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and the next morning she was much more alarmed by two or three messengers, that came to her father's house, one after another, to inquire if they had heard anything of Theodosius, who it seems had left his chamber about midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deep melancholy which had hung upon his mind some time before, made them apprehend the worst that could befall him. Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was not to be comforted. She now accused herself for having so tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of her father's displeasure, rather than comply with a marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror. The father, seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep a considerable portion in his family, was not very much concerned at the obstinate refusal of his daughter; and did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that account to his intended son-in-law, who had all along regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of convenience than of love. Constantia had now no relief but in her devotions and exercises of religion, to which her afflictions had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settled her thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass the remainder of her days in a convent. Her father was not displeased with a resolution which would save money in his family, and readily complied with his daughter's intentions. Accordingly, in the twenty-fifth year of her age, while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom, he carried her to a neighboring city, in order to look out a sisterhood of nuns among whom to place his daughter. There was in this place a father of a convent who was very much renowned for his piety and exemplary life; and as it is usual in the Romish church for those who are under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to apply themselves to the most eminent confessors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful votary took the opportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very morning that the above-mentioned inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a religious house in the city where now Constantia resided; and desiring that secrecy and concealment of the fathers of the convent, which is very usual upon any extraordinary occasion, he made himself one of the order, with a private vow never to inquire after Constantia; whom he looked upon as given away to his rival upon the day on which, according to common fame, their marriage was to have been solemnized. Having in his youth made a good progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to religion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renowned for his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired into all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom Constantia had determined to apply herself in confession, though neither she nor any other, beside the prior of the convent, knew anything of his name or family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had now taken upon him the name of Father Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shaven head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the man of the world in the venerable conventual.

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, Constantia, kneeling by him, opened the state of her soul to him; and after having given

him the history of a life full of innocence, she burst out into tears, and entered upon that part of her story in which he himself had so great a share. My behavior," says she, "has, I fear, been the death of a man who had no other fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear he was to me while he lived, and how bitter the remembrance of him has been to me since his death." She here paused, and lifted up her eyes that streamed with tears toward the father; who was so moved with the sense of her sorrows, that he could only command his voice, which was broke with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. She followed his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out her heart before him. The father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that in the agonies of his grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion toward her, and by the horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquaint him with that vow of virginity in which she was going to engage herself, as the proper atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice she could make to the memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this time had pretty well composed himself, burst out again in tears upon hearing that name to which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving this instance of an unparalleled fidelity from one who he thought had several years since given herself up to the possession of another. Amidst the interruptions of his sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted; to tell her that her sins were forgiven herthat her guilt was not so great as she apprehended-that she should not suffer herself to be afflicted above measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her the absolution in form; directing her at the same time to repair to him again the next day, that he might encourage her in the pious resolution she had taken, and give her suitable exhortations for her behavior in it. Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed her applications. Theodosius, having manned his soul with proper thoughts and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the best manner he could to animate his penitent in the course of life she was entering upon, and wear out of her mind those groundless fears and apprehensions which had taken possession of it; concluding with a promise to her that he would from time to time continue his admonitions when she should have taken upon her the holy vail. "The rules of our respective orders," says he, "will not permit that I should see you, but you may assure yourself not only of having a place in my prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructions as I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the glorious course you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a peace and satisfaction in your mind, which it is not in the power of the world to give."

Constantia's heart was so elevated with the discourse of Father Francis, that the very next day she entered upon her vow. As soon as the solemnities of her reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, with the abbess into her own apartment.

The abbess had been informed the night before of all that had passed between her novitiate and Father Francis: from whom she now delivered to her the following letter:

"As the first fruits of those joys and consolations which you may expect from the life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that Theodosius, whose death sits so heavy upon your

thoughts, is still alive; and that the father, to whom you have confessed yourself, was once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The love which we have had for one another will make us more happy in its disappointment than it could have done in its success. Providence has disposed of us for our advantage, though not according to our wishes. Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure yourself of one who will not cease to pray for you in Father

"

'FRANCIS."

Constantia saw that the hand-writing agreed with the contents of the letter: and upon reflecting on the voice of the person, the behavior, and above all, the extreme sorrow of the father during her confession, she discovered Theodosius in every particular. After having wept with tears of joy, It is enough," says she, Theodosius is still in being: I shall live with comfort and die in peace."

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ful in beating down their power. Our so are men of strong heads for action, and pe such feats as they are not able to express. want words in their own tongue to tell us it is they achieve, and therefore send us ov counts of their performances in a jargon of pl which they learn among their conquered en They ought however to be provided with se ries, and assisted by our foreign ministers, their story for them in plain English, and us know in our mother tongue what it i brave countrymen are about. The French indeed be in the right to publish the news present war in the English phrases, and their campaigns unintelligible. Their 1 might flatter themselves that things are i bad as they really are, were they thus pal with foreign terms, and thrown into shade obscurity; but the English cannot be too cl their narrative of those actions which have their country to a higher pitch of glory t The letters which the father sent her afterward, ever yet arrived at, and which will be sti are yet extant in the nunnery where she resided; more admired the better they are explained. and are often read to the young religious, in order For my part, by that time a siege is carr to inspire them with good resolutions and senti- two or three days, I am altogether lost and ments of virtue. It so happened, that after Con-dered in it, and meet with so many inexpl stantia had lived about ten years in the cloister, a difficulties, that I scarce know which side h violent fever broke out in the place, which swept better of it, until I am informed by the away great multitudes, and among others Theodo- guns that the place is surrendered. I do i sius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction make some allowances for this part of the in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at fortifications have been foreign inventions that time was so far gone in the same fatal dis- | upon that abound in foreign terms. But temper, that she lay delirious. Upon the interval we have won battles which may be describ which generally precedes death in sickness of this our own language, why are our papers filled nature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had so many unintelligible exploits, and the I given her over, told her that Theodosius was just obliged to lend us a part of their tongue gone before her, and that he had sent her his ben- we can know how they are conquered? ediction in his last moments. Constantia received must be made accessory to their own disgra it with pleasure. "And now," says she, "If I do the Britons were formerly so artificially wi not ask anything improper, let me be buried by in the curtain of the Roman theater, that Theodosius. My yow reaches no farther than the seemed to draw it up in order to give the s grave; what I ask is, I hope, no violation of it."- tors an opportunity of seeing their own She died soon after, and was interred according celebrated upon the stage: for so Mr. Dryde to her request. translated that verse in Virgil:

Their tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin inscription over them, to the following purpose:

"Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided."—C.

L.

Purpurea intexti tollunt aulea Britanni.-GEORG Which interwoven Britons seem to raise, And show the triumph that their shame displays The histories of all our former wars are mitted to us in our vernacular idiom, to phrase of a great modern critic.* I do not any of our chronicles, that Edward the ever 'reconnoitered' the enemy, though he oft

No. 165.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1711. covered the posture of the French, and as oft

-Si forte necesse est,

Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis
Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.
HOR., Ars. Poet., v, 48.

-If you would unheard-of things express,
Invent new words; we can indulge a muse,
Until the license rise to an abuse.-CREECH.

quished them in battle. The Black Prince many a river without the help of pon and filled a ditch with fagots as successf the generals of our times do it with 'fascines. commanders lose half their praise, and our half their joy, by means of those hard wor dark expressions in which our newspaper I HAVE often wished, that as in our constitution much abound. I have seen many a prude there are several persons whose business is to zen, after having read every article, inquire watch over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, next neighbor what news the mail had brou certain men might be set apart as superintend- I remember in that remarkable year, wh ents of our language, to hinder any words of a country was delivered from the greatest fea foreign coin from passing among us; and in partic-apprehensions, and raised to the greatest ular to prohibit any French phrases from becoming of gladness it had ever felt since it was current in this kingdom, when those of our own tion,-I mean the year of Blenheim,-I h stamp are altogether as valuable. The present copy of a letter sent me out of the country, war has so adulterated our tongue with strange was written from a young gentleman in th words, that it would be impossible for one of our to his father, a man of good estate and great grandfathers to know what his posterity sense. As the letter was very modishly cl have been doing, were he to read their exploits in ed with this modern military eloquence, modern newspaper. Our warriors are very in- present my reader with a copy of it: dustrious in propagating the French language, at the same time that they are so gloriously success

Dr. Richard Bentley.

"SIR,

their ideas in books, which by this great invention of these latter ages may last as long as the sun and moon, and perish only in the general wreck of nature. Thus Cowley, in his poem on the Resurrection, mentioning the destruction of the universe has these admirable lines:

Now all the wide-extended sky,

And all th' harmonious worlds on high,
And Virgil's Sacred work shall die.

There is no other method of fixing those thoughts which arise and disappear in the mind of man, and transmitting them to the last periods of time; no other method of giving a permanency to our ideas and preserving the knowledge of any particular person, when his body is mixed with the common mass of matter, and his soul retired into the world of spirits. Books are the legacies that a great genius leaves to mankind, which are delivered down from generation to generation, as presents to the posterity of those who are yet

"Upon the junction of the French and Bavarian armies, they took post behind a great morass, which they thought impracticable. Our general the next day sent a party of horse to 'reconnoiter' them from a little 'hauteur,' at about a quarter of an hour's distance from the army, who returned again to the camp unobserved through several 'defiles,' in one of which they met with a party of French that had been marauding,' and made them all prisoners at discretion. The day after a drum arrived at our camp, with a message which he would communicate to none but the general; he was followed by a trumpet, who, they say, behaved himself very saucily, with a message from the Duke of Bavaria. The next morning our army, being divided into two corps,' made a movement toward the enemy. You will hear in the public prints how we treated them, with the other circumstances of that glorious day. I had the good fortune to be in that regiment that push-unborn. ed the 'gens d'armes.' Several French battalions, which some say were a 'corps de reserve,' made a show of resistance; but it only proved a 'gasconade,' for upon our preparing to fill up a little 'fossé, in order to attack them, they beat the 'chamade,' and sent us a 'carte blanche.' Their 'commandant,' with a great many other general officers, and troops without number, are made priBoners of war, and will, I believe, give you a visit in England, the 'cartel' not being yet settled. Not questioning but these particulars will be very welcome to you, I congratulate you upon them, and am your most dutiful son," etc.

The father of the young gentleman, upon the perusal of the letter, found it contained great news but could not guess what it was. He immediately communicated it to the curate of the parish, who, upon the reading of it, being vexed to see anything he could not understand, fell into a kind of passion, and told him, that his son had sent him a letter that was neither fish, flesh, nor good red-herring. "I wish," says he, "the captain may be compos mentis:' he talks of a saucy trumpet, and a drum that carries messages; then who is this 'carte blanche?' He must either banter us, or he is out of his senses." The father, who always looked upon the curate as a learned man, began to fret inwardly at his son's usage, and producing a letter which he had written to him about three posts before: "You see here," says he, "when he writes for money he knows how to speak intelligibly enough; there is no man in England can express himself clearer, when he wants a new furniture for his horse." In short, the old man was so puzzled upon the point, that it might have fared ill with his son, had he not seen all the prints about three days after filled with the same terms of art, and that Charles only wrote like other men.-L.

No. 166.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1711.
Quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis.
Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas.
OVID, Met. XV, 871.

Which nor dreads the rage

Of tempests, fire, or war, or wasting age.-WELSTED. ARISTOTLE tells us, that the world is a copy or transcript of those ideas which are in the mind of the first Being, and that those ideas which are in the mind of man are a transcript of the world. To this we may add, that words are the transcript of those ideas which are in the mind of man, and that writing or printing is the transcript of words. As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it were, printed his ideas in the creation, men express

All other arts of perpetuating our ideas continue but a short time. Statues can last but a few thousands of years, edifices fewer, and colors still fewer than edifices. Michael Angelo, Fontana, and Raphael, will hereafter be what Phidias, Vitruvius, and Apelles are at present; the names of great statuaries, architects, and painters, whose works are lost. The several arts are expressed in mouldering materials. Nature sinks under them, and is not able to support the ideas which are impressed upon it.

The circumstance which gives authors an advantage above all these great masters is this, that they can multiply their originals: or rather can make copies of their works, to what number they please, which shall be as valuable as the originals themselves. This gives a great author something like a prospect of eternity, but at the same time deprives him of those other advantages which artists meet with. The artist finds greater returns in profit, as the author in fame. What an inestimable price would a Virgil or a Homer, a Cicero or an Aristotle bear, were their works, like a statue, a building, or a picture, to be confined only in one place, and made the property of a single person!

If writings are thus durable, and may pass from age to age through the whole course of time, how careful should an author be of committing anything to print that may corrupt posterity, and poison the minds of men with vice and error! Writers of great talents, who employ their parts in propagating immorality, and seasoning vicious sentiments with wit and humor, are to be looked upon as the pests of society, and the enemies of mankind. They leave books behind them (as it is said of those who die in distempers, which breed an ill-will toward their own species), to scatter infection and destroy their posterity. They act the counterparts of a Confucius or a Socrates; and seem to have been sent into the world to deprave human nature, and sink it into the condition of brutality.

I have seen some Roman Catholic authors who tell us that vicious writers continue in purgatory so long as the influence of their writings continues upon posterity: "for purgatory, say they, "is nothing else but a cleansing us of our sins, which cannot be said to be done away, so long as they continue to operate, and corrupt mankind. The vicious author," say they, "sins after death; and so long as he continues to sin, so long must he expect to be punished." Though the Roman Catholic notion of purgatory be indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think, that if the soul after death has any knowledge of what passes in this world, that of an immoral writer would receive much

more regret from the sense of corrupting, than satisfaction from the thought of pleasing, his surviving admirers.

To take off from the severity of this speculation, I shall conclude this paper with a story of an atheistical anthor, who at a time when he lay dangerously sick, and had desired the assistance of a neighboring curate, confessed to him with great contrition, that nothing sat more heavy at his heart than the sense of his having seduced the age by his writings, and that their evil influence was likely to continue even after his death. The curate upon farther examination finding the penitent in the utmost agonies of despair, and being himself a man of learning, told him, that he hoped his case was not so desperate as he apprehended, since he found that he was so very sensible of his fault, and so sincerely repented of it. The penitent still urged the evil tendency of his book to subvert all religion, and the little ground of hope there could be for one whose writings would continue to do mischief when his body was laid in ashes. The curate, finding no other way of comforting him, told him that he did well in being afflicted for the evil design with which he published his book; but that he ought to be very thankful that there was no danger of its doing any hurt: that his cause was so very bad, and his arguments so weak, that he did not apprehend any ill effects of it: in short, that he might rest satisfied his book could do no more mischief after his death, than it had done while he was living. To which he added, for his farther satisfaction, that he did not believe any beside his particular friends and acquaintance had ever been at the pains of reading it, or that anybody after his death would ever inquire after it. The dying man had still so much of the frailty of an author in him, as to be cut to the heart with these consolations; and, without answering the good man, asked his friends about him (with a peevishness that is natural to a sick person) where they had picked up such a blockhead? and whether they thought him a proper person to attend one in his condition? The curate, finding that the author did not expect to be dealt with as a real and sincere penitent, but as a penitent of importance, after a short admonition withdrew; not questioning but he should be again sent for if the sickness grew desperate. The author however recovered, and has since written two or three other tracts with the same spirit, and very luckily for his poor soul, with the -C.

same success.

No. 167.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1711.

-Fuit haud ignobilis Argis,
Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos,
In vacuo lætus sessor, plausorque theatro;
Cætera qui vitæ servaret munia recto
More; bonus sane vicinus, amabilis hospes,
Comis in uxorem; posset qui ignoscere servis,
Et signo læso non insanire lagenæ;
Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare patentem.
Hic, ubi cognatorum opibus curisque refectus,
Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque meraco,
Et redit ad sese; Pol me occidistis, amici,
Non servastis, ait; cui, sic extorta voluptas,
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error.
HOR. 2 Ep, ii, 128.

IMITATED.

There liv'd in Primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no small fool, a lord;"
Who, though the house was up, delighted sate,
Heard, noted, answer'd as in full debate;
In all but this, a man of sober life,
Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;

The atheistical writer here alluded to, might, perhaps, be Mr. Toland, who is said, by a writer in the Examiner, to have been the butt of the Tatler, and for the same reasons, proba bly, of the Spectator.

Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell,
And much too wise to walk into a well.
Him the damn'd doctor and his friends immur'd;
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd, in short the
Whereat the gentleman began to stare-
"My friends," he cried: "pox take you for your
That from a patriot of distinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote."-Poi

THE unhappy force of an imagination un by the check of reason and judgment, w subject of a former speculation. My reade remember that he has seen in one of my pa complaint of an unfortunate gentleman, w unable to contain himself (when any or matter was laid before him) from adding circumstances to enliven plain narrative. correspondent was a person of too warm plexion to be satisfied with things merely stood in nature, and therefore formed in which should have happened to have pleas in the story. The same ungoverned fancy pushed that correspondent on, in spite of h to relate public and notorious falsehoods, the author of the following letter do the s private; one is a prating, the other a silent

There is little pursued in the errors of ei these worthies, but mere present amuseme the folly of him who lets his fancy place distant scenes untroubled and uninterru very much preferable to that of him who forcing a belief, and defending his untrut new inventions. But I shall hasten to 1 liar in soliloquy, who calls himself a builder, describe himself with the same servedness as formerly appeared in my cor dent above-mentioned. If a man were serious on this subject, he might give ver admonitions to those who are following a in this life, on which they think to plac hearts, and tell them they are really castle-b Fame, glory, wealth, honor, have in the p pleasing illusions; but they who come to any of them will find they are ingredients happiness, to be regarded only in the secon and that when they are valued in the first they are as disappointing as any of the ph in the following letter:

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"I am a fellow of a very odd frame of m you will find by the sequel; and think my enough to deserve a place in your paper. unhappily far gone in building, and am that species of men who are properly deno castle builders, who scorn to be beholden to t for a foundation, or dig in the bowels o materials; but erect their structures in th unstable of elements, the air; fancy alone the line, marking the extent, and shap model. It would be difficult to enumera august palaces and stately prorticos have under my forming imagination, or what meadows and shady groves have start being by the powerful feat of a warm far castle-builder is even just what he pleases. such I have grasped imaginary scepters, livered uncontrollable edicts, from a th which conquered nations yielded obeisa have made know not how many inroa France, and ravaged the very heart kingdom; I have dined in the Louvre, an champagne at Versailles; and I would ha take notice, I am not only able to vanquis ple already 'cowed' and accustomed to fi I could, Almanzor-like, drive the British

Alluding to a furious character in Dryden's Cor

Granada

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from the field, were I less a Protestant, or had If any child be of so disingenuous a nature, as ever been affronted by the confederates. There is not to stand corrected by reproof, he, like the very no art or profession, whose most celebrated mas- worst of slaves, will be hardened even against ters I have not eclipsed. Wherever I have afford- blows themselves.' And afterward, Pudet dicere ed my salutary presence, fevers have ceased to in qua probra nefandi homines isto cædendi jure abuburn and agues to shake the human fabric. When tantur;' i. e. 'I blush to say how shamefully those an eloquent fit has been upon me, an apt gesture wicked men abuse the power of correction.' and proper cadence have animated each sentence, "I was bred myself, Sir, in a very great school,* and gazing crowds have found their passions of which the master was a Welshman, but cerworked up into rage, or soothed into a calm. I tainly descended from a Spanish family, as plainam short, and not very well made; yet upon sight ly appeared from his temper as well as his name.+ stature, a a on a Spaniard II! of a fine woman, I have stretched into proper I leave you to judge what sort of a schoolmaster So very dreadful had he made himself to me, that although it is above twenty years since I felt his heavy hand, yet still once a month at least I dream of him, so strong an impression did he make on my mind. It is a sign he has fully terrified me waking, who still continues to haunt me sleeping.

These are the gay phantoms that dance before my waking eyes, and compose my day-dreams. I should be the most contented, happy man alive, were the chimerical happiness which springs from the paintings of fancy less fleeting and transitory. But alas! it is with grief of mind I tell you, the least breath of wind has often demolished my magnificent edifices, swept away my groves, and left no more trace of them than if they had never been. My exchequer has sunk and vanished by a rap on my door; the salutation of a friend has cost me a whole continent; and in the same moment I have been pulled by the sleeve, my crown has fallen from my head. The ill consequence of these reveries is inconceivably great, seeing the loss of imaginary possessions makes impressions of real Toe. Beside, bad economy is visible and apparent in builders of invisible mansions. My tenants' advertisements of ruins and dilapidations often cast a damp on my spirits, even in the instant when the sun in all his splendor, gilds my eastern palaces. Add to this, the pensive drudgery in building, and constant grasping aerial trowels, distracts and shatters the mind, and the fond builder of Babels is often cursed with an incoherent diversity and confusion of thoughts. I do not know to whom I can more properly apply myself for relief from this fantastical evil, than to yourself; whom I earnestly implore to accommodate me with a method how to settle my head and cool my brain-pan. A dissertation on castlebuilding may not only be serviceable to myself, but all architects, who display their skill in the thin element. Such a favor would oblige me to make my next soliloquy not contain the praises of my dear self, but of the Spectator, who shall, by complying with this, make me

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No. 168.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 12, 1711. -Pectus præceptis format amicis.-HOR. 2 Ep. i, 128. Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art.-POPE. Ir would be arrogance to neglect the application of my correspondents so far, as not sometimes to insert their animadversions upon my paper; that of this day shall be therefore wholly composed of the hints which they have sent me. "MR. SPECTATOR,

"And yet I may say without vanity, that the business of the school was what I did without great difficulty; and I was not remarkably unlucky; and yet such was the master's severity, that once a month, or oftener, I suffered as much as would have satisfied the law of the land for a petty larceny.

66

Many a white and tender hand, which the fond mother had passionately kissed a thousand and a thousand times, have I seen whipped until it was covered with blood; perhaps for smiling, or for going a yard and a half out of a gate, or for writing an o for an ▲, or an ▲ for an o. These were our great faults! Many a brave and noble spirit has been there broken; others have run from thence, and were never heard of afterward. It is a worthy attempt to undertake the cause of distressed youth; and it is a noble piece of knighterrantry to enter the list against so many armed pedagogues. It is pity but we had a set of men, polite in their behavior and method of teaching, who should be put into a condition of being above flattering or fearing the parents of those they instruct. We might then possibly see learning become a pleasure, and children delighting themselves in that which they now abhor for coming upon such hard terms to them. What would be still a greater happiness arising from the care of such instructors, would be, that we should have no more pedants, nor any bred to learning who had not genius for it.

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"I am, with the utmost sincerity, Sir,
"Your most affectionate, humble servant."

'MR. SPECTATOR,

Richmond, Sept. 5, 1711.

"I am a boy, of fourteen years of age, and have for this last year been under the tuition of a doctor of divinity, who has taken the school of this place under his care. From the gentleman's great tenderness to me and friendship to my father, I am very happy in learning my book with pleasure. We never leave off our diversions any farther than to salute him at hours of play when he pleases to look on. It is impossible for any of us to love our own parents better than we do him. "I send you this to congratulate your late He never gives any of us a harsh word, and we choice of a subject, for treating on which you de- think it the greatest punishment in the world serve public thanks; I mean that on those licensed when he will not speak to any of us. My brotyrants the schoolmasters. If you can disarm ther and I are both together inditing this letthem of their rods, you will certainly have your old ter. He is a year older than I am, but is now age reverenced by all the young gentlemen of ready to break his heart that the doctor has not Great Britain who are now between seven and seventeen years. You may boast that the incomparably wise Quintilian and you are of one mind in this particular. Si cui est (says he) mens tam illiberalis ut objurgatione non corrigatur, is etiam ad plagas, ut pessima quæque mancipia, durabitur;' i. e.

* Eton.

Dr. Charles Roderick, master, the provost of Eton-school,

and afterward master of King's College, Cambridge.
version of the Psalms, and was author of several volumes
This was Dr. Nicholas Brady, who joined in the new
of sermons.

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