming, that an ex⯑ceſs of ſenſibility (amiable ſoever as it is to have a [156] feeling heart) is productive of ſo many uneaſineſſes to ourſelves, and ſo many inquietudes to our friends, that it would in reality be much better for thoſe who labour under it, to be unacquainted with the finer feelings, and to have little or no ſenſibility at all.

NUMB. XXXVII. Saturday, October 12.

NUMB. XXXVIII. Saturday, October 29.

THE following complaint is ſo juſt and ge⯑neral, that I ſhall make no apology for lay⯑ing it before my readers.

NUMB. XXXIX. Saturday, November 5.

THE impreſſions which are made upon the human mind, during its earlieſt ſtates, being ſeldom if ever to be entirely eradicated, there is nothing in which we ought to be more careful [164] than the education of our children, particularly in their infancy, when habits in the ſtricteſt ſenſe of the term, become an abſolute part of our nature, and prejudices not only find a re [...]uge in the heart; but twiſt themſelves imperceptibly round it's very ſtrings.

I REMEMBER when I was about four or five years of age, my grandmother took me entirely under her own care, and as the good woman, like the generality of her ſex at that period, had a firm be⯑lief in witches, ſpirits, and hobgobblins, ſhe fre⯑quently entertained me with a variety of their pretty performances, and if I happened to be any ways untoward, conſtantly threatened to ſend me to Robin Greenway — This Mr. Robin Greenway was formerly a journeyman taylor in the neigh⯑bourhood, who had gone diſtracted for love, as the people ſaid, and in one of his deſperate fits, cut his throat in the parſon's garden. — Various were the tricks related of this unhappy enamorato; ſometimes he came in a ſtorm, and threw a parcel of bricks down his ſweetheart's chimney; at other times he aſſumed the figure of a grey mare; and at others, that of a ſpotted ſpaniel, but his moſt favourite mode of appearance, was the form of an overgrown calf. — Ridiculous as theſe accounts muſt have been inevitably conſidered on the ſmalleſt reflexion, yet my poor grandmother believed them all with the moſt religious certainty, and thought it an indiſpenſible part of her duty to make me be⯑lieve them too. — In this ſhe ſucceeded to the ut⯑moſt [165] moſt of her wiſhes; I was ten years old before I would venture to ſleep alone; fourteen, before I had courage enough to go to bed in the dark, and to this very hour, if I happen to be by myſelf, the clock never ſtrikes twelve at night, but I think of Robin Greenway, or ſome other worſhipful mem⯑ber of the ſame community, to whom the bleſſing of an untimely death has granted a privilege of taking what form, and playing what tricks, he pleaſes till the cock crows next morning.

IT would be unneceſſary for me to obſerve, that nine out of every ten, who may be turned of fifty, have, like myſelf, in their infancy, been trained up in the greateſt dread of ſpirits; and that the utmoſt exertion of their reaſon upon arriving at years of maturity, has not been ſufficient to eraſe the im⯑preſſions which have then been unhappily made upon their imagination. — Fortunately however, the good ſenſe of the preſent Era has provided the moſt effectual ſpells for our ghoſts and ſpectres, and laid ſo many of them ſucceſsfully in the red ſea, that harmleſs little boys may for the future ſleep in the moſt perfect ſecurity, and the honeſt country people traverſe the remoteſt church yard after midnight, without the ſmalleſt apprehenſion.

BUT notwithſtanding we have in a great meaſure got the better of our ghoſts, there are yet ſome prejudices, and thoſe of a very dangerous tendency, which we have in a manner ſubſtituted in their room, and which it would be much to our honour in this life, and to our happineſs in the next, if we [166] could get the better of too. — Theſe are the ſhame⯑ful indulgencies to which we think ourſelves enti⯑tled on Sundays. — In the days of ſpectres and hobgobblins, we thought ourſelves under an in⯑diſpenſible neceſſity of paying ſome regard to the ſabbath, and every man was obliged to pay a fine who omitted going to church that day, unleſs he could palliate his conduct by ſome very feaſible ex⯑cuſe; but now-a-days, Sunday is the time particu⯑larly ſet apart for riot and feſtivity, and the day rendered holy by the expreſs appointment of Om⯑nipotence, the day peculiarly appropriated for the greateſt violation of it's laws. — Has a great man a journey to make, or a company to invite, Sunday is an idle day, and he ſixes either upon that. — Has a woman of faſhion an inclination to ſtrip her beſt friends of the money which ought to pay a tradeſman's bill, ſhe ſends cards for Sunday evening. — And has a petty little mechanic a mind to cut a figure, why he hires his horſe, takes out his ſtrumpet, and gets drunk on Sunday evening too.

IN the inferior orders of life, there is a notion generally prevalent, that cards are very monſtrous on a Sunday, and there are many well-meaning people who would not upon any conſideration ſit down to a party of whiſt. — None of my readers will imagine, I dare ſay, that I want from this to extenuate the infamous cuſtom of card-playing on the ſabbath of God. — All that I want is, to ſhew the lower claſſes of the people, that leaping in the fields, playing at cricket, riding horſe matches [167] on the roads, and getting drunk on that day, is every whit as criminal as the propenſity to cards, which they ſo highly cenſure in their ſuperiors; that any of thoſe exerciſes which they think allow⯑able, is rather more indecent, becauſe more pub⯑licly practiſed, and may in reality be attended with infinitely worſe effects. — Let them therefore (if it be in vain to preach to the politer world) firſt of all reform in theſe points of behaviour on Sundays, themſelves, before they pretend to ar⯑raign the conduct of the great; and inſtead of diſ⯑covering the mote in the eye of their neighbour, ſit attentively down to pluck the beam out of their own.

NUMB. XL. Saturday, November 12.

I HAVE been ſtrongly ſolicited to give the fol⯑lowing letter a place, which I have unwillingly complied with, notwithſtanding the apparent utility of it's intention, as I am fearful it will affect rather too many of my readers among the venerable part of the fair ſex, who have been in the decline of life, unhappily too ſuſceptible of tender impreſſions, though they have loſt the power of creating any impreſſions of ſuch a nature themſelves.

NUMB. XLI. Saturday, November 19.

NUMB. LXII.Saturday, November 26.

THERE is a very ſenſible ſaying among the women, when any of their acquaintance happen to be brought to bed of a boy, and this is "that Mrs. ſuch-a-one has got one of the right ſort." In reality there are ſo many dangers at⯑tending the education of a young lady to years of maturity, and there are ſuch a variety of circum⯑ſtances to deſtroy her reputation, which, through the faſhionable depravity of the times, are conſi⯑dered as ſo many excellencies in the other ſex, that I am no way ſurprized to find people parti⯑cularly rejoiced at having "one of the right ſort," as it is emphatically expreſſed; ſince the ſatisfaction of the parent is conſiderably leſs expoſed, as well as the happineſs of the child; to ſay nothing of the infinitely greater eaſe with which the infant can be brought up.

[177]WHEN I ſeriouſly conſider the cuſtomary mode of educating the fair ſex, inſtead of being ſurprized to find ſo many turn out an affliction to their friends, or a diſgrace to ſociety, I am in fact aſtoniſhed that we do not find a multitude more, Now-a-days, inſtead of being attentive to the cultivation of a young lady's mind, our regard is entirely engroſſed by the accompliſhments of her perſon; and the ge⯑nerality of our mothers are totally unconcerned whether or no their daughters are acquainted with the moſt neceſſary duties of religion, provided they can make a tollerable figure at a party of whiſt, and turn out their toes.

FROM the firſt moment little miſs is ſent to ſchool, ſhe is provided with a doll, perhaps as large again as herſelf; and is inſtructed in the neceſſary manner of dreſſing it properly, and ſending it quietly to bed. Thus in the earlieſt ſtage her mind receives a turn for gallantry and dreſs, which im⯑perceptibly ſtrengthens with her years, and being accuſtomed to nothing but compliments on her beauty, ſhe becomes utterly indifferent to every⯑thing elſe; the little reading ſhe is miſtreſs of, is rather a prejudice than a benefit, for as it is princi⯑pally compoſed of novels, it conſtantly warms her imagination with ſentiments of intrigue, and adds to the opinion which ſhe entertained of her own perſon and underſtanding; hence ſhe fancies her⯑ſelf the heroine of every extravagant romance, till at laſt, from an admiration of the character, ſhe really takes it up, and runs off, if in high life, [178] with ſome Amadis of a ſubaltern officer; and if in low, with a ſtrolling player or a barber's boy.

THE ſcandalous neglect of female education, may however be put down to the account of the other ſex: by a cuſtom no leſs arbitrary than un⯑reaſonable, we cut them off from a liberal inſtruc⯑tion; yet at the very time that we lay a manacle on their underſtandings, affect to deſpiſe them for fools:—As if they were beings totally oppoſite by nature to ourſelves, we fancy that the ſame en⯑largement of mind, which is ſo abſolutely neceſſary for us, is utterly improper for them; and ſuppoſe that the better capable they are of acting in life, the worſe they muſt behave of courſe. Such are the ſentiments entertained by the high and mighty lords of the creation, relative to the education of the ladies. What wonder, therefore, or what pity is it, that we are ſo frequently unhappy in our daughters and our wives? Are we not in fact anſwerable for every error reſulting from their ignorance, ſince that ignorance is principally oc⯑caſioned by ourſelves? And ſhould we not con⯑ſequently, inſtead of throwing the whole blame at their doors, remove it entirely to our own?

I SHALL conclude this paper with a few memo⯑randums, written by an excellent young lady lately deceaſed, who was brought up in a very different manner from the generality of her ſex: they were communicated to me yeſterday by her father, with tears in his eyes, and ſhall ſtand as a laſting monu⯑ment [179] of ſo deſerving a daughter's virtue and under⯑ſtanding.

MEM. Being now eighteen years of age, and haſting to that period of life, in which I am to prove my gratitude to the beſt of parents, let me always make it a rule to prefer the gratification of their wiſhes to the enjoyment of my own.

MEM. A parent is entitled to the firſt place in every child's eſteem, and ſhe that can be deficient in a point of duty here, ought juſtly to be ſuſpected of infidelity in the diſcharge of every other.

MEM. By all means to be ſtrictly attentive in the worſhip of my creator, as I can never expect a fu⯑ture bleſſing without ſhewing a becoming gratitude for a paſt.

MEM. Always to believe a man has the baſeſt deſigns, who wants me to conceal his addreſſes from my father.

MEM. Never to hear the proteſtations of any man who has behaved diſhonourably to another woman.

MEM. In all companies to treat thoſe with the greateſt ſhare of deference, who are moſt unhappy in their perſons or their circumſtances.

MEM. Whoever calls me goddeſs, angel, or ony other ridiculous appellation, though never ſo faſhionable, — a fool.

MEM. Miſs Polly Beaufort extremely uneaſy at ſeeing Mr. Beverley ſpeaking to me in the drawing room laſt Sunday evening; — to avoid converſing [180] with that gentleman as much as poſſible for the future.

POOR Mrs. Johnſon, the ſhoemaker's widow, and three children in the greateſt diſtreſs. Mem. To allow them a guinea a week till a happy alte⯑ration in their circumſtances, and to ſave this ar⯑ticle out of unneceſſary expences in houſe-keeping and cloaths.

SIR John Blandford, a man of much merit whom I fear has ſome ſentiments in my favour, I muſt avoid with the niceſt circumſpection: for as I can⯑not return his eſteem, it would be infamous to miſlead him with chimerical notions; and inhuman to treat him with deriſion or diſreſpect.

MEM. To ſend the hackney coachman's wife, as much as my papa got the fellow fined in, for be⯑having inſolently laſt Tueſday, when we were ſud⯑dently caught in a ſhower, and coming from the Park.

MEM. Mr. Winworth, a moſt deſerving and accompliſhed gentleman; to think no more of him, (if I can help it) unleſs he ſhould be mentioned by my papa.

NUMB. XLIII. Saturday, December 3.

NEXT to an invariable rectitude of conduct there is no light in which the character of a man can poſſibly appear ſo amiable as in a hearty concern for his errors, eſpecially thoſe which are [181] more the conſequence of human infirmity than the effect of a mean premeditation. — In proportion to the repentance or atonement, we are apt to raiſe him in our eſteem; and it is not the leaſt part of his merit, that libertines themſelves are loſt in an admiration of his behaviour, however ſlow, through a ridiculous fear of public contempt, they may be to imitate an action which they cannot in ſpite of faſhion or education forbear to love.

MY nephew, Harry Rattle, called upon me this morning, and after the uſual how do you do of the day, pulled out a letter from the identical Mr. Bumper, whom in a former paper I mentioned as having ſent Harry a challenge for refuſing to drink a ſtrumpet he had toaſted one night after ſupper at his own houſe. — Mr. Bumper is a young man of nine and twenty, who has received a liberal edu⯑cation; is in poſſeſſion of twelve hundred pounds a year; and though he has launched pretty freely into the cuſtomary exceſſes of the times, has been diſſolute rather from faſhion than inclination. — For a few weeks paſt he has been at a tenant's in Berkſhire, from whence, two days ago, he ſent the following letter to Harry, with permiſſion to communicate it through my means to the notice of the public.

NUMB. XLIV. Saturday, December 10.

IT was an admirable reply which Socrates once made to an impertinent coxcomb, who de⯑manded what he would do if there was no other world after this. I need not inform the intelligent reader that this celebrated philoſopher was as eminent for the rectitude of his life as the greatneſs of his underſtanding, and that upon all occaſions he maintained the certainty of a future ſtate, where every man was to be rewarded according to his de⯑ſerts. — ‘What ſhall I do, returned Socrates, if there is not another world after this?’ ‘Why, at any rate I ſhall be as well off as you are? — But what will you do if there is?’

IT is really ſurprizing that the force of this ex⯑cellent anſwer is not always preſent to the minds of thoſe people who either take upon them abſo⯑lutely to deny the exiſtence of another world, or act in ſuch a manner as if they looked upon a belief of it to be utterly ridiculous and abſurd. Com⯑mon policy, one would imagine, ſhould incline them to a uniform rectitude of life, if they were not actuated by real goodneſs, and inſpire, if to⯑tally inſenſible of gratitude to the great author of their being, ſomething like a reaſonable concern for themſelves.

WHEN we conſider, though ever ſo ſlightly, on the nature of man, and reflect on the important [187] ſomething which is continually deciding upon every action, in the human boſom, we can ſcarcely think it poſſible that there is one man in the whole cir⯑cuit of creation, who is dead to the belief of a future ſtate, or is really of opinion that there is no ſuch being as a God. His own heart muſt be an evidence againſt him, and he muſt feel the certain⯑ty of another exiſtence, though he may be apt to cry out with CATO, "when or where?"

BUT however if there is even a poſſibility to ſuppoſe ſuch a claſs of creatures as Atheiſts in being, yet every day's experience will point out millions to our view whoſe ſituation is infinitely more ter⯑rible, and who are more entitled to the abhorrence of the world as well as more expoſed to the ven⯑geance of their God. A diſordered mind or a weak underſtanding may be advanced as ſome little miti⯑gation of the wretch's infidelity who denies the ex⯑iſtence of his Creator; but what excuſe can he have, who acknowle [...]ges the power, the wiſdom, and the goodneſs of the Deity, yet lives as if he be⯑lieved there was no Deity at all? What plea can be urged for thoſe, who, while they confeſs them⯑ſelves indebted for every bleſſing to the unb [...]un [...]ed beneficence of the Supreme Being, act in one con⯑ſtant round of diſobedience to his will; and tram⯑ple, while they own the neceſſity of an implicit obedience to his ordinances, in the moſt infamous manner upon the greateſt of his laws.

THE Atheiſt, if we ſuppoſe any rational creature can be an Atheiſt, lives conſiſtent with himſelf; [188] he looks upon this world as the final ſtage of his exiſtence, and conſequently has no occaſion to act like thoſe who are in a poſitive expectation of future puniſhments and rewards. Hence he is juſtified in making the moſt of the preſent world, and has a kind of title to follow every purſuit that has a tendency to promote his intereſt or gratify his inclinations without any regard to the means.

BUT ſurely the man who kneels down reverently at the throne of the Divine Being, pours out his ſoul in thankfulneſs for paſt bleſſings, or in ſolici⯑tations for future benefits, is to the laſt degree in⯑excuſable as well as inconſiſtent, when he runs from the immediate temple and preſence of his God, to ſome licentious ſcene of immorality, the participation of ſome criminal enjoyment, or the proſecution of ſome infamous purſuit. Yet alas! What numbers have we, who after endeavouring to obtain a reconciliation with the Father of Mer⯑cies, fly, while the awful benediction of the church is quite freſh and warm upon their heads, and plunge into all the vices which but the very mo⯑ment before they were ſupplicating the goodneſs of Omnipotence to obliterate and forgive.

IT is to me aſtoniſhing what men who believe the certainty of a divine being, can think of them⯑ſelves, or what idea they can entertain of their God. One moment they are all devotion and penitence; the next we find them ſteeped in the moſt glaring contradictions and crimes: one mo⯑ment [189] they are imploring the King of heaven and earth with a rapture of gratitude and reverence; yet the very next, as if all their ſupplications were ſo many abſolute deſigns of turning him into ridi⯑cule or contempt, they circulate an audacious laugh at his inſtitutions, and make a daring mockery of his laws. Nay more, they frequent⯑ly go into his very temple, as if they wanted to aggravate the unparallelled impiety of their conduct, and there, in the very place immediately dedicated to his ſervice, they proſecute the moſt ſhameleſs viola⯑tion of his commands. There they very frequently go under the ſacred maſk of religion and virtue, to ſeduce unſuſpecting innocence to ſhame; to lodge ſcorpions in the breaſt of ſome unhappy fa⯑ther, and drench a mother's pillow in miſery and tears.

LET me calmly aſk the believers of a future ſtate, if abſolute Atheiſm is a crime more unpar⯑donable than this? Of what ſervice is our expecta⯑tion of another life, if we only employ our know⯑ledge to have that life marked out to everlaſting torments and deſpair? Of what advantage is our religion, if we act in ſuch a manner as to make that religion at once our condemnation and diſ⯑grace? Or of what utility is our acknowledgment of a God, if the acknowledgment of ſuch a Being muſt harrow up the ſoul, and goad it with unut⯑terable ſtings? Atheiſm is almoſt a refuge in ſuch a caſe, and it is much more conſiſtent to cry out [190] with the moſt abandoned profligate our imgagina⯑tion can form, that there is no exiſtence after this, than exclaim in the language of the divine Socrates, "What ſhall we do if there is?"

NUMB. XLV. Saturday, December 17.

THERE is a certain mode of behaviour in the world which is entirely founded upon Self, and proceeds from nothing but a paſſionate deſire of gratifying our own inclinations; yet which upon all occaſions, lays claim to the title of unbound⯑ed benevolence and generoſity, and puts in for the univerſal admiration in numberleſs inſtances, where it ought to meet with nothing but the univerſal contempt. — A letter however which I have lately received from a lady, who ſigns herſelf ‘A miſer⯑able woman of quality,’ will elucidate this mat⯑ter perhaps better than the moſt elaborate diſcuſſion which I could poſſibly enter into, and therefore I ſhall make no apology for laying it before my readers.

NUMB. XLVI. Saturday, December 24.

THERE are few profeſſions ſo critically ſitu⯑ated I believe as that of an author's: the ge⯑nerality of the world are always diſpoſed to turn his productions into ridicule, and the principal number of the remaining part but too much in⯑clined to treat his perſon with contempt: the firſt are offended that any body ſhould preſume to be wiſer than themſelves, and the latter look upon it as ſomething very clever to treat a man of ſuperior abilities with diſreſpect; the contracted circle in [195] which it is his fortune to be eſteemed, is moſt commonly made up of thoſe, who either are not adequate judges of his merit, or in no condition to reward it if they are. Thus, (as few gentlemen of the quill are ever poſſeſſed of any extraordinary fortunes) they are in a manner ſet apart to com⯑bat with indigence and obſcurity, and their genius being naturally depreſſed by the melancholy ſtate of their circumſtances, they become in a little time incapable of reflecting any honour on their country, or of acquiring any comfortable dependence for themſelves: the reader, by peruſing the following letter, will eaſily ſee why I have been induced to take up the pen upon this head.

Numb. XLVII. Saturday, December 31.

NUMB. XLVIII. Saturday, January 7.

NUMB. XLIX. Saturday, January 14.

NUMB. L. Saturday, January 21.

IT was a cuſtomary anſwer with the celebrated Dean Swift, when any body aſked his opinion of a great man, "Stay till I ſee him in diſtreſs;" for my own part, though I think the reply ac⯑cording to the general ſenſe of the world, extremely ſignificant, yet I can by no means imagine, that diſtreſs is the true touchſtone of fortitude: ſo far on the contrary, it has been my poſitive belief for a long time, that he who can beſt ſtand the ſhock, as I may ſay, of proſperity, gives the beſt proof of an even mind, and ſhews the firmeſt ſtability of ſoul, notwithſtanding what has been ſaid by our moſt celebrated philoſophers on the other ſide of the queſtion. Adverſity has been juſtly called the ſchool of wiſdom by a variety of writers, be⯑cauſe there is nothing which is ſo expeditious in [213] bringing a man to a knowledge of himſelf. When reduced to a narrowneſs of circumſtances, or con⯑fined to the anxieties of a ſick bed, the mind na⯑turally turns her eye on thoſe objects which are moſt likely to afford her conſolation and relief. Religion in a moment tells her the uncertainty of all human expectations, and bids her depend alone on thoſe bliſsful aſſurances of happineſs in another world, which experience has convinced her are ſo extremely precarious in this: hence ſhe learns a proper mode of thinking, ſhews an implicit ſub⯑miſſion to the correcting hand of Providence, and becomes perfectly acquainted with what is due to others, from a juſt ſenſibility of what is neceſſary for herſelf.

PROSPERITY on the other hand may be conſi⯑dered the ſchool of ſelf-ſufficience and the almoſt perpetual parent of pride. Whenever the ſun of proſperity ſheds a ray upon mankind, they are apt to grow important in their own opinions, and to think rather contemptibly of thoſe very people who were formerly on the liſt of their intimate friends; the goodneſs of the Deity they imagine to be the conſequence of particular merit, and look upon that as the reſult of their own immediate ſagacity, which is nothing but the unbounded benignity of their God. For theſe reaſons, therefore, I cannot help imagining, but what true fortitude or equanimity is beſt ſeen in proſperity. We ad⯑mire the tranquility of a Socrates going to die, but are raviſhed with the unſwelling moderation [214] of a Caeſar, when maſter of an empire, and ſtill retaining all the complacency of a private citizen.

I AM naturally led into theſe reflexions by a viſit which I paid the other morning to my old friend Ned Blaze, to congratulate him on an eſtate of three thouſand pounds a year, which lately fell into his poſſeſſion by the will of an uncle, who good-naturedly left him every thing at his death, but who, while living, would not part with a ſix-penny piece to ſave him from deſtruction. Ned, for many years paſt has ſtruggled with all the diffi⯑culties of a high ſpirit, a large family, and a very narrow fortune; ſometimes he has been obliged to ſtay at home for months, and at others has been months in jail: yet ſtill he kept up his reſolution with all the fortitude of a Stoic, and behaved with a degree of decency and manlineſs which procured him the univerſal eſteem, and not ſeldom the uni⯑verſal aſſiſtance of his acquaintance.

AS I had always a regard for Ned, and if I may be excuſed the egotiſm, had proved this regard upon more occaſions than one , I was ſincerely re⯑joiced at his good fortune, and the moment I heard of it ſet out to tell him ſo. When I came to his houſe, inſtead of being inſtantly ſhewn up ſtairs by the maid, as had been the cuſtom former⯑ly, a fellow with a bag to his hair, long ruffles, and a laced livery, deſired me, in broken Engliſh, to reſt myſelf in the parlour, and he would carry my name immediately to his maſter: well, I went into the parlour, ſat down, and amuſed myſelf a⯑above [215] an hour with the elegant Eſſays of my worthy and ingenious friend, Dr. Goldſmith, which were accidentally lying in the window. My entertain⯑ment was too agreeable for me to think the time long, and I perhaps ſhould not have thought about it at all, if the clock had not alarmed me with the ſtroke of two. Surprized at this unexpected delay, I touched the bell, and aſked the ſervant if he had told his maſter of my being below; he replied in the affirmative, and added, that he would wait on me immediately.

IN about a quarter of an hour I heard the dining room door opened, and was informed of Mr. Blaze's approach, by a ſlow, heavy, conſequential ſtamp on the ſtairs; the ſervant threw open the parlour door for him as he deſcended, and my friend entered with all the gravity and importance of a very great man. As I fancied he might think it neceſſary to aſſume this ſeriouſneſs of appear⯑ance, on ſuch an occaſion as the recent death of a near relation; I ran to him with my uſual free⯑dom, gave him a hearty ſhake by the hand, and ſaid, ‘Dear Ned, I am ſincerely rejoiced at this happy alteration in your circumſtances.’ But I had no longer honeſt Ned Blaze to deal with, my familiarity I ſaw was infinitely diſguſting. Mr. Blaze ſtole his hand out of mine as ſoon as he could, and making me a low bow, replied, "Mr. Babler I thank you." We then ſat down, but our converſation loſt all that ſpirit and good-humour which we formerly thought it poſſeſſed be⯑fore [216] Mr. Blaze's unlucky acquiſition of fortune; we were as ceremonious in an inſtant as if we had never ſeen each other before, and every obſerva⯑tion upon the fineneſs of the weather was intro⯑duced and concluded with a Sir — of perfect good breeding and gentility. Mr. Blaze, however, be⯑ing reſolved to ſhew all his conſequence, rang, and enquired after the footmen by name, that I might judge the number of his domeſtics; he then order⯑ed one with a card to my Lord, and another with a compliment to his Grace, aſked if the goldſmith had ſent home the new ſervice of plate, or if the vis a vis was yet finiſhed at the coach makers. This converſation with the ſervant was kept up with as much indolence and tediouſneſs, as if no ſuch perſon as myſelf had been in the room; I therefore thought it but juſt to ſhew a proper de⯑gree of reſentment, by immediately taking my leave; I did ſo, after receiving a cool invitation to dinner, and being told there was nothing provided but ten or a dozen things, and no company but the Earl of Sharpſet, and the Counteſs of Ombre. When I went home I thought this little narrative would make a tolerable paper, as it ſerved to rivet me in my belief, that the moſt difficult ſhock which any man can poſſibly ſtand, is that of proſperity.

NUMB. LI. Saturday, January 22.

NUMB. LII. Saturday, January 29.

COQUETRY, or a paſſion for exerciſing the moſt unlimited authority of affectation or caprice on a lover, is a foible which renders the ladies ſo extremely ridiculous in the opinion of the world, that it is aſtoniſhing how ſuch a number of the fair-ſex can poſſibly give into it; and for the mere ſake of making another uneaſy, become abſolutely contemptible themſelves. Abſtracted, however, from the ridicule to which ſuch a cha⯑racter is always expoſed, there is a degree of mean⯑neſs and cruelty in the compoſition of a coquette, which throws the greateſt reflexion imaginable upon the benevolence of a lady's temper; and does not more depreciate the goodneſs of her heart, than leſſen the opinion we might entertain of her underſtanding. To delight in rendering a worthy man wretched, for the ſake of ſhewing a little power, is ſurely what the giddieſt creature in the univerſe muſt condemn upon a moment's reflexion; and when ſhe moreover conſiders that his wretch⯑edneſs muſt always be proportioned to his tender⯑neſs [223] for her, gratitude, as well as humanity, muſt ſhew her behaviour in a very culpable light, and tell her, that every pang which ſhe lodges in his boſom, is an abſolute diſhonour to her own.

THE generality of the ladies have a want of candor to anſwer for, which is too often a ſource of the ſevereſt anxiety to others, as well as a ſpring of the greateſt embarraſſment to themſelves: — Raviſhed with the enchanting breath of admira⯑tion, they lend a greedy ear to the ardent language of proteſting love; though at the ſame time it is a thouſand to one but they look upon the lover with the moſt inſuperable contempt: hence, though they never intend to bleſs him with a riciprocal return, they never can prevail upon themſelves to give him a final diſcharge, and the poor man is, in all probability, kept dangling for two or three years, till either avarice or inclination; a large eſtate, or a red coat, makes a conqueſt of the heart, and (to uſe the emphatic words of the celebrated Doctor Young,)

For the honour of the ladies, however, I ſhall introduce a little narrative to the public obſerva⯑tion, which, I hope, will ſerve as an example to my fair readers, and at the ſame time convince thoſe infidels who are averſe to believing any thing laudable of the ſex, that they are to the full as capable of the moſt exalted actions as ourſelves, [224] however we may erect the creſt upon the ſuperior dignity of manhood, or ſwell upon the acquired advantages of education and knowledge of the world.

ABOUT ten years ago a gentleman of conſider⯑able family in Ireland, whom I ſhall diſtinguiſh by the name of Butler, being over on an excurſion to this metropolis, he accidentally dined at a friend's houſe in Pall-mall, where he fell paſſionately in love with a young lady, whom I muſt be equally free in concealing under the name of Lambton.

MR. Butler communicated his ſentiments to his friend, who happened to be a relation of Miſs Lambton's, and requeſted his good offices with the lady. — The friend, who knew Mr. Butler to be a moſt deſerving young fellow, and was ſenſible that in point of birth and fortune he had conſider⯑able advantages over his fair relation, was over⯑joyed at the propoſal, and, communicating it to her father next morning, poor Miſs Lambton re⯑ceived poſitive orders to prepare for Mr. Butler's viſit that very afternoon.

MR. Butler came dreſſed, and a finer figure perhaps was not to be found within the Bills of Mortality; he wanted but half an inch of ſix foot, and was made in a manner remarkably manly, without running into any thing unweildily clumſy, or awkwardly robuſt: his face was diſtinguiſhed with a ſet of ſtrong marking lines; each feature, to uſe the poet's expreſſion, ‘was expanded with ſoul,’ and breathed the inexpreſſible ſomewhat [225] which diſcovers the man of faſhion at the firſt glance; add to this, that there was ſomething un⯑commonly intereſting in his very tone of voice, which no leſs engaged the general attention, than commanded the univerſal reſpect: he came in a ſuit of pompadour velvet, richly embroidered with ſilver, and ſeemed as well calculated, in fact, to ſucceed with a fine lady, as the moſt celebrated of his countrymen.

BEING left deſignedly alone with Miſs Lambton after tea time, he began in a very ſenſible and polite manner to make a declaration of his ſenti⯑ments; but had ſcarcely uttered a ſentence, when the young lady interrupted him, and begged his attention for a few words; he made a low bow; and ſhe addreſſed him to the following purport: ‘I am but too apprehenſive, Sir, on what account I am honoured with this viſit; my father, this morning, made me acquainted with your par⯑tiality in my favour; and, to be candid, from the little I have ſeen of you, I do not know a man in the world, was my heart diſengaged, who ſhould ſooner command a place in my eſteem: But, Sir, it is impoſſible for me ever to return your ſentiments as you could wiſh; my affec⯑tions have for a conſiderable time been engroſſed by a gentleman whom I have been many years acquainted with; and I ſhould think it an un⯑pardonable injury to his tenderneſs, as well as to your worth, was I to keep this circumſtance a moment from your knowledge, after you have [226] indicated the ſmalleſt degree of a particular reſpect.’

IT is eaſy to gueſs Mr. Butler's aſtoniſhment during this ſpeech; he bluſhed exceſſively, played with his ruffles, and gave no other interruption than a Madam or two, pronounced with the ſtrongeſt emphaſis of ſurprize: Miſs Lambton ſeizing the opportunity which his ſilence afforded, thought it beſt to diſemboſem herſelf entirely, and thus went on:

‘FROM the opinion which I entertain of your generoſity, Mr. Butler, I flatter myſelf you will not uſe my father's authority, to tear me from the only man I ever can be happy with; nor make any attempts to gain a hand, which, on account of my prior attachment, can never be worthy of yours. Let me conjure you, therefore, dear Sir, to decline your addreſſes; and if you can have the additional goodneſs to give ſuch a meaſure any motive but this declaration; through my whole life I ſhall be bound to wiſh you that felicity with ſome more deſerving woman, which it is utterly impoſſible you ſhould ever enjoy with me.’

I WILL not treſpaſs upon the reader's patience with an account of what further paſſed upon this occaſion: ſuffice it, however, that Mr. Butler not only diſcontinued his addreſſes from that minute, but intereſted himſelf ſo effectually in favour of Miſs Lambton, and her lover Mr. Seymour, that old Mr. Lambton gave his conſent [227] to their marriage, and Mr. Butler himſelf ſtood godfather to a fine boy about ten months after.

IN the courſe of a few years, Mr. Seymour, by ſome lucky hits, accumulated a prodigious for⯑tune and died, leaving the ſum of thirty thouſand pounds at the ſole diſpoſal of his lady; the reſt he divided among his children. Mrs. Seymour, whoſe affection for her huſband was uncommonly tender, did not long ſurvive ſo great a loſs; ſhe fell into a languiſhing diſorder that carried her off in about eighteen months, univerſally regretted by all who had the pleaſure of her acquaintance: a little before her deceaſe, however, ſhe made a ſtrict enquiry after Mr. Butler, of whom ſhe had not heard a ſyllable for the ſpace of ſeven years; ſhe at laſt found out that he had retired to the ſouth of France upon an annuity of a hundred pounds, his fine eſtate having been entirely deſtroyed, chiefly through the perfidy of his younger brother, for whom he had been bound in immenſe ſums, and ſeveral ineffectual ſchemes to retrieve the ſhattered ſituation of his affairs.

THE generous heart of Mrs. Seymour over⯑flowed with pity at his diſtreſs; his exalted conduct in relation to her and Mr. Seymour, ruſhed at once upon her recollection, and in her will, which ſhe ordered to be made without delay, ſhe inſerted this particular clauſe with her her own hand: ‘I give and bequeath to the Hon. Charles Butler, the ſum of ten thouſand pounds, on account of his great generoſity in withdrawing his addreſſ [...]s [228] when I was unmarried, and uſing his good offices towards my union with my dear Mr. Seymour.’

THIS legacy was paid immediately after Mrs. Seymour's deceaſe, and the ſtory was laſt night told me by a gentleman of undoubted veracity, who received it himſelf from Mr. Butler.

NUMB. LIII. Saturday, February 5.

NUMB. LIV. Saturday, February 12.

AS my fair correſpondent Amanda's letter, inſerted in my laſt paper, has given, I am told, a general ſatisfaction, it will not, I hope, be diſagreeable to my readers, if I reſume the ſub⯑ject, eſpecially as I want to introduce a little jour⯑nal to their obſervation, which was lately preſent⯑ed to me with the papers of a deceaſed man of quality, who was unhappily a man of gallantry alſo; and indulged a licentiouſneſs of thinking, in ſome caſes, that reflected no great honour either upon his humanity or underſtanding.

I HAVE frequently remarked what a degree of nicety is requiſite in the education of young wo⯑men; and delivered it as my opinion, that thoſe parents were very fortunate, who, from the ſex of their children, had none of the various conſe⯑quences to apprehend, which the leaſt indiſcretion in the ladies is conſtantly ſure of bringing on a fa⯑mily. I have ſaid that the ſame levity of conduct which would ſteep a woman in the groſſeſt lees of infamy, is entirely over looked, if not publicly approved, in a man; and that the mere circum⯑ſtance of ſex gives him a kind of privilege to practiſe a number of irregularities, that would render an uncultivated female the ſcandal of ſociety.

BUT at the ſame time that the depravity of cuſtom has given this unhappy ſuperiority to the men; at [233] the time that our lordly ſex is inveſted by the world with a preſcriptive title of violating the moſt ſacred of the divine ordinances, neither reaſon nor religi⯑on has given us the leaſt exemption from undergo⯑ing that dreadful examination in another life, which is ſo fatally diſregarded in this. When we ſee the moſt triumphant libertine in his moments of illneſs, or his hours of reflexion, it is then we find that this boaſted right of doing wrong is nothing more than a glittering gewgaw that leads us into a certain de⯑ſtruction, and ought to be lamented as the greateſt of all misfortunes, inſtead of being conſidered as a matter of conſolation, or looked upon with an eye of appetite or joy. To ſpeak in the language of the poet;

HIGHLY ſoever as the round of maſculine errors may be envied by the ignorant, or coveted by the profligate, I aſk the greateſt libertine exiſting, who is not utterly deſtitute of common underſtanding, how he would, upon a cool conſideration, chooſe to be thought the author of the following journal; though I ſhall give him a bit of encouragement [234] into the bargain, which is, that few people in the gay world were ever better received than the perſon who wrote it:

FOR the honour of human nature I ſhall ſtop here; the remainder of the journal is nothing but a repetition of cruelty and luſt; I hope among my readers there is no part of the foregoing memoran⯑dums which can be applicable to themſelves: if a ſimilitude ſhould be found to any of their acquaint⯑ance, let not the privilege of the ſex a moment extenuate the baſeneſs of the man, but let every body exclaim in the language of Horace, ‘Hic niger eſt, hunc tu Romane caveto.’

NUMB. LV. Saturday, February 19.

NUMB. LVI. Saturday, February 26.

MY nephew Harry called on me this morning, and mentioned one of my papers which was prodigiouſly commended by ſeveral of his acquaint⯑ance, particularly by Miſs Cornelia Marchmont, who deſired him, in very ſtrong terms, to give me her [242] compliments for the maſterly rules which I had there laid down for the ſervice of the ladies. I don't known how it was, but I received a conſi⯑derable ſhare of ſatisfaction from this compliment. Miſs Marchmont is a young lady of twenty-one, miſtreſs of every polite accompliſhment, and every ſhining virtue; and carries in an exquiſite ſweetneſs of countenance, the moſt expreſſive indications of her fine underſtanding, and her excellent heart. My young rogue has, I fancy a month's mind to her; and if I am at all acquainted with the lan⯑guage of the eyes, Cornelia is no way diſpleaſed at that circumſtance. Harry as yet has told me nothing, but I believe it will be a match; if it ſhould, I intend taking up my reſidence with them for the remainder of my days, and ſhall leave my little all to them and their children.

THE reader may poſſibly ſuſpect, that I am more than commonly ſenſible of this young lady's merit, through a principle of vanity for the flat⯑tering encomium with which ſhe has favoured my productions. I ſhall candidly acknowledge, that it made me ſomewhat vain, but I hope I ſhall be alſo believed, when I ſay, her complaiſance no way enhanced my opinion of her accompliſhments: and now I am talking of vanity, I cannot help obſerving, how univerſally ſubject the human mind is to the attacks of this dangerous enemy; for my own part, though an old fellow, when I have written any thing which I conceive may be uſeful, worthy, [243] or done any thing which I fancy may be praiſe worthy, I ſtrut alone in my ſtudy with a degree of conſequence ſcarcely credible; till recollecting how ridiculous a figure I make in the eye of my own examination, I bluſh at my ſelf-ſufficienc, and immediately turn my thoughts upon ſome object which can be conſidered with a greater ſhare of credit, both to my modeſty and my underſtanding, — But to return —

IN the courſe of Harry's converſation with me, he ſaid, that Miſs Marchmont had given him a letter for the uſe of the Babler, which ſhe re⯑queſted might be inſerted in the preſent number. This letter, ſays Harry, ſhe lately wrote in anſwer to a very paſſionate epiſtle from a young fellow who has a company in the guards; and who, thinking her to be like the generality of the ſex, imagined a few fine expreſſions and a red coat were ſufficient to render her inſenſible to all the duties which ſhe owed to herſelf and her family.

I SHALL make no comment on this letter, but recommend the example to the imitation of thoſe among my fair readers, who ſhall ever be in the ſame circumſtances with the amiable writer.

NUMB. LVII. Saturday, March 5.

I WAS ſitting at home the other morning; ruminating on a ſubject for my next paper, when the penny-poſt-man rapped at the door, and gave Thomas the following epiſtle, which I here preſent to the reader without the alteration of a ſyllable:

NUMB. LVIII. Saturday, March 12.

GREATLY as the degeneracy of the preſent age may be talked of, or highly ſoever as we may imagine the people of antient times to ſurpaſs us either in morality or underſtanding; I am ne⯑vertheleſs perfectly ſatisfied that there is as much good ſenſe, and as much real virtue to be met with in our own days as ever was found in the days of our forefathers, notwithſta [...]ding the meritorious cobwebs of antiquity have happily concealed a number of their follies and their faults, and thrown a friendly veil of oblivion over no inconſiderable ſhare of their imperfections.

THE writers of the preſent times are not indeed burthened with the monſtrous affectation which was ſo commonly met with among the philoſophers of antiquity, and therefore are probably held in a leſs conſequential light, both with regard to their principles and their abilities; this, however, if properly conſidered, is one reaſon why they may have a greater ſhare of the latter, though it does not in the remoteſt manner inſinuate an inference [252] of their being any way inferior in the firſt. Many of the antient Sages owed the greateſt part of their reputation to circumſtances which would entitle a modern to a dark room and a truſs of ſtraw, or excite the general contempt at leaſt againſt his folly and impertinence: What would we think of a philoſopher now-a-days, if inſtead of arguing the world by the force of ſound reaſoning out of their vices and abſurdities, he ſhould be in continual tears about the former, and in a perpetual fit of laughing at the laſt? What would we ſay to any moraliſt who would ſearch the public ſtreets at noon with a candle and lanthorn, and tell every body he met, that he was endeavouring to find an honeſt man? Or what would we ſay to a Cynic, who by way of exhorting his countrymen againſt the allurements of luxury, would make uſe of no other perſuaſives than bidding a total adieu to every ſocial enjoyment, and taking up his reſidence in a tub?

THE writers of a later date look with a juſt diſ⯑dain upon ſuch deſpicable inſtances of affectation, and do not addreſs themſelves to the weakneſs, but to the underſtanding of their countrymen: it is not the paſſions which they want to work upon, but the underſtanding which they want to con⯑vince; and are infinitely more ſolicitous to eſta⯑bliſh a reſpectable opinion of their judgment and their integrity, than ambitious to purchaſe an im⯑mortality by the practiſe of any illuſtrious abſurdi⯑ty, which however it may dazzle a moment upon [253] the imagination, the cooler reflections of reaſon muſt conſider with the moſt inſuperable contempt. Far be it from me to pluck the ſmalleſt bay from the brow of antiquity; I ſincerely venerate many leſſons inculcated by ſeveral of the philoſophers; but at the ſame time I cannot be totally inſenſible to the imperfections of their times, or palpably blind to the merits of our own: for this reaſon I muſt ſtand up for the character of modern under⯑ſtanding, and declare it as my opinion, that I think no two philoſophers in the whole compaſs of an⯑tiquity have ſurpaſſed Bacon and Newton, either in the extent or importance of their works; and however I may incur the cenſure of claſſical readers, I will go farther, and venture to aſſert, that Shake⯑ſpear and Milton are poets of as much excellence as either Homer or Virgil; and poſſibly if the En⯑gliſh language was but half ſo univerſally ſtudied as the Greek or Latin, I ſhould find thouſands who would not heſitate to give a more exalted forum of reputation to the two illuſtrious moderns, than to the two celebrated names of antiquity, who have for ſo many ages been conſidered as a ſort of ne plus ultra to human genius, in every performance of a poetical tendency.

HAVING ſaid thus much in defence of modern underſtanding, I ſhall ſay a few words in ſupport of modern virtue againſt the heavy accuſations of degeneracy, which ſome inconſiderate writers are but too apt to lay at our door, and but too ready to faſten on the credulity of the public.

[254]IT muſt be readily granted, that the hiſtory of modern times affords ſufficient inſtances of vices, which reduce human nature to the baſeſt of all levels, and throw the blackeſt ſtigma not only upon the dignity, but upon the very name of man: yet if we take a review of more diſtant ages, we ſhall find equal examples of rapine, perjury, and blood: The civilized ſtates of Greece produced as many ſcenes of ambition, tyranny, and murder, as can poſſibly be found among the moſt barbarous nations; and the virtuous Romans themſelves, at the very moment they were affecting an uncom⯑mon ſanctity of manners, were robbing all the world to inculcate maxims of juſtice, and cutting whole nations to pieces, to teach them leſſons of benevolence and humanity. Greece had it's Phillip and it's Alexander, if France had her Louis the XIVth; and Rome had her Caeſar, if England had her Cromwell ſhe alſo has a Caligula and a Nero to blacken everlaſtingly upon her annals, if ours are ſtigmatized with an arbitrary Charles, or a bi⯑gotted James: when I mention Louis the XIVth, I by no means deſign to compare him with Philip or Alexander in any thing but his am⯑bition and his rapacity; they are in every other reſpect ſo infinitely the more exalted murderers, that the ſenſible reader will readily perceive in this reſpect, I intended a very limited parallel.

SEEING therefore that the moſt celebrated of the antient eras cannot produce greater poets and [255] philoſophers than what appears upon the modern liſt; I ſhould be glad to aſk what reaſonable opinion can be aſſigned for our ſuppoſed depravity in un⯑derſtanding? And I ſhould be alſo glad to know how the charge of a depravity in manners can be ſupported, when upon a candid review of the an⯑tient annals, they appear to be covered with at leaſt an equal ſhare of abſurdities and crimes: that the modern era is bad enough, we have too many lamentable teſtimonies; but there is no ne⯑ceſſity to aggravate either our weakneſs or our guilt, by making us worſe than former times, which wherever we examine, were, in the general, a compound of the greateſt villains and the groſſeſt fools.

NUMB. LIX. Saturday, MARCH 19.

WHEN the celebrated Voltaire was in Eng⯑land, he paid a viſit to the famous Mr. Congreve, though he was utterly unacquainted with him, and with that happy violation of cere⯑mony which is the characteriſtic of elevated genius, introduced himſelf upon the mere account of their reſpective literary reputations. The Engliſhman was, however, diſconcerted, and inſtead of looking upon the frankneſs of Voltaire's behaviour as the greateſt compliment that could be paid him; he ſaid, he would be glad of being viſited by Mr. Voltaire as a private gentleman, but could not think of cultivating a friendſhip with any body, [256] barely on the account of being an author. The Frenchman, diſguſted at this untimely inſtance of affectation, turned upon his heel, and replied, with ſeverity, that had not Mr. Congreve been ſome⯑what more than a private gentleman, he never would have ſuffered the trouble of that inter⯑view.

THE ſlighteſt ſurvey of mankind will convince a rational enquirer, that the generality of people are influenced by as injudicious a principle in their actions, as Mr. Congreve in the preſent circum⯑ſtance. To avoid the imputation of one extre⯑mity, they inſenſibly run into another; and let the character be what it will which they are fearful of incurring, an exceſſive ſolicitude to avoid it, ex⯑poſes them frequently to one equally abſurd, and excites, while they imagine themſelves perfectly ſecure from ridicule or cenſure, the univerſal laugh or diſeſteem of their acquaintance. I am naturally led into theſe reflexions by a letter from a correſ⯑pondent, whoſe favours I ſhall be always proud of receiving, and whoſe good opinion I ſhall always ſtudy to deſerve, while my leiſure and my inclina⯑tion allow me to ſcribble for the amuſement of the public.

NUMB. LX. Saturday, March 26.

THOUGH no man can be a greater ad⯑mirer of Engliſh hoſpitality than myſelf. I have nevertheleſs been frequently offended at ſeeing this hoſpitality carried to a ridiculous exceſs; and have always imagined where I ſaw the maſter of a houſe running into a large expence merely for the entertainment of two or three intimate friends, that he muſt entertain either a very improper opi⯑nion of himſelf, or a ſtrange idea of his company.

I DINED yeſterday with my old friend Ned Grumble, the council at Gray's-inn, with whom I went to ſchool, and who notwithſtanding the ſmart air which an occaſional queue wig gives him is at leaſt eight and fifty, and ought to know a little more of the world than what he manifeſted in his entertainment. There were but three of us, Ned, Dr. Syſtem the Naturaliſt, and myſelf, yet we had dinner enough from the tavern to ſerve twenty, and ſuch a profuſion of luxuries, that the bare eatables muſt at leaſt have amounted to ſix or ſeven pounds. To be ſure Ned is a man of fortune, [261] and can afford to treat his friends very genteelly, but for my own part I never form my notions of gentility by the ſtandard of extravagance. I don't love to ſee money unneceſſarily thrown away; and always wiſh that people of condition would apply the ſuperfluities of their income either to the relief of merit in diſtreſs, or to thoſe objects which muſt promote the general welfare of their country.

As the various courſes came in, I obſerved Ned was ſecretly pleaſed with the air of ſurprize which I naturally put on, and ſeemed to riſe in his own opinion in proportion to the elegance of his table; with a look of indifference he preſſed the doctor and I to eat hearty; and with a very ridiculous kind of an affectation, lamented that there was no⯑thing which we could poſſibly like. He wiſhed the dinner had been to our taſtes; and with the long liſt of cuſtomary excuſes which uſually paſs for good breeding in ſecond-rate companies, he promiſed the next time we favoured him with a viſit, we ſhould be accommodated in a manner in⯑finitely more to our ſatisfaction.

WHEN I returned home I could not help re⯑flecting on the pernicious prevalence of cuſtoms in the generality of our convivial entertainments. The eternal endeavour at parade and magnificence, I conſidered as the natural reſult of vanity; and ſaw, that by much the principal part of the world, was conſiderably more ſtudious to arrogate the opinion of their own importance, than to promote the ſatisfaction of their friends. Every diſh which [262] was added to a table, I found was looked upon as an addition to the merit of the entertainer; and he that was a clever fellow with a Turbot, was ſtill clever if he could furniſh a John Dory, or provide any other article of luxury equally ex⯑penſive and unneceſſary.

If, however, we examine this matter properly we ſhall always find, that an exceſs of preparation, inſtead of being a real compliment, is nothing better than indirect offence; it is a tacit inſinuation either that our gueſts are not generaly uſed to ſuch delicacies as we have provided for them, or that it is abſolutely neceſſary to bribe the depravity of their pallates, when we would deſire the favour of their company. The great art of entertaining with elegance is to entertain with reaſon. To do this we muſt conſult the nature of our circum⯑ſtances, and the rank of our friends. If the firſt are narrow, we expoſe ourſelves to the ſe⯑vereſt cenſure as well as the keeneſt ridicule, by aping the luxurious abundance of a Lord Mayor's table; and let the latter be what will, we ſhould endeavour to treat them after the cuſtomary manner in which they treat themſelves in their own families. For this reaſon we ſhould never inſult a poor man with all the magnificence of fifty covers, nor invite a lord to an humble ſhin of beef. A decent ſupply of good diſhes ſhould always be in readineſs, but nothing ever ſtudied for unneceſſary parade. Plenty and not profuſion ſhould be the characteriſtic of our board; and we ſhould conſtantly recollect that thoſe are utterly [263] unworthy the appellation of friends, who could wiſh us to ſquander a parced of valuable pounds for the mere ſake of making an empty diſplay of our opulence, when the ſum thus extravagantly laid out, might be applied to a number of very ſalutary purpoſes.

THERE are ſeveral people, however, who are hurried away by an unaccountable deſire of ap⯑pearing extremely ſplendid in their entertainments, and make it a ſort of point to keep a table conſi⯑derably above their circumſtances. I remember poor dick Thornton would frequently invite peo⯑ple to dinner, and treat with Champagne and Bur⯑gundy, though he borrowed the money which paid the bill of fare, but the evening before, from ſome of his gueſts, or pitifully begged a fortnight's credit at the Mitre in Fleet-ſtreet.

HOSPITALITY to be ſure requires every man to receive his acquaintance with the utmoſt cordiality and warmth, but it by no means deſires people of ſmall fortune to be conſtantly impoveriſhing them⯑ſelves for the ſake of keeping an extenſive circuit of company; neither does it dictate, that thoſe with full purſes ſhould ever run into extravagance. None, however, miſtake the matter more than young fellows who are juſt entering in the world, and have no other proſpect of ſupporting them⯑ſelves, than the ſucceſs of their reſpective avoca⯑tions. Betrayed by too great a generoſity of tem⯑per, they imagine they never can ſhew a ſufficient welcome to their friends; and hence they incon⯑ſiderately [264] provide twenty or thirty diſhes for thoſe very men, whoſe general round of living they know to be a plain ſimple joint, or a frugal beef ſtake at a Tavern. For my own part, whenever it has been my lot to dine with perſons of this caſt, the uncommon excellence of my entertainment has entirely ſpoiled my ſtomach; and I have loſt all reliſh to eating, merely from recollecting what a conſiderable ſum a good-natured young fellow muſt have idly thrown away, through a deſire of mani⯑feſting an extraordinary reſpect for his company.

THE publication of this little ſtricture, will, I hope, in ſome meaſure remove ſo great an abſur⯑dity. People of good ſenſe want little more than a bare mention of their errors, to produce an amend⯑ment; and by the reformation which I may hear occaſioned by the preſent hint, I ſhall immediately judge the underſtanding of my readers.

NUMB. LXI. Saturday, April 2.

IN the courſe of my little ſtrictures I have fre⯑quently endeavoured to diſcountenance the ſcan⯑dalous propenſity which I have obſerved in a num⯑ber of old fellows, for an obſcenity of converſa⯑tion; a propenſity which even in the thoughtleſs and giddy-headed ſtate of youth is extremely cul⯑pable, and no l [...]ſs diſgraces the politeneſs of the gentleman, than leſſens the underſtanding of the [265] man. In the preſent paper I ſhall lay a picture before my readers, which though really drawn for a particular perſon, will, I fear, prove much too general a reſemblance; but which if it ſhould for⯑tunately prove a means of reforming a ſingle indi⯑vidual, will make me think my time very well be⯑ſtowed and induce me perhaps to take up the ſub⯑ject again at another opportunity.

LAST night having received a moſt preſſing in⯑vitation from an old relation of mine, I went and ſupped at his houſe. The company conſiſted of his lady, his ſon, and his two daughters, a very eminent clergymen in the city, and myſelf. My friend is one of thoſe people, who having formerly cut a very gay figure in the world, is ſtill ambi⯑tious of ſpreading the May-bloom of twenty-five upon the winter of threeſcore; and deſirous of diſ⯑playing in the fulneſs of his ſpirits, that ſpright⯑lineſs and vivacity which time has relentleſsly taken from his perſon: with this view he is everlaſtingly aiming at double entendres, and will not even heſitate to crack his indelicate ambiguities upon his children. On the contrary, he often attacks his daughters with a vein of the moſt culpable levity, and tells them, when the poor young ladies are ready to ſink with ſhame and mortification, that they know very well what he means, and that he is perfectly ſenſible they are both languiſhing for huſbands.

AS my old friend ſuffers me to take more liber⯑ties with him than he can bear from any body [266] elſe, I always endeavour to keep him in a little or⯑der; and this renders my viſits uncommonly wel⯑come to his family. Laſt night I managed him pretty well, and we had not above ten or a dozen indelicacies during ſupper time: but the cloth was no ſooner removed, than he cried, ‘come, Mr. Babler, I'll give you a toaſt;’ this was what the ladies extremely apprehended, and they all inſtantly roſe up from table, with an abruptneſs that would have aſtoniſhed a ſtranger prodigiouſly, and darted out of the room: upon this he burſt into a loud laugh, and ſlapping me on the ſhoulder with an air of extraordinary ſatisfaction, exclaimed, ‘Well, my boy, you ſee I am ſtill old Truepenny, and though to the full as heavily laden with years as yourſelf, have fifty times your ſpirits, and can ſet the women a going whenever I think proper.’ Then turning round to the clergyman, and pointing to his ſon, he aſked, with an arch ſignificance of countenance, ‘Do you think, doctor, that fellow will be a quarter the man I am when he comes to my age — hey — what ſay you petticoats.’ The gentleman replied, he believed not; and my friend ordered us to fill a bumper directly, for he ſtill piques himſelf upon being able to drink a couple of bottles of an even⯑ing.

WHEN our glaſſes were charged, ‘Now, (ſays he) I'll give you a toaſt:’ he did ſo with a witneſs; and totally forgetting the preſence of his ſon, the profeſſion of the clergyman, and the ſobriety of my [267] character, gave what would ſcarcely have iſſued from the underbred intoxication of an Iriſh chair⯑man in a night cellar. For my own part, I turned round in diſguſt, the clergyman wiped his face, and the ſon ſtooped to buckle his ſhoe, in order to avoid the diſagreeable neceſſity of bluſhing for his father, whoſe behaviour was no leſs ill-timed than it was illiberal. I was in hopes the viſible diſſa⯑tisfaction which we all manifeſted on this occaſion, would have kept my antiquated buck in a little order for the remainder of the evening: but here, Sir, I was miſerably miſtaken; every glaſs brought on a new inſtance of obſcenity, and produced a freſh queſtion, whether he was not the heartieſt cock, of his years, in the univerſe. The loweſt amours of his youthful days were raked up with the moſt paltry degree of oſtentation; and he ſeemed to gain a new ſhare of life from the mere repetition of thoſe circumſtances, which ſhould have made him ſorry that he ever lived at all.

YOUTH is but a poor excuſe for a man's playing the fool; but no palliation can poſſibly be offered, where a grey head is ſtriving to re-exiſt in the remembrance of former vices, and is ambitious of preſerving the ſame reputation for extravagancies in the deepening vale of years, which rendered him contemptible to the thinking part of the world when a boy of nineteen. If a man is really de⯑ſirous of being reſpected in the decline of life, he muſt act in ſuch a manner as to deſerve the uni⯑verſal eſteem of his acquaintance; inſtead of de⯑viating [268] into ribaldry, he muſt make an abſolute diſplay of his good ſenſe, and build his applauſe upon the rectitude of his own ſentiments, inſtead of applying to the depravity of ours. A debauchee of ſixty is no leſs a ſcandal to nature, than a diſ⯑grace to morality; and we cannot help feeling a ſecret kind of horror, when we ſee a father pro⯑fligately jeſting with his children, and taking every opportunity to ſteel them againſt the nicer ſenſa⯑tions of delicacy and virtue. The parent who acts in this manner has not only his own errors to anſwer for, but in a great meaſure the crimes of his poſterity. The human mind has a natural promptitude to err, and we are all of us but too fond of copying the examples of thoſe whom we have been taught to reverence and love. For the ſake of the riſing generation, therefore, let me earneſtly exhort the old hearty cocks of the preſent age, to pay ſome little regard to this reflexion; ſince the reputation and welfare of their families ought to engage a conſiderable ſhare of their at⯑tention, however indifferent they may be about their own.

NUMB. LXII. Saturday, April 9.

NOTWITHSTANDING a number of writers have very judiciouſly employed their pens in expoſing the ridiculous partiality which the generality of parents feel in favour of their [269] own children; yet there is one ſpecies of this par⯑tiality which, though the moſt fatal in it's effects, has however engaged but the ſmalleſt part of their notice; for which reaſon I propoſe to make it the ſubject of my preſent diſcuſſion, and flatter myſelf that it will be received on account of it's import⯑ance with a particular ſhare of indulgence by the public.

THE prejudice upon which I intend to animad⯑vert, is the opinion abſurdly entertained by every body, that the beauty of their daughters will be always certain of making their fortunes. This unhappy prepoſſeſſion is now ſo univerſally adopted that few parents attend to more than the mere ſuperficials of a young lady's education; a mother now-a-days, inſtead of inculcating leſſons of pru⯑dence and morality, is only ſolicitous about the perſonal accompliſhments of her riſing angel: in⯑ſtead of teaching her to be humble, modeſt, and unaffected, ſhe lays down no rules but thoſe of pride; no precepts but thoſe of arrogance, and no documents but thoſe of affectation. Before Miſs is out of her hanging ſleeves, ſhe is accuſtomed to the moſt extravagant praiſes of her own beauty, and is inſtructed in a belief, that ſo the delicacy of her complexion is attended to, there is no ne⯑ceſſity whatſoever to pay the leaſt regard to the cultivation of her mind. Hence ſhe can argue upon the excellence of Naples dew, before ſhe knows a ſingle commandment in the decalogue; and deſcant upon the ſmartneſs of a ribband, be⯑fore [270] ſhe is acquainted with a letter in the al⯑phabet.

THE natural conſequence of ſuch an education is, that ſhe becomes intollerably vain, and in ſup⯑portably ignorant. The firſt of theſe amiable qua⯑lifications, her vanity, renders her totally blind to every merit in the character of another perſon; and the latter, renders her as totally inſenſible of the groſſeſt abſurdity in her own. Calculated merely for ſhew, her only ſtudy is to attract a croud of fools to the ſtandard of her beauty; and taught that a woman with ſo ex⯑quiſite a face, has a juſt pretenſion to the firſt offers in the kingdom, ſhe is continually aſpiring above the level of her circumſtances. By this means ſhe moſt commonly withers in contempt upon the ſtalk of an antiquated virginity, or ſacrifices her reputation to ſome debauchee of faſhion, whom ſhe vainly imagines to draw in for a huſband. It is below a beauty ever to think of marrying with a man of her own rank: her charms are to procure ſomething infinitely ſuperior; and there is ſcarcely a tradeſman's daughter with a paſſable face, in the weekly bills, but what now and then thinks of an equipage with a tollerable degree of confidence; and imagines herſelf pretty certain at leaſt of a gentleman or a knight, though ſhe ſhould even fail of gaining a helpmate with a coronet.

THE ſtrangeſt thing, however, in this unac⯑countable notion with which people are deluded, of a daughter's making a fortune with her face, [271] is, that every one ſuppoſes the world will look through the magnifying glaſs of parental prepoſ⯑ſeſſion, and conceive juſt ſuch an opinion of the girl's perſonal attractions, as they are ſilly enough to entertain themſelves, without ever recollecting that others have no natural intereſt in the young lady, either to be blind to her defects, or ſenſible of her perfections; they are aſtoniſhed that we ſhould differ from their idea of her merit; and ab⯑ſolutely demand that tribute of admiration from our juſtice, which is nothing but the ridiculous re⯑ſult of their own partiality.

How often, I appeal to my readers, have they heard a mother extolling the face of ſome half-begotten thing to the ſkies, as a miracle of ex⯑cellence, and, in the fulneſs of her heart, exclaim⯑ing, my beauty, my queen, and my angel, where the poor little wretch had actually the features of a jacknapes. For my own part, I have ſeen ſuch things a thouſand times, and among my own rela⯑tions too. My couſin Suke has a little girl of about ten years old, who is blind of an eye, and ſeamed with the ſmall pox, like a Savoy-cabbage; yet Suke imagines that her daughter will, one time or other, make a conqueſt of a nobleman; and has been known to praiſe the ineffable ſweetneſs of her Patty's face, though the company were at that very moment talking about lady Sarah Bun⯑bury, or the ducheſs of Hamilton.

WERE parents, however, to act with prudence, they might eaſily judge from what they themſelves [272] think of other peoples' children, how other people are affected at the ſight of theirs. This ſingle mode of judging would, in a moment, unbind the charm which faſcinates the heart of ſo many fathers and mothers, and convince them that there were a number of requiſites neceſſary to form a complete woman, beſides the poſſeſſion of a ſmooth face, and an agreeable perſon: they would then ſee, that a well-cultivated mind had an infinite ſupe⯑riority over the moſt roſy cheek in the univerſe; and diſcover that ſomething more than a bare knowledge in fixing a head-dreſs, or pinning a handkerchief, was indiſpenſibly proper for the miſ⯑treſs of a family.

IN fact, the men are not ſuch fools as they may be generally imagined. A young fellow, if he wants to make an occaſional connexion with a lady, ſcarcely ever looks for more than figure or make. By the ſame rule that he buys a horſe, he chooſes his miſtreſs: but the caſe is widely diffe⯑rent, when he comes to think of a wiſe. However he may laugh at prudence and diſcretion in him⯑ſelf, he always requires it in her; and thinks he is infinitely more liable to ſuffer in the public opinion, through the minuteſt foible of her's, than through the greateſt error of his own: for this reaſon, the wildeſt libertine, when he thinks of marrying, generally looks out for a woman of virtue and underſtanding. Experience has taught him how ſmall a ſhare the mere attractions of a fine face have in the formation of real happineſs; [273] and if he even chooſes a perſon that wants a fortune, yet his choice is moſt commonly a perſon that can ſave one. Hence matrimony is the only thing in which he ſeldom ſuffers himſelf to be duped, and he hardly ever dreams of aſking the hand of a mere beauty, while there is a poſſibility for him to gain a woman of real beauty and merit too.

NUMB. LXIII. Saturday, April 16.

NUMB. LXIV. Saturday, April 23.

NUMB. LXV. Saturday, April 30.

TO know mankind, and to profit by their fol⯑lies, is generally the wiſh of the mercenary; but there are ſome who think, that, expoſing their own follies to the public view, is the trueſt means of acquiring an inſight into thoſe of others. This method of a man's ſubjecting himſelf to voluntary diſtreſs, in order to become acquainted with human nature, goes by the name of ſeeing life; ſo that, as the phraſe goes, the young fellow is now ſaid to have ſeen moſt of life who has experienced moſt miſery.

I HAVE often with pity regarded ſome of my more youthful acquaintance who took this ex⯑perimental way of becoming philoſophers, and who thought proper to buy all the little wit they had by their ſufferings: and yet, in fact, when we come to examine this aſcetic ſect of ſtudents, we ſhall find them utterly ignorant of real life, and ſkilled only in the ceremonies of a night cellar, or the etiquette of a brothel.

IT is amuſing enough to liſten to one of theſe gentlemen, who has the character of being pro⯑foundly verſed in life, exerting his ſuperiority of ſkill in company. He has a new phraſe for every thing; "tip us a wag of your manus," is, for in⯑ſtance, ſhake hands; "let us have a buſs at your muns," is let me kiſs you: for ſuch humour as this, our [283] unfortunate creature has had his head broken, his pockets picked, and his conſtitution deſtroyed, though fully convinced of his errors the very mo⯑ment he was running into them with the greateſt avidity.

IT has been often ſaid, that half the pains which ſome men take to be rouges could very comfortably have ſupported them in honeſty. With equal truth it may be ſaid, that half the la⯑bours which theſe men uſe in the purſuit of plea⯑ſure, could have ſupplied them with a double portion of the means. Pleaſure is not ſo coy a mi⯑ſtreſs as theſe men would perſuade us that ſhe is; ſhe needs not be purſued through the mazes of a night adventure, nor earned by the hazard of looſing a noſe; the uſual beaten tract to happi⯑neſs is ever the ſureſt, and to live like the reſt of mankind is a ſtrong preſumption that the traveller is in the right way. When one of our blooded young fellows, with a true eccentricity of think⯑ing, ſeparates from the crowd, in order to enjoy higher delights than his acquaintance, he only becomes the object of contempt and deriſion, and like a deer in the foreſt he ever finds leaſt ſafety when alone.

THE ridicule of every age has been levelled againſt this abſurd purſuer of life, and ſtill like the witch in the fable, as he has been hunted down in one ſhape he has aſſumed another. In the Spectator's days, the buck of the time was called a Mohock; he afterwards received the ap⯑pellation [284] of a Blood; and, at preſent, he is called a Buck: the three characters of the different times, however are very nearly the ſame; they differ in little more than appellation; and are all equally diſtinguiſhed for malevolent of heart and weakneſs of underſtanding.

THE moſt extraordinary circumſtance in the characters of theſe worthy gentlemen who know ſo much of life, is, that ſcarcely one in a thouſand of them knows any thing of life at all; or at beſt, like a maggot in a cheeſe, he only eats into the rotten part of it, and, after fattening for a ſeaſon on the common of folly and licentiouſneſs, he comes out pampered with nothing but ignorance and immorality.

LET one of the moſt experienced philoſophers in the ſyſtem of modern life, come, for half an hour, into company with two or three rational beings, and he looks as if he was abſolutely of a different ſpecies. — Converſant with nothing but what he ought not to know, he is incapable of conducting himſelf, either like a man of ſenſe or a gentleman, and, acquainted only with the deſ⯑picable frolicks of the Garden, he is at a viſible loſs if a ſubject of the leaſt erudition is ſtarted, and perplexed if he hears a ſyllable bordering upon politeneſs or good breeding; he languiſhes only for an indelicate toaſt, or an opportunity of introducing ſome paltry little adventure, which ought to be reſerved for a ſet of intoxicated ap⯑prentices [285] on a Chriſtmas holiday. Even in the preſence of the moſt modeſt among the ſofter ſex, he does not heſitate to mention the name of ſome faſhionate demirep; nor ſcruple to boaſt of a Newgate acquaintance with an executed high⯑wayman.

YET, notwithſtanding this deſcription of a modern buck is pretty exact, there is an unac⯑countable ambition among the greateſt number of our young fellows to ſhew a tolerable preten⯑ſion to the character. From a ſtrange opinion that libertiniſm is a proof of good ſenſe, they all ſacrifice the little ſenſe which they poſſeſs to be⯑come libertines, and are infinitely leſs fearful of being looked upon as profligates, than being ri⯑diculed as fools.

THOSE however, who would willingly arrive at the good opinion of the world, and merit the ſecret approbation of their own hearts, muſt act upon a very oppoſite principle. Little as the world may follow the documents of virtue, it nevertheleſs admires them; and we ourſelves are never more ready to venerate a man of principle, than when on account of our vices he treats us with contempt. Let us therefore, inſtead of being what in our hearts we really deteſt, endeavour to arrive at what we are ambitious to be thought; and make that very pride which hurries us into ſuch a number of exceſſes, a laudable incentive to the road of perfection.

[286]VIRTUE in fact wants only to be known to have a number of admirers; and as in the pur⯑ſuit of thoſe vices which deſtroy both our tem⯑poral and our eternal felicity, habit encreaſes our reliſh for perſevering; ſo in the practice of all that can enſure our happineſs here and hereafter, habit alſo impels us to proceed, and furniſhes con⯑tinual inducements, which gradually lead us to the moſt exalted pinnacle of human excellence. The man therefore, who will not be happy, has no-body to cenſure but himſelf; as the power is entirely in his hands, if he chooſes but to exert it.