have miscarried by such sort of applications, it is No. 215.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1711. OVID, de Ponto, II. ix, 47. I CONSIDER a human soul without education like marble in the quarry, which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colors, makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein that runs through the body of it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which without such helps are never able to make their appearance. If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in stone, the sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, very often lie hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred, and have brought to light. I am therefore, much delighted with reading the accounts of savage nations, and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated; to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes, who upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it frequently happens in our American plantations, who can forbear admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful a manner? What might not that savage greatness of soul which appears in these poor wretches on many occasions be raised to were it rightly cultivated? And what color of excuse can there be for the contempt with which we treat this part of our species? that we should not put them upon the common foot of humanity; that we should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who murders them; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off from the prospect of happiness in another world as well as in this, and deny them that which we look upon as the proper means for attaining it? The Spectator has not justly represented here the gods of Epicurus: they were supposed to be indolent and uninterested in the affairs of men, but not malignant or cruel beings. Since I am engaged on this subject, I cannot forbear mentioning a story which I have lately heard, and which is so well attested, that I have no manner of reason to suspect the truth of it. I may call it a kind of wild tragedy that passed about twelve years ago at St. Christopher's, one of our British Leeward islands. The negroes, who were the persons concerned in it, were all of them the slaves of a gentleman, who is now in England. This gentleman, among his negroes, had a young woman, who was looked upon as a most extraordinary beauty by those of her own complexion. He had at the same time two young fellows, who were likewise negroes and slaves, remarkable for the comeliness of their persons, and for the friendship which they bore to one another. It unfortunately happened that both of them fell in love with the female negro abovementioned, who would have been very glad to have taken either of them for her husband, provided they would agree between themselves which should be the man. But they were both so passionately in love with her, that neither of them would think of giving her up to his rival; and at the same time were so true to one another, that neither of them would think of gaining her without his friend's consent. The torments of these two lovers were the discourse of the family to which they belonged, who could not forbear observing the strange complication of passions which perplexed the hearts of the poor negroes, that often dropped expressions of the uneasiness they underwent, and how impossible it was for either of them ever to be happy. After a long struggle between love and friendship, truth and jealousy, they one day took a walk together into a wood, carrying their mistress along with them: where, after abundance of lamentations, they stabbed her to the heart, of which she immediately died. A slave who was at his work not far from the place where this astonishing piece of cruelty was committed, hearing the shrieks of the dying person, ran to see what was the occasion of them. He there discovered the woman lying dead upon the ground, with the two negroes on each side of her, kissing the dead corpse, weeping over it, and beating their breasts in the utmost agonies of grief and despair. He immediately ran to the English family with the news of what he had seen; who, upon coming to the place, saw the woman dead, and the two negroes expiring by her with wounds they had given themselves. We see in this amazing instance of barbarity, what strange disorders are bred in the minds of those men whose passions are not regulated by virtue, and disciplined by reason. Though the action which I have recited is in itself full of guilt and horror, it proceeded from a temper of mind which might have produced very noble fruits, had it been informed and guided by a suitable education. It is therefore an unspeakable blessing to be born in those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish; though it must be confessed, there are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which I have been here speaking; as those who have had the advantage of a more liberal education rise above one another by several different degrees of perfection. For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough-hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure; sometimes we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features, sometimes we find the figure wrought up to a great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or Praxiteles could not give several nice touches and finishings. Discourses of morality, and reflections upon human nature, are the best means we can make use of to improve our minds, and gain a true knowledge of ourselves, and consequently to recover our souls out of the vice, ignorance, and prejudice, which naturally cleave to them. I have all along professed myself in this paper a promoter of these great ends; and I flatter myself that I do from day to day contribute something to the polishing of men's minds: at least my design is laudable, whatever the execution may be. I must confess I am not a little encouraged in it by many letters which I receive from unknown hands, in approbation of my endeavors; and must take this opportunity of returning my thanks to those who write them, and excusing myself for not inserting several of them in my papers, which I am sensible would be a very great ornament to them. Should I publish the praises which are so well penned, they would do honor to the persons who write them, but my publishing of them would, I fear, be a sufficient instance to the world that I did not deserve them.-C. "The uproar was so great as soon as I had read the Spectator concerning Mrs. Freeman, that after many revolutions in her temper, of raging, swoon ing, railing, fainting, pitying herself, and reviling her husband, upon an accidental coming in of a neighboring lady (who says she has written to you also), she had nothing left for it but to fall into a fit. I had the honor to read the paper to her, and have pretty good command of countenauce and temper on such occasions; and soon found my historical name to be Tom Meggot in your writings, but concealed myself until I saw Low it affected Mrs. Freeman. She looked frequently at her husband, as often at me and she did not tremble as she filled tea, until she came to the circumstance of Armstrong's writing out a piece of Tully for an opera tune. Then she burst out, she was exposed, she was deceived, she was wronged and abused. The tea-cup was thrown into the fire; and without taking vengeance on her spouse, she said to me, that I was a pretending coxcomb, a meddler that knew not what it was to interpose in so nice an affair as between a man and his wife. To which Mr. Freeman: 'Madam, were I less fond of you than I am, I should not have taken this way of writing to the Spectator to inform a woman, whom God and nature has placed under my direction, with what I request of her; but since you are so indiscreet as not to take the hint which I gave you in that paper, I must tell you, Madam, in so many words, that you have for a long and tedious space of time acted a part unsuitable to the sense you ought to have of the subordination in which you are placed. And I must acquaint you, once for all, that the fellow without'-Ha, Tom!'-(here the footman entered and answered, Madam) Sirrah, don't you know my voice? Look upon me when I speak to you.' I say, Madam, this fellow here is to know of me myself, whether I am at leisure to see company or not. I am from this hour master of this house; and my business in it, and everywhere else is to behave myself in such a manner, as it shall be hereafter an honor to you to bear my name; and your pride that you are the delight, the darling, and ornament of a man of honor, useful and esteemed by his friends; and I no longer one that has buried some merit in the world, in compliance to a froward humor which has grown upon an agreeable woman by his indulgence.' Mr Freeman ended this with a tenderness in his aspect, and a downcast eye, which showed he was extremely moved at the anguish he saw her in; for she sat swelling with passion, and her eyes firmly fixed on the fire; when I, fearing he would lose all again, took upon me to provoke her out of that amiable sorrow she was in, to fall upon me; upon which I said very seasonably for my friend, that indeed Mr. Freeman was become the common talk of the town; and that nothing was so much a jest, as when it was said in company, Mr. Freeman had promised to come to such a place. Upon which the good lady turned her softness into downright rage, and threw the scalding teakettle upon your humble servant, flew into the middle of the room, and cried out she was the unfortunatest of all women. Others kept family dissatisfactions for hours of privacy and retirement. No apology was to be made to her, no expedient to be found, no previous manner of breaking what was amiss in her; but all the world was to be acquainted with her errors, without the least admonition. Mr. Freeman was going to make a softening speech, but I interposed: Look you, Madam, I have nothing to say to this matter, but you ought to consider you are now past a chicken; this humor, which was well enough in a girl, is insufferable in one of your motherly character.' With that she lost all patience, and flew directly at her husband's periwig. I got her in my arms, and defended my friend; he making signs at the same time that it was too much; beckoning, nodding, and frowning over her shoulder, that he was lost if he did not persist. In this manner we flew around and round the room in a moment, until the lady I spoke of above and servants entered; upon which she fell upon the couch as breathless. I still kept up my friend: but he, with a very silly air, bid then bring the coach to the door, and we went off; I being forced to bid the coachman drive on. We were no sooner come to my lodgings, but all his wife's_relations came to inquire after him; and Mrs. Freeman's mother wrote a note, wherein she thought never to have seen this day, and so forth. "In a word, Sir, I am afraid we are upon a thing we have no talents for; and I can observe already, my friend looks upon me rather as a mau that knows a weakness of him that he is ashamed of, than one who has rescued him from slavery. Mr. Spectator, I am but a young fellow, and if Mr. Freeman submits, I shall be looked upon as an incendiary, and never get a wife as long as I breathe. He has indeed sent word home he shall lie at Hampstead to-night; but I believe fear of the first onset after this rupture has too great a place in this resolution. Mrs. Freeman has a very pretty sister; suppose I delivered him up, and articled with her mother for her bringing him home. If he has not courage to stand it (you are a great casuist), is it such an ill thing to bring myself off as well as I can? What makes me doubt my man is, that I find he thinks it reasonable to expostulate at least with her? and Captain Sentry will tell you, if you let your orders be disputed, you are no longer a commander. I wish you could advise me how to get clear of this business handsomely. "Yours, whalebone and buckram, that we had much ado to come at her; but you would have died with laughing to have seen how the sober, awkward thing looked when she was forced out of her intrenchments. In short, Sir, it is impossible to give you a true notion of our sport, unless you would come one night anong us; and though it be directly against the rules of our society to admit a male visitant, we repose so much confidence in your silence and tacitity, that it was agreed by the whole club, at our last reeting, to give you entrance for one night as a Spectator. "I am your humble Servant, KITTY TERMAGANT.” "P. S. We shall demolish a prude next Thursday." Though. I thank Kitty for her kind offer, I do not at present find in myself any inclination to venture my person with her and her romping companions. I should regard myself as a second Clodius intruding on the mysterious rites of the No. 217.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1711. Bona Dea, and should apprehend being demol ished as much as the prude. The following letter comes from a gentleman, whose taste I find is much too delicate to endure the least advance toward romping. I may perhaps hereafter improve upon the hint he has given me, and make it the subject of a whole Spectator; in the meantime take it as it follows in his own words: I SHALL entertain my reader to-day with some letters from my correspondents. The first of them is the description of a club, whether real or imaginary I cannot determine: but am apt to fancy," that the writer of it, whoever she is, has formed a kind of nocturnal orgie out of her own fancy. Whether this be so or not, her letter may conduce to the amendment of that kind of persons who are represented in it, and whose characters are frequent enough in the world. "MR. SPECTATOR, "In some of your first papers you were pleased to give the public a very diverting account of several clubs and nocturnal assemblies; but I am a member of a society which has wholly escaped your notice, I mean a club of She- Romps. We take each a hackney-coach, and meet once a week in a large upper-chamber, which we hire by the year for that purpose; our landlord and his family, who are quiet people, constantly contriving to be abroad on our club-night. We are no sooner come together, than we throw off all that modesty and reservedness with which our sex are obliged to disguise themselves in public places. I am not able to express the pleasure we enjoy from ten at night till four in the morning, in being as rude as you men can be for your lives. As our play runs high, the room is immediately filled with broken fans, torn petticoats, lappets, or head-dresses, flounces, furbelows, garters, and working-aprons. I had forgot to tell you at first, that beside the coaches we come in ourselves, there is one which stands always empty to carry off our dead men, for so we call all those fragments and tatters with which the room is strewed, and which we pack up together in bundles, and put into the aforesaid coach. It is no small diversion for us to meet the next night at some member's chamber, where every one is to pick out what belongs to her from this confused bundle of silks, stuffs, laces, and ribbons. I have hitherto given you an account of our diver sion on ordinary club-nights; but must acquaint you further. that once a month we demolish a prude, that is, we get some queer, formal creature in among us, and unrig her in an instant. Our last month's prude was so armed and fortified in MR. SPECTATOR, "It is my misfortune to be in love with a young creature who is daily committing faults, which, though they give me the utmost uneasiness, I know not how to reprove her for, or even acquaint her with. She is pretty, dresses well, is rich, and good-humored; but either wholly neglects, or has no notion of that which polite people have agreed to distinguish by the name of delicacy. After our return from a walk the other day she threw herself into an elbow-chair, and professed before a large company, that she was all over in a sweat. She told me this afternoon that her stomach ached; and was complaining yesterday at dinner of something that stuck in her teeth. I treated her with a basket of fruit last summer, which she ate so very greedily, as almost made me resolve never to see her more. In short, Sir, I begin to tremble whenever I see her about to speak or move. As she does not want sense, if she takes these hints I am happy; if not, I am more than afraid, that these things, which shock me even in the behavior of a mistress, will appear insupportable in that of a wife. "I am, Sir, yours," etc. My next letter comes from a correspondent whom I cannot but very much value, upon the account which she gives of herself. "MR. SPECTATOR, which few people envy, I mean that of an old "I am happily arrived at a state of tranquillity, maid: therefore being wholly unconcerned in all that medley of follies which our sex is apt to contract from their silly fondness of yours, I read your railleries on us without provocation. I can say with Hamlet, -Man delights not me, Nor woman either. "Therefore, dear Sir, as you never spare your own sex, do not be afraid of reproving what is ridiculous in ours, and you will oblige at loast man has his defense in his own arm; and reproach "Your humble Servant, The most unhappy of all men, and the most exposed to the malignity or wantonness of the common voice, is the trader. Credit is undone in whispers. The tradesman's wound is received from one who is more private and more cruel than the ruffian with the lantern and dagger. The manner of repeating a man's name,-As: "Mr. Cash, Oh! do you leave your money at his shop? Why, do you know Mr. Searoom? He is indeed a general merchant." I say, I have seen, from the iteration of a man's name hiding one thought of him, and explaining what you hide, by saying something to his advantage when you speak, a merchant hurt in his credit; and him who, every day he lived, literally added to the value of his native country, undone by one who was only a burden and a blemish to it. Since everybody who knows the world is sensible of this great evil, how careful ought a man to be in his language of a inerchant? It may possibly be in the power of a very shallow creature to lay the ruin of the best family in the most opulent city; and the more so, the more highly he deserves of his country; that is to say, the further he places his wealth out of his hands, to draw home that of another climate. In this case an ill word may change plenty into want, and by a rash sentence a free and generous fortune may in a few days be reduced to beggary. How little does a giddy prater imagine, that an idle phrase to the disfavor of a merchant, may be as pernicious in the consequence, as the forgery of a deed to bar an inheritance would be to a gentleman? Land stands where it did before a gentleman was calumniated, and the state of a great action is just as it was before calumny was offered to diminish it, and there is time, place, and occasion expected to unravel all that is contrived against those characters: but the trader who is ready caly for probable demands upon him, can have no armor against the inquisitive, the malicious and the envious, who are prepared to fill the cry to his dishonor. Fire and sword are slow engines of destruction, in comparison of the babbler in the case of the merchant. I HAPPENED the other day, as my way is, to stroll into a little coffee-house beyond Aldgate; and as I sat there, two or three very plain sensible men were talking of the Spectator. One said, he had that morning drawn the great benefit ticket; another wished he had; but a third shook his head and said, "It was a pity that the writer of that paper was such a sort of man, that it was no great matter whether he had it or no. He is, it seems," said the good man, "the most extravagant creature in the world; has run through vast sums, and yet been in continual want: a man, for all he talks so well of economy, unfit for any of the offices of life by reason of his profuseness. It would be an unhappy thing to be his wife, his child, or his friend; and yet he talks as well of those duties of life as any one." Much reflection has brought me to so easy a contempt for every thing which is false, that this heavy accusation gave me no manner of uneasiness; but at the same time it threw me into deep thought upon the subject of fame in general; and I could not but pity such as were so weak, as to value what the common people say out of their own talkative temper to the advantage or diminution of those whom they mention, without being moved either by malice or good-will. It will be too long to expatiate upon the sense all mankind have of fame, and the inexpressible pleasure which there is in the approbation of worthy men, to all who are capable of worthy actions; but methinks one may divide the general word fame, into three different species, as it regards the different orders of mankind who have anything to do with it. Fame therefore may be divided into glory, which respects the hero; reputation, which is preserved by every gentleman; and credit, which must be supported by every tradesman. These possessions in fame are dearer than life to those characters of men, or rather are the life of these characters. Glory, while the hero pursues great and noble enterprises, is impregnable; and all the assailants of his renown do but show their pain and impatience of its brightness, without throwing the least shade upon it. If the foundation of a high name be virtue and service, all that is offered No. 219.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1711 against it is but rumor, which is too short-lived to stand up in competition with glory, which is everlasting. Reputation, which is the portion of every man who would live with the elegant and knowing part of mankind, is as stable as glory, if it be as well founded; and the common cause of human society is thought concerned when we hear a man of good behavior calumniated. Beside which, according to a prevailing custom among us, every For this reason, I thought it an inimitable piece of humanity of a gentleman of my acquaintance, who had great variety of affairs, and used to talk with warmth enough against gentlemen by whom he thought himself ill dealt with; that he would never let anything be urged against a merchant (with whom he had any difference) except in a court of justice. He used to say, that to speak ill of a merchant was to begin his suit with judgment and execution. One cannot, I think, say more on this occasion, than to repeat, that the merit of the merchant is above that of all other subjects; for while he is untouched in his credit, his hand-writing is a more portable coin for the service of his fellow-citizens, and his word the gold of Ophir to the country wherein he resides.-T. Vix ea nostra voco.- - OVID. Met., xiii, 141. THERE are but few men who are not ambitious Π friends and acquaintance. The poorest mechanic, day, the man who lives upon common alms, gets him his set of admirers, and delights in that superiority which he enjoys over those who are in some respects beneath him. This ambition, which is natural to the soul of man, might, methinks, receive a very happy turn; and, if it were rightly directed, contribute as much to a person's advantage, as it generally does to his uneasiness and disquiet. I shall therefore put together some thoughts on this subject, which I have not met with in other writers; and shall set them down as they have occurred to me, without being at the pains to connect or methodize them. veral heathen, as well as Christian authors, under the same kind of metaphor, have represented the world as an inn, which was only designed to for nish us with accommodations in this our passage. It is therefore very absurd to think of setting up our rest before we come to our journey's end, and not rather to take care of the reception we shall there meet with, than to fix our thoughts on the little conveniences and advantages which we enjoy one above another in the way to it. Epictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, which is very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to incline us to be satisfied with the post in which Providence has placed us. We are here, says he, as in a theater, where every one has a part allotted All superiority and pre-eminence that one man to him. The great duty which lies upon a man is san have over another, may be reduced to the no-to act his part in perfection. We may indeed say, tion of quality, which, considered at large, is that our part does not suit us, and that we could either, that of fortune, body, or mind. The first act another better But this, says the philosois that which consists in birth, title, or riches: it pher, is not our business. All that we are conis the most foreign to our natures, and what we cerned in is to excel in the part which is given us. can the least call our own of any of the three If it be an improper one, the fault is not in us, kinds of quality. In relation to the body, quality but in Him who has cast our several parts, and is arises from health, strength, or beauty; which are the great disposer of the drama.* nearer to us, and more a part of ourselves than the former. Quality, as it regards the mind, has its rise from knowedge or virtue; and is that which is more essential to us, and more intimately united with us than either of the other two. The quality of fortune, though a man has less reason to value himself upon it than on that of the body or mind, is however the kind of quality which makes the most shining figure in the eye of the world. As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine source of honor, we generally find in titles an intimation of some particular merit that should recommend men to the high stations which they possess. Holiness is ascribed to the pope; majesty to kings: serenity or mildness of temper to princes; excellence or perfection to ambassadors; grace to archbishops; honor to peers; worship or venerable behavior to magistrates; and reverence, which is of the same import as the former, to the inferior clergy. In the founders of great families, such attributes of honor are generally correspondent with the virtues of the person to whom they are applied; but in the descendants, they are too often the marks rather of grandeur than of merit. The stamp and denomination still continues, but the intrinsic value is frequently lost. The death-bed shows the emptiness of titles in a true light. A poor dispirited sinner lies trembling under the apprehensions of the state he is entering on: and is asked by a grave attendant how his holiness does? Another hears himself addressed to under the title of highness or excellency, who lies under such mean circumstances of mortality as are the disgrace of human nature. Titles at such a time look rather like insults and mockery than respect. The truth of it is, honors are in this world under no regulation; true quality is neglected, virtue is oppressed, and vice triumphant. The last day will rectify this disorder, and assign to every one a station suitable to the dignity of his character. Ranks will be then adjusted, and precedency set right. Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to advance ourselves in another world, at least to preserve our post in it, and outshine our inferiors in virtue here, that they may not be put above us in a state which is to settle the distinction for eternity. Men in Scripture are called strangers and sojourners upon earth, and life a pilgrimage. Se The part that was acted by this philosopher himself was but a very indifferent one, for he lived and died a slave. His motive to contentment in this particular, receives a very great enforcement from the above-mentioned consideration, if we remember that our parts in the other world will be new cast, and that mankind will be there ranged in different stations of superiority and pre-eminence, in proportion as they have here excelled one another in virtue, and performed in their several posts of life the duties which belong to them. There are many beautiful passages in the little apocryphal book, entitled, The Wisdom of Solonion, to set forth the vanity of honor, and the like temporal blessings which are in so great repute among men, and to comfort those who have not the possession of them. It represents in very warm and noble terms this advancement of a good man in the other world, and the great surprise which it will produce among those who are his superiors in this. Then shall the righteous man stand in great boldness before the face of such as have afflicted him, and made no account of his la bors. When they see it they shall be troubled with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for. And they repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit, shall say within themselves, This was he whom we had some time in derision, and a proverb of reproach. We fools accounted his life madness, and his end to be without honor. How is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot among the saints!" If the reader would see the description of a life that is passed away in vanity and among the shadows of pomp and greatness, he may see it very finely drawn in the same place. In the meantime, since it is necessary, in the present constitution of things, that order and distinction should be kept up in the world, we should be happy if those who enjoy the upper stations in it, would endeavor to surpass others in virtue as much as in rank, and by their humanity and condescension make their superiority easy and acceptable to those who are beneath them, and if, on the contrary, those who are in meaner posts of life, would consider how they may better their condi tion hereafter, and by a just deference and submission to their superiors, make them happy in |