was all the world to her, and she thought she ought to be all the world to me. "If," said she, " my dear loves me as much as I love him, he will never be tired of my company." This declaration was followed by my being denied to all my acquaintance; and it very soon came to that pass, that to give an answer at the door before my face, the servants would ask her whether I was within or not; and she would answer No with great fondness, and tell me I was a good dear. I will not enumerate more little circumstances to give you a livelier sense of my condition, but tell you in general, that from such steps as these at first I now live the life of a prisoner of state; my letters are opened, and I have not the use of pen, ink, and paper but in her presence. I never go abroad except she sometimes takes me with her in her coach to take the air, if it may be called SO When we drive, as we generally do, with the glasses up, I have overheard my servants lament my condition; but they dare not bring me messages without her knowledge, because they doubt my resolution to stand by 'em. In the midst of this insipid way of life, an old acquaintance of mine, Tom Meggot, who is a favourite with her, and allowed to visit me in her company because he sings prettily, has roused me to rebel, and conveyed his intelligence to me in the following manner. My wife is a great pretender to music, and very ignorant of it; but far gone in the Italian taste. Tom goes to Armstrong, the famous fine writer of music, and desires him to put this sentence of Tully' in the scale of an Italian air, and write it out for my spouse from him: "An illo mihi liber cui mulier imperat? Cui leges imponit, præscribit, jubet, vetat quod

1 Paradox v.

videtur? qui nihil imperanti negare, nihil recusare audet? poscit? dandum. est vocat? veniendum. ejicit? abeundum. minitatur? Entime scendum." "Does he live like a gentleman who is commanded by a woman? He to whom she gives law, grants and denies what she pleases? who can neither deny her anything she asks, or refuse to do anything she commands?"

'To be short, my wife was extremely pleased with it; said the Italian was the only language for music; and admired how wonderfully tender the sentiment was, and how pretty the accent is of that language; with the rest that is said by rote on that occasion. Mr. Meggot is sent for to sing this air, which he performs with mighty applause; and my wife is in ecstasy on the occasion, and glad to find, by my being so much pleased, that I was at last come into the notion of the Italian; "for," said she, "it grows upon one when one once comes to know a little of the language; and pray, Mr. Meggot, sing again those notes, Nihil imperanti negare, nihil recusare. You may believe I was not a little delighted with my friend Tom's expedient to alarm me, and in obedience to his summons I give all this story thus at large; and I am resolved, when this appears in the Spectator, to declare for myself. The manner of the insurrection I contrive by your means, which shall be no other than that Tom Meggot, who is at our tea-table every morning, shall read it to us; and if my dear can take the hint, and say not one word, but let this be the beginning of a new life without further explanation, it is very well; for as soon as the Spectator is read out, I shall, without more ado, call for the coach, name the hour when I shall be at home, if I come at all; if I do not, they

may go to dinner. If my spouse only swells and says nothing, Tom and I go out together, and all is well, as I said before; but if she begins to command or expostulate, you shall in my next to you receive a full account of her resistance and submission;1 for submit the dear thing must to,

SIR,

Your most obedient humble Servant,

ANTONY FREEMAN.

'P.S.—I hope I need not tell you that I desire this may be in your very next.'

T.

No. 213. Saturday, Nov. 3, 1711

IT

[ADDISON.

-Mens sibi conscia recti.-VIRG., Æn. i. 604.

T is the great art and secret of Christianity, if I may use that phrase, to manage our actions to the best advantage, and direct them in such a manner that everything we do may turn to account, at that great day when everything we have done will be set before us.

In order to give this consideration its full weight, we may cast all our actions under the division of such as are in themselves either good, evil, or indifferent. If we divide our intentions after the same manner, and consider them with regard to our actions, we may discover that great art and secret of religion which I have here mentioned.

A good intention joined to a good action, gives it its proper force and efficacy; joined to an

1 See No. 216.

evil action, extenuates its malignity, and in some cases may take it wholly away; and joined to an indifferent action, turns it to a virtue, and makes it meritorious, as far as human actions can be so.

In the next place, to consider in the same manner the influence of an evil intention upon our actions. An evil intention perverts the best of actions, and makes them in reality what the Fathers with a witty kind of zeal have termed the virtues of the heathen

world, so many shining sins.1 It destroys the innocence of an indifferent action, and gives an evil action all possible blackness and horror, or in the emphatical language of Sacred Writ, makes sin exceeding sinful.2

If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an indifferent intention, we shall find that it destroys the merit of a good action; abates, but never takes away the malignity of an evil action; and leaves an indifferent action in its natural state of indifference.

It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess our minds with an habitual good intention, and to aim all our thoughts, words, and actions at some laudable end, whether it be the glory of our Maker, the good of mankind, or the benefit of our own souls.

This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral life, which does not throw away any single action, but makes every one go as far as it can. It multiplies the means of salvation, increases the number of our virtues, and diminishes that of our vices.

There is something very devout, though not so

1 Spendida peccata.'

2 Rom. vii. 13.

this

solid, in Acosta's answer to Limborch,' who objects to him the multiplicity of ceremonies in the Jewish religion, as washings, dresses, meats, purgations, and the like. The reply which the Jew makes upon occasion is, to the best of my remembrance, as follows: There are no duties enough,' says he, in the essential parts of the law for a zealous and active obedience. Time, place, and person are requisite, before you have an opportunity of putting a moral virtue into practice. We have therefore,' says he, 'enlarged the sphere of our duty, and made many things which are in themselves indifferent a part of our religion, that we may have more occasions of showing our love to God, and in all the circumstances of life be doing something to please Him.'

1 Amica Collatio de Veritate Relig. Christ. cum Erudito Judæo, published in 1687, by Philippe de Limborch, who was eminent as a professor of theology at Amsterdam from 1667 until his death, in 1712, at the age of seventy-nine. But the learned Jew was the Spanish physician Isaac Orobio, who was tortured for three years in the prisons of the Inquisition on a charge of Judaism. He admitted nothing, was therefore set free, and left Spain for Toulouse, where he practised physic and passed as a Catholic until he settled at Amsterdam. There he made profession of the Jewish faith, and died in the year of the publication of Limborch's friendly discussion with him.

The Uriel Acosta with whom Addison confounds Orobio was a gentleman of Oporto who had embraced Judaism, and, leaving Portugal, had also gone to Amsterdam. There he was circumcised, but was persecuted by the Jews themselves, and eventually whipped in the synagogue for attempting reformation of the Jewish usages, in which, he said, tradition had departed from the law of Moses. He took his thirty-nine lashes, recanted, and lay across the threshold of the synagogue for all his brethren to walk over him. Afterwards he endeavoured to shoot his principal enemy, but his pistol missed fire. He had another about him, and with that he shot himself. This happened about the year 1640, when Limborch was but a child of six or seven (Morley).