power of moral beauty, and the prevalence of ideal enjoyments.

If it be asked, how moral agents became the subjects of accidental and adventitious happiness and misery; and why they were placed in a state in which it frequently happens that virtue only alleviates calamity, and vice only moderates delight; the answer of Revelation is known; and it must be the task of those who reject it to give a better. It is enough for me to have proved that man is at present in such a state: I pretend not to trace the unsearchable ways of the almighty,' nor attempt to penetrate the darkness that surrounds his throne: but amidst this enlightened generation, in which such multitudes can account for apparent obliquities and defects in the natural and the moral world, I am content with an humble expectation of that time, in which, every thing that is crooked shall be made straight, and every thing that is imperfect shall be done away.'

VOL. I.

No. XI. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12.

.Ille potens sui

Lætusque deget, cui licet in diem
Dixisse, vixi.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;

HOR.

He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day.

DRYDEN.

SIR,

TO THE ADVENTURER.

IT is the fate of all who do not live in necessary or accidental obscurity, who neither pass undistinguished through the vale of poverty, nor hide themselves in the groves of solitude, to have a numerous acquaintance and few friends.

An acquaintance is a being who meets us with a smile and a salute; who tells us in the same breath that he is glad and sorry for the most trivial good and ill that befals us, and yet who turns from us without regret, who scarce wishes to see us again, who forsakes us in hopeless sickness or adversity, and when we die remembers us no more. A friend is he with whom our interest is united, upon whose participation all our pleasures depend; who sooths us in the fretfulness of disease, and cheers us in the gloom of a prison; to whom when we die, even our remains are sacred, who follows them with tears to the grave, and preserves our image in his heart. A friend our calamities may grieve, and our wants may impoverish; but neglect only can offend, and unkindness alienate. Is it not therefore astonishing, that a friend should

ever be alienated or offended? And can there be a stronger instance of the folly and caprice of mankind, than their withholding from those, upon whom their happiness is confessed to depend, that civility which they lavish upon others, without hope of any higher reward than a trivial and momentary gratification of their vanity, by an echo of their compliments, and a return of their obeisance?

Of this caprice, there are none who have more cause to complain than myself. That I am a person of some importance, has never yet been disputed: I am allowed to have great power to please and to instruct; I always contribute to the felicity of those by whom I am well-treated; and I must confess, that I am never abused, without leaving marks of my resentment behind me.

I am generally regarded as a friend; and there are few who could think of parting with me for the last time, without the utmost regret, solicitude, and reluctance. I know, wherever I come, I have been the object of desire and hope; and that the pleasure which I am expected to diffuse, has, like all others, been enjoyed by anticipation. By the young and gay, those who are entering the world either as a scene of business or pleasure, I am frequently desired with such impatience, that although every moment brings on wrinkles and decrepitude with irresistible rapidity, that they will be willing that the time of my absence should be annihilated, and the approach of wrinkles and decrepitude rendered yet more precipitate. There cannot surely be stronger evidence than this, of my influence upon their happiness, or of their affection for me: and yet the transport with which I am at first received, quickly subsides; they appear to grow weary of my company; they would again shorten life to hasten the hour of my departure; and they reflect upon the length of my visit with regret.

To the aged I confess I am not able to procure equal advantages; and yet there are some of these who have been remarkable for their virtue, among whom I experience more constant reciprocations of friendship. I never heard that they expressed an impatient expectation of me when absent, nor do they receive me with rapture when I come; but while I stay they treat me with complacency and good-humour; and in proportion as their first address is less violent, the whole tenour of their conduct is more equal: they suffer me to leave them in an evening, without importunity to prolong my visit, and think of my departure with indifference.

You will, perhaps, imagine that I am distinguished by some strange singularity, of which the uncommon treatment that I receive is a consequence. As few can judge with impartiality of their own character, none are believed merely upon their own evidence who affirm it to be good: I will therefore describe to you the manner in which I am received by persons of very different stations, capacities, and employments. The facts shall be exhibited without false colouring; I will neither suppress, soften, nor exaggerate any circumstance, by which the natural and genuine state of these facts may be discovered; and I know that your sagacity will do me justice.

In the summer I rise very early, and the first person that I see is a peasant at his work, who generally regards me with a smile, though he seldom participates of my bounty. His labour is scarce ever suspended while I am with him; yet he always talks of me with complacency, and never treats me with neglect or indecorum, except perhaps on a holiday, when he has been tippling; and this I can easily overlook, though he commonly receives a hint of his fault next morning, that he may be the more upon his guard for the future.

But though in the country I have reason to be best satisfied with the behaviour of those whom I first see,

yet in my early walks in town, I am almost sure to be insulted. As soon as the wretch, who has passed the night at a tavern, or a gaming-table, perceives me at a distance, he begins to mutter curses against me, though he knows they will be fulfilled upon himself; and is impatient till he can bar his door, and hide himself in bed.

I have one sister, and though her complexion is very dark, yet she is not without her charms. She is, I confess, said to look best by candle-light, in her jewels, and at a public place, where the splendour of her dress, and the multiplicity of other objects, prevent too minute an examination of her person. Some good judges have fancied, though perhaps a little whimsically, that there is something inexpressibly pleasing in her by moon-light: a kind of placid ease, a gentle languor, which softens her features, and gives new grace to her manner: they say too, that she is best disposed to be agreeable company in a walk, under the chequered shade of a grove, along the green banks of a river, or upon the sandy beach by the sea.

My sister's principles, in many particulars, differ from mine; but there has been always such a harmony between us, that she seldom smiles upon those who have suffered me to pass with a contemptuous negligence; much less does she use her influence, which is very great, to procure any advantage for those who dive me from their presence with outrage and abuse; and yet none are more assiduous in their addresses, nor intrude longer upon her privacy, than those who are most implacably my enemies.

She is generally better received by the poor than the rich; and indeed she seldom visits the indigent and the wretched without bringing something for their relief; yet those who are most solicitous to engage her in parties of pleasure, and are seen longest in her company, are always suspected of some evil design.