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made up out of our own rustical superstition of hob-thrushes, fairies, goblins, and witches. The fairies are capable of being made very entertaining persons, as they are described by several of our poets; and particularly by Mr. Pope : About this spring (if ancient famo say true) The dapp or elves their moon-light sports pursue, Their pigny king, and little fairy queen, In circlini: daucos gainbold on the green, While tun of 11 sprites a merry concert made, And airy music warbled through the shade."

What hath been said upon the difference of climate, soil, and theology, reaches the proverbial sayings, dress, customs and sports of shep. herds. The following examples of our pastoral sports are extremely beautiful:

• Whilome did I, all as this poplar fair,
Upraise my heed! head. devoid of care,
*Mong rustic routs the chief for wanton game ;
Nor could they merry nake till Lobbin came.
Who better seen than I in shophorls arts,
To please the la is, and win the ‘s’ hearts 2
How deftly to mine oaten reed, so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet?
And when the dance was done, how would they yearn
Some well devised tale from me to learn ? "
For inauy songs, and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the ling ring sun adow in the sky."

O now if ever, bring The laurel green, the smelling eglantine, And tender branches from the mantling vine, The dewy cowslip that in meadow grows, The fountain violet, and garden rose: Your hamlet strow, and every intblic way, And consecrate to mirth Albino's day. Myself will lavish all my little store: And deal about the goblet flowing o or : Old Moulin there shall harp, young Mico sing, And Cuddy dance the round amidst the ring, And Hobbinol his antic gumbols play." The reason why such changes from the ancients should be introduced is very obvious; namely, that poetry being imitation, and that imitation being the best which deceives the most easily, it follows that we must take up the customs which are most familiar, or universally known, since no man can be deceived or delighted with the imitation of what he is ignorant of. It is easy to be observed that these rules are drawn from what our countrymen Spenser and Philips have performed in this way. I shall not presume to say any more of them, than that both have copied and improved the beauties of the ancients, whose manner of thinking I would above all things reconnend. As far as our language would allow them, they have formed a pastoral style according to the Doric of Theo. critus, in which I dare not say they have excelled Virgil but I may be allowed, for the honour of our language, to suppose it more capable of that pretty rusticity than the Latin. To their works I refer my reader to make ob. servations upon the pastoral style; where he will sooner find that secret than from a solio of criticiins.

No. 31.] Thursday, April 16, 1713.

Fortem posce animum - .Jur. Sat. x. 357. Ask of the gods content and strength of mind.

My lady Lizard is never better pleased than when she sees her children about her engaged

in any profitable discourse. I found her last night sitting in the midst of her daughters, and forming a very beautiful semicircle about the fire. I immediately took my place in an elbow chair, which is always left empty for me in one corner. Our conversation fell insensibly upon the subject of happiness, in which every one of the young ladies gave her opinion, with that freedom and unconcernedness which they always use when they are in company only with their mother and myself. Mrs. Jane declared, that she thought it the greatest happiness to be married to a man of merit, and placed at the head of a well-regulated family. I could not but observe, that in her character of a man of merit, she gave us a lively description of Tom Worthy, who has long made his addresses to her. The sisters did not discover this at first, till she began to run down fortune in a lover, and, among the accomplishments of a man of merit, unluckily mentioned white teeth and black eyes. Mrs. Annabella, after having rallied her sister upon her man of merit, talked much of conveniences of life, affluence of fortune, and easiness of temper, in one whom she should pitch upon for a husband. In short, though the baggage would not speak out, I found the sum of her wishes was a rich fool, or a man so turned to her purposes, that she might enjoy his fortune, and insult his understanding. The romantic Cornelia was for living in a wood among choirs of birds, with zephyrs, echos, and rivulets, to make up the concert: she would not seen to include a husband in her scheme, but at the same time talked so passionately of cooing turtles, mossy banks, and beds of violets, that one might easily perceive she was not without thoughts of a companion in her solitudes. Miss Betty placed her summum bonum in equipages, assemblies, balls, and birth-nights,

talked in raptures of sir Edward Shallow's gilt

coach, and my lady Tattle's room, in which she saw company; nor would she have easily given over, had she not observed that her mother appeared more serious than ordinary, and by her looks showed that she did not approve such a redundance of vanity and impertinence. My favourite, the Sparkler, with an air of innocence and modesty, which is peculiar to her, said that she never expected such a thing as happiness, and that she thought the most any one could do was to keep themselves from being uneasy; for, as Mr. Ironside has often told us, says she, we should endeavour to be easy here, and happy hereafter : at the same time she begged me to acquaint them by what rules this ease of mind, or if I would please to call it happiness, is best attained. My lady Lizard joined in the same request with her youngest daughter, adding, with a serious look, The thing seemed to her of so great consequence, that she hoped I would, for once, forget they were all women, and give my real thoughts of it with the same justness I would use among a company of my own sex. I com. plied with her desire, and communicated my sentiments to them on this subject as near as I


can remember, pretty much to the following purpose. As nothing is more natural than for every one to desire to be happy, it is not to be wondered at that the wisest men in all ages have spent so much time to discover what happiness is, and wherein it chiefly consists. An eminent writer, named Varro, reckons up no less than two hundred and eighty-eight different opinions upon this subject; and another, called Lucian, after having given us a long catalogue of the notions of several philosophers, endeavours to show the absurdity of all of them, without establishing any thing of his own. That which seeins to have made so many err in this case, is the resolution they took to fix a man's happiness to one determined point; which I conceive cannot be made up but by the concurrence of several particulars. I shall readily allow Virtue the first place, as she is the mother of Content. It is this which calms our thoughts, and makes us survey ourselves with ease and pleasure. Naked virtue, however, is not alone sufficient to make a man happy. It must be accompanied with at least a noderate provision of all the necessaries of life, and not rufiled and disturbed by bodily pains. A fit of the stone was sharp enough to make a stoic cry out, ‘that Zeno, his master, taught him false, when he told him that pain was no evil." But, besides this, virtue is so far from being alone sufficient to make a man happy, that the excess of it in some particulars, joined to a soft and feminine temper, may often give us the deepest wounds, and chiefly contribute to render us uneasy. I might instance in pity, love, and friendship. In the two last passions it often happens, that we so entirely give up our hearts, as to make our happiness wholly depend upon another person; a trust for which no human creature, however excellent, can possibly give us a sufficient security. The man, therefore, who would be truly happy, must, besides an habitual virtue, attain to such a “strength of mind,' as to confine his happiness within himself, and keep it from being dependent upon others. A man of this make will perform all those good-natured offices that could have been expected from the most bleeding pity, without being so far affected at the common misfortunes of human life, as to disturb his own repose. His actions of this kind are so much more meritorious than another's, as they flow purely from a principle of virtue, and a sense of his duty; whereas a man of a softer temper, even while he is assisting another, may in some measure be said to be relieving himself. A man endowed with that “strength of mind' I am here speaking of, though he leaves it to his friend or mistress to make him still more happy, does not put it in the power of either to make him miserable. From what has been already said, it will also appear, that nothing can be more weak than to place our happiness in the applause of others, since by this means we make it wholly independent of ourselves. People of this humour, who place their chief felicity in reputation and

applause, are also extremely subject to envy, the most painful as well as the most absurd of all passions.

The surest means to attain that “strength of mind,' and independent state of happiness I am here recommending, is a virtuous mind sufficiently furnished with ideas to support solitude, and keep up an agreeable conversation with itself. Learning is a very great help on this occasion, as it lays up an infinite number of notions in the memory, ready to be drawn out, and set in order upon any occasion. The mind often takes the same pleasure in looking over these her treasures, in augmenting and disposing them into proper forms, as a prince does in a review of his army.

At the same time I must own, that as a mind thus furnished, feels a secret pleasure in the consciousness of its own perfection, and is delighted with such occasions as call upon it to try its force, a lively imagination shall produce a pleasure very little inferior to the former in persons of much weaker heads. As the first, therefore, may not be improperly called, ‘the heaven of a wise man,' the latter is extremely well represented by our vulgar expression, which terms it, “a fool's paradise.” There is, however, this difference between them, that as the first naturally produces that strength and greatness of mind I have been all along describing as so essential to render a man happy, the latter is ruffled and discomposed by every accident, and lost under the most common misfortune.

It is this “strength of mind' that is not to be overcome by the changes of fortune, that rises at the sight of dangers, and could make Alexander (in that passage of his life so much admired by the prince of Condé,) when his army mutinied, bid his soldiers return to Macedon, and tell their countrymen that they had left their king conquering the world; since for his part he could not doubt of raising an army wherever he appeared. It is this that chiefly exerts itself when a man is most oppressed, and gives him always in proportion to whatever malice or injustice would deprive him of. It is this, in short, that makes the virtuous man insensibly set a value upon himself, and throws a varnish over his words and actions, that will at last command esteem, and give him a greater ascendant over others, than all the advantages of birth and fortune.

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}". and substituted others in their place, shall close the whole with the following fable or allegory. In ancient times there dwelt in a pleasant vale of Arcadia a man of very ample possessions, named Menalcas; who, deriving his pedigree from the god Pan, kept very strictly up to the rules of the pastoral life, as it was in the golden age. He had a daughter, his only child, called Amaryllis. She was a virgin of a most enchant. ing beauty, of a most easy and unaffected air : but having been bred up wholly in the country, was bashful to the last degree. She had a voice that was exceeding sweet, yet had a rusticity in its tone, which, however, to most who heard her seemed an additional charm. Though in her conversation in general she was very engaging, yet to her lovers, who were numerous, she was so coy, that many left her in disgust after a tedious courtship, and matched themselves where they were better received. For Menalcas had not only resolved to take a son-in-law who should inviolably maintain the customs of his family, but had received one evening as he walked in the fields, a pipe of an antique form from a faun, or as some say, from Oberon the fairy, with a particular charge not to bestow his daughter upon any one who could not play the same tune upon it as at that time he entertained him with. When the time that he had designed to give her in marriage was near at hand, he published a degree, whereby he invited the neighbouring youths to make trial of this musical instrument, with promise that the victor should possess his daughter, on condition that the vanquished should submit to what punishment he thought fit to inflict. Those who were not yet discouraged, and had high conceits of their own worth, appeared on the appointed day, in a dress and equipage suitable to their respective fancies. The place of meeting was a flowery meadow, through which a clear stream murmured in many irregular meanders. The shepherds made a spacious ring for the contending lovers: and in one part of it there sat upon a little throne of turf, under an arch of eglantine and woodbines, the father of the maid, and at his right hand the damsel crowned with roses and lilies. She wore a flying robe of a slight green stuff; she had her sheep-hook in one hand, and the fatal pipe in the other. The first who approached her was a youth of a graceful presence and courtly air, but drest in a richer habit than had ever been seen in Arcadia. He wore a crimson vest, cut indeed after the shepherd's fashion, but so enriched with em. broidery, and sparkling with jewels, that the eyes of the spectators were diverted from considering the mode of the garment by the dazzling of the ornaments. His head was covered with a plume of feathers, and his sheep-hook glittered with gold and enamel. He accosted the damsel after a very gallant manner, and told her, ‘Madam, you need not to consult your glass to adorn yourself to-day; you may see the greatness of your beauty in the number of your conquests.” She having never heard any compli

ment so polite, could give him no answer, but presented the pipe. He applied it to his lips, and began a tune which he set off with so many graces and quavers, that the shepherds and shepherdesses (who had paired themselves in order to dance) could not follow it; as indeed it required great skill and regularity of steps, which they had never been bred to. Menalcas ordered him to be stripped of his costly robes, and to be clad in a russet weed, and confined him to tend the flocks in the vallies for a year and a day. The second that appeared was in a very dis. ferent garb. He was clothed in a garment of rough goat-skins, his hair was matted, his beard neglected; in his person uncouth, and awkward in his gait. He came up fleering to the nymph, and told her, “he had hugged his lambs, and kissed his young kids, but he hoped to kiss one that was sweeter.” The fair one blushed with modesty and anger, and prayed secretly against him as she gave him the pipe. He snatched it from her, but with some difficulty made it sound; which was in such harsh and jarring notes, that the shepherds cried one and all that he understood no music. He was immediately ordered to the most craggy parts of Arcadia, to keep the goats, and commanded never to touch a pipe any more. The third that advanced appeared in clothes that were so strait and uneasy to him, that he seemed to move with pain. He marched up to the maiden with a thoughtful look and stately pace, and said, ‘Divine Amaryllis, you wear not those roses to improve your beauty, but to make them ashamed.” As she did not comprehend his meaning, she presented the instrument without reply. The tune that he played was so intricate and perplexing, that the shepherds stood stock-still, like people astonished and confounded. In vain did he plead that it was the persection of music, and composed by the most skilful master in Hesperia. Menalcas, finding that he was a stranger, hospitably took compassion on him, and delivered him to an old shepherd, who was ordered to get him clothes that would fit him, and teach him to speak plain. The fourth that stepped forwards was young Amyntas, the most beautiful of all the Arcadian swains, and secretly beloved by Amaryllis. He wore that day the same colours as the maid for whom he sighed. He moved towards her with an easy but unassured air : she blushed as he came near her, and when she gave him the fatal present, they both trembled, but neither could speak. Having secretly breathed his vows to the gods, he poured forth such melodious notes, that though they were a little wild and irregular, they filled every heart with delight. The swains immediately mingled in the dance; and the old shepherds affirmed, that they had often heard such music by night, which they imagined to be played by some of the rural deities. The good old man leaped from his throne, and, after he had embraced him, presented him to his daughter, which caused a general acclamotion While they were in the midst of their joy, they were surprised with a very odd appearance. A person in a blue mantle, crowned with sedges and rushes, stepped into the middle of the ring. He had an angling rod in his hand, a pannier upon his back, and a poor meagre wretch in wet clothes carried some oysters before him. Being asked, whence he came, and what he was 7 IIe told them, he was dome to invite Amaryllis from the plains to the sea-shore, that his substance consisted in sea-calves, and that he was acquainted with the Nereids and the Naiads, “Art thou acquainted with the Naiads " said Menalcas: ‘to then then shalt thou return.' The shepherds immediately hoisted him up as an enemy to Arcadia, and plunged him in the river, where he sunk, and was never heard of since. Amyntas and Amaryllis lived a long and happy life, and governed the vales of Arcadia. Their generation was very long-lived, there having been but four descents in above two thousand years. His heir was called Theocritus, who left his dominions to Virgil; Virgil left his to his son Spenser; and Spenser was succeeded by his eldest-born, Philips.

* Wide Fontenelle.

1 Wide Tasso.

* Vide. Theocritus.

No. 33.] Saturday, April 18, 1713.

—Dignum sapiente, bonoque est.
Her. Lib. 1. Ep. iv. 5.

worthy a wise man, and a good.

I have made it a rule to myself, not to publish any thing on a Saturday, but what shall have some analogy to the duty of the day ensuing. It is an unspeakable pleasure to me, that I have lived to see the time when I can observe such a law to myself, and yet turn my discourse upon what is done at the playhouse. I am sure the reader knows I am going to mention the tragedy of Cato. The principal character is moved by no consideration but respect to that sort of virtue, the sense of which is retained in our language under the word Public Spirit. All regards to his domestic are wholly laid aside, and the hero is drawn as having by this motive, subdued instinct itself, and taking consort from the distresses of his family, which are brought upon them by their adherence to the cause of truth and liberty. There is nothing uttered by Cato but what is worthy the best of men; and the sentiments which are given him are not only the most war in for the conduct of this life, but such as we may think will not need to be crased, but consist with the happiness of the human soul in .le next. This illustrious character has its proper influence on all below it: the other virtuous personages are, in their degree, as worthy, and as exemplary, as the principal; the conduct of the lovers (who are more warm, though more discreet, than ever yet appeared on the stage) has in it a constant sense of the great catastrophe which was expected from the approach of Caesar. But to see the modesty of a heroine, whose country and family were at the same time in the most imminent danger, preserved, while she breaks out into the most fond and open expressions of her passion for her lover, is an instance of no common address. Again, to observe the body of a gallant young man brot:ght before us, who, in the bloom of his youth, in the defence of all that is good and


great, had received numberless wounds: I say, to observe that this dead youth is introduced only for the example of his virtue, and that his death is so circumstantiated, that we are satisfied, for all his virtue, it was for the good of the world, and his own family, that his warm temper was not to be put upon farther trial, but his task of life ended while it was yet virtuous, is an employment worthy the consideration of our young Britons. We are obliged to authors, that can do what they will with us, that they do not play our affections and passions against ourselves; but to make us so soon resigned to the death of Marcus, of whom we were so fond, is a power that would be unfortunately lodged in a man without the love of virtue. Were it not that I speak, on this occasion, rather as a Guardian than a critic, I could proceed to the examination of the justness of each character, and take notice that the Numidian is as well drawn as the Roman. There is not an idea in all the part of Syphax which does not apparently arise from the habits which grow in the mind of an African ; and the scene between Juba and his general, where they talk for and against a liberal education, is full of instruction. Syphax urges all that can be said against phi. losophy, as it is made subservient to ill ends, by men who abuse their talents; and Juba sets the less excellencies of activity, labour, patience of hunger, and strength of body, which are the admired qualifications of a Numidian, in their proper subordination to the accomplishments of the mind. But this play is so well recommended by others, that I will not for that, and some private reasons, enlarge any farther. Doctor Garth has very agreeably fallied the mercenary traffic between men and women of this age, in the epilogue, by Mrs. Porter, who acted Lucia. And Mr. Pope has prepared the audience for a new scene of passion and transport on a more noble foundation than they have before been entertained with, in the prologue. I shall take the liberty to gratify the impatience of the town by inserting these two excellent pieces, as earnests of the work itself, which will be printed within few days.

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Who would not listen when young lovers woo?
What die a maid yet have the choice of two
Ladies are often cruel to their cost :
To give you pain, themselves they punish most.
Vows of virginity should well be weigh'd;
Too oft they "re cancel'd, tho' in convents made.
Would you revenge such rash resolves—you mayo
He spiteful—and believe the thing we say:
We hate you when you're easily said Nay. y
How needless, if you knew us, were your tears;
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have cars,
Our hearts are form'd as you yourse would choose,
Too proud to ask, too luntrible to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell:
He sighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wediock with the joys we mix;
"Tis best reponting in a coach and six
Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue
Those lively lessons we have learned from you;
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms;
But wicked wealth usurps the power of charins:
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate,
To swell in show, and be a wretch in state
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
Ev’n churches are no sanctuaries now :
There golden idols all your vows receive:
She is no goddess who has naught to give.
Oh may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the soul sincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And crowns less coveted than groves and springs.
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And constancy feel transport in its chains;
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal;
Virtue again to his bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time:
The fair shall listen to desert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's son.

What odd fantastic things we women do: !

No. 34.] Monday, April 20, 1713.

Morcs multorem widit
Hor. Ars Poet, ver, 142.

He many men and many manners saw.

It is a most vexatious thing to an old man, who endeavours to square his notions by reason, and to talk from reflection and experience, to fall in with a circle of young ladies at their af. ternoon tea-table. This happened very lately to be my sate. The conversation, for the first half-hour, was so very rambling, that it is hard to say what was talked of, or who spoke least to the purpose. The various motions of the fan, the tossings of the head, intermixed with all the pretty kinds of laughter, made up the

modish way of shining and being witty, settled into something like conversation, and the talk ran upon “fine gentlemen.” From the several characters that were given, and the exceptions that were made, as this or that gentleman hap. pened to be named, I found that a lady is not difficult to be pleased, and that the town swarms with fine gentlemen. A nimble pair of heels, a smooth complexion, a full-bottom wig, a laced shirt, an embroidered suit, a pair of fringed gloves, a hat and feather; any one or more of these and the like accomplishments ennobles a man, and raises him above the vulgar, in a female imagination. On the contrary, a modest serious behaviour, a plain dress, a thick pair of shoes, a leathern belt, a waistcoat not lined with silk, and such like imperfections, degrade a man, and are so many blots in his escutcheon. I could not forbear smiling at one of the pret. tiest and liveliest of this gay assembly, who cxcepted to the gentility of sir William Hearty, because he wore a frieze coat, and breakfasted upon toast and ale. I pretended to admire the fineness of her taste ; and to strike in with her in ridiculing those awkward healthy gentlemen that seem to make nourishment the chief end of eating. I gave her an account of an honest Yorkshire gentleman, who (when I was a traveller) used to invite his acquaintance at Paris to break their fast with him upon cold roast beef and mum. There was, I remember, a little French marquis, who was often pleased to rally him unmercifully upon hectand pudding, of which our countryman would despatch a pound or two with great alacrity, while his antagonist was piddling at a mushroom, or the haunch of a frog. I could perceive the lady was pleased with what I said, and we parted very good friends, by virtue of a maxim I always observe, Never to contradict or reason with a sprightly female. I went home, however, full of a great many serious reflections upon what had passed, and though, in complaisance I disguised my sentinents, to keep up the good humour of my fair companions, and to avoid being looked upon as a testy old fellow, yet out of the good-will I bear to the sex, and to prevent for the future their being imposed upon by counterfeits, I shall give them the distinguishing marks of “a true fine gentleman.' When a good artist would express any remarkable character in sculpture, he endeavours to work up his figure into all the perfections his imagination can form; and to imitate not so much what is, as what may or ought to be. I shall follow their example, in the idea I am going to trace out of a fine gentleman, by as. sembling together such qualifications as seem requisite to make the character completc. In order to this I shall premise in general, that by a fine gentleman I mean a man completely qualified as well for the service and good, as for the ornament and delight of society. When I consider the frame of mind peculiar to a gentleman, I suppose it gracca with all the dignity and elevation of spirit that human nature is capable of. To this I would have joined a clear understanding, a reason free from prejudice, a steady judgment, and an extensive knowledge.

greatest part of the discourse. At last, this When I think of the heart of a gentleman, I

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