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and his pretty spouse, wherever they come, are billing and cooing at such a rate, as they think must do our hearts good to behold them. Cannot you possibly propose a mean between being wasps and doves in public? I should think, if you advised to hate or love sincerely it would be better; for if they would be so discreet as to hate from the very bottoms of their hearts, their aversion would be too strong for little gibes every moment; and if they loved with that calm and noble valor which dwells in the heart, with a warmth like that of life-blood, they would not be so impatient of their passions as to fall into observable fondThis method, in each case, would save appearances; but as those who offend on the fond side are much the fewer, I would have you begin with them, and go on to take notice of a most impertinent license married women take, not only to be very loving to their spouses in public, but also make nauseous allusions to private familiarities, and the like. Lucina is a lady of the greatest discretion, you must know, in the world; and withal very much a physician. Upon the strength of these two qualities there is nothing she will not speak of before us virgins; and she every day talks with a very grave air in such a manner, as is very improper so much as to be hinted at, but to obviate the greatest extremity. Those whom they call good bodies, notable people, hearty neighbors, and the purest, goodest company in the world, are the great offenders in this kind. Here I think I have laid before you an open field for pleasantry; and hope you will show these people that at least they are not witty; in which you will save from many a blush a daily sufferer, who is very much your most humble Servant,

"MR. SPECTATOR,

SUSANNAH LOVEWORTH."

"In yours of Wednesday, the 30th past, you and your correspondents are very severe on a sort of men, whom you call male coquets; but without any other reason, in my apprehension, than that of paying a shallow compliment to the fair sex, by accusing some men of imaginary faults, that the women may not seem to be the more faulty sex; though at the same time you suppose there are some so weak as to be imposed upon by fine things and false addresses. I cannot persuade myself that your design is to debar the sexes the benefit of each other's conversation within the rules of honor; nor will you, I dare say, recommend to them, or encourage the common tea-table talk, much less that of politics and matters of state, and if these are forbidden subjects of discourse, then as long as there are any women in the world who take a pleasure in hearing themselves praised, and can bear the sight of a man prostrate at their feet, so long I shall make no wonder that there are those of the other sex who will pay them those impertinent humiliations. We should have few people such fools as to practice flattery, if all were so wise as to despise it. I do not deny but you would do a meritorious act, if you could prevent all impositions on the simplicity of young women; but I must confess, I do not apprehend you have laid the fault on the proper persons; and if I trouble you with my thoughts upon it, I promise myself your pardon. Such of the sex as are raw and innocent, and most exposed to these attacks, have, or their parents are much to blame if they have not, one to advise and guard them, and are obliged themselves to take care of them; but if these, who ought to hinder men from all opportunities of this sort of conversation, instead of that encourage and promote it, the suspicion is just that

there are some private reasons for it; and I will leave it to you to determine on which side a part is then acted. Some women there are who are arrived at years of discretion, I mean are got out of the hands of their parents and governors, and are set up for themselves, who are yet liable to these attempts; but if these are prevailed upon. you must excuse me if I lay the fault upon them, that their wisdom is not grown with their years. My client, Mr. Strephon, whom you summoned to declare himself, gives you thanks however for your warning, and begs the favor only to enlarge his time for a week, or to the last day of the term and then he will appear gratis, and pray no day over. "Yours, "PHILANTHROPOS."

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"I was last night to visit a lady whom I much esteem, and always took for my friend; but_me with so very different a reception from what I ex pected, that I cannot help applying myself to you on this occasion. In the room of that civility and familiarity I used to be treated with by her, an affected strangeness in her looks, and coldness in her behavior, plainly told me I was not the wel come guest which the regard and tenderness she has so often expressed for me gave me reason to flatter myself to think I was. Sir, this is certainly a great fault, and I assure you a very common one; therefore I hope you will think it a fit subject for some part of a Spectator. Be pleased to acquaint us how we must behave ourselves toward this valetudinary friendship, subject to so many heats and colds, and you will oblige,

"SIR,

Sir, your humble Servant,

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No. 301.]

"Yours,

"D. G."

THURSDAY, FEB. 14, 1711-12.

Possint ut juvenes visere fervidi
Multo non sine risu

Dilapsam in cineres facem.-HOR. 4 Od. xiii, 26.
That all may laugh to see that glaring light,
Which lately shone so fierce and bright,

End in a stink at last, and vanish into night.-Ases.

WE are generally so much pleased with any little accomplishments; either of body or mind. which have once made us remarkable in the world. that we endeavor to persuade ourselves it is not in the power of time to rob us of them. We are eternally pursuing the same methods which first procured us the applauses of mankind. It is from this notion that an author writes on, though be is come to dotage; without ever considering that his memory is impaired, and that he hath lost that life, and those spirits, which formerly raised

1629, and much the most regular and dramatic piece of this A tragedy by William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, fl, noble author.

his fancy, and fired his imagination. The same folly hinders a man from submitting his behavior to his age, and makes Clodius, who was a celebrated dancer at five-and-twenty, still love to hobble in a minuet, though he is past threescore. It is this, in a word, which fills the town with elderly fops and superannuated coquettes.

Canidia, a lady of this latter species, passed by me yesterday in a coach. Canidia was a haughty beauty of the last age, and was followed by crowds of adorers, whose passions only pleased her, as they gave her opportunities of playing the tyrant. She then contracted that awful cast of the eye and forbidding frown, which she has not yet laid aside, and has still all the insolence of beauty without its charms. If she now attracts the eyes of any beholders, it is only by being remarkably ridiculous; even her own sex laugh at her affectation; and the men, who always enjoy an ill-natured pleasure in seeing an imperious beauty humbled and neglected, regard her with the same satisfaction that a free nation sees a tyrant in disgrace.

Will Honeycomb, who is a great admirer of the gallantries in King Charles the Second's reign, lately communicated to me a letter written by a wit of that age to his mistress, who it seems was a lady of Canidia's humor; and though I do not always approve of my friend Will's taste, I liked this letter so well that I took a copy of it, with which I shall here present my reader:

"MADAM,

"TO CLOE.

"Since my waking thoughts have never been able to influence you in my favor, I am resolved to try whether my dreams can make any impression on you. To this end I shall give you an account of a very odd one which my fancy presented to me last night, within a few hours after I left

you.

"Methought I was unaccountably conveyed into the most delicious place mine eyes ever beheld: it was a large valley divided by a river of the purest water I had ever seen. The ground on each side of it rose by an easy ascent, and was covered with flowers of an infinite variety, which, as they were reflected in the water, doubled the beauties of the place, or rather formed an imaginary scene more beautiful than the real. On each side of the river was a range of lofty trees, whose boughs were loaded with almost as many birds as leaves. Every tree was full of harmony. "I had not gone far in this pleasant valley, when I perceived that it was terminated by a most magnificent temple. The structure was ancient and regular. On the top of it was figured the god Saturn, in the same shape and dress as the poets usually represent Time."

"As I was advancing to satisfy my curiosity by a nearer view, I was stopped by an object far more beautiful than any I had before discovered in the whole place. I fancy, Madam, you will easily guess that this could hardly be anything but yourself: in reality it was so; you lay extended on the flowers by the side of the river, so that your hands, which were thrown in a negligent posture, almost touched the water. Your eyes were closed; but if your sleep deprived me of the satisfaction of seeing them, it left me at leisure to contemplate several other charms which disappear when your eyes are open. I could not but admire the tranquillity you slept in, especially when I considered the uneasiness you produce in so many others.

"While I was wholly taken up in these reflections, the doors of the temple flew open, with a

very great noise; and lifting up my eyes, I saw two figures in human shape, coming into the valley. Upon a nearer survey, I found them to be Youth and Love. The first was encircled with a kind of purple light, that spread a glory over all the place: the other held a flaming torch in his hand. I could observe, that all the way as they came toward us the colors of the flowers appeared more lively, the trees shot out in blossoms, the birds threw themselves into pairs, and serenaded them as they passed: the whole face of nature glowed with new beauties. They were no sooner arrived at the place where you lay, than they seated themselves on each side of you. On their approach methought I saw a new bloom arise in your face, and new charms diffuse themselves over your whole person. You appeared more than mortal; but to my great surprise, continued fast asleep, though the two deities made several gentle efforts to awaken you.

"After a short time, Youth (displaying a pair of wings, which I had not before taken notice of) flew off. Love still remained, and holding the torch which he had in his hand before your face, you still appeared as beautiful as ever. The glaring of the light in your eyes at length awakened you; when, to my great surprise, instead of acknowledging the favor of the deity, you frowned upon him, and struck the torch out of his hand into the river. The god, after having regarded you with a look that spoke at once his pity and displeasure, flew away. Immediately a kind of gloom overspread the whole place. At the same time I saw a hideous specter enter at one end of the valley. His eyes were sunk into his head, his face was pale and withered, and his skin puckered up in wrinkles. As he walked on the sides of the bank the river froze, the flowers faded, the trees shed their blossoms, the birds dropped from off the boughs, and fell dead at his feet. By these marks I knew him to be Old Age. You were seized with the utmost horror and amazement at his approach. You endeavored to have fled, but the phantom caught you in his arms. You may easily guess at the change you suffered in this embrace. For my own part, though I am still too full of the dreadful idea, I will not shock you with a description of it. I was so startled at the sight, that my sleep immediately left me, and I found myself awake, at leisure to consider of a dream which seems too extraordinary to be without a meaning. I am, Madam, with the greatest passion, "Your most obedient,

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I READ What I give for the entertainment of this day with a great deal of pleasure, and publish it just as it came to my hands. I shall be very glad to find there are many guessed at for Emilia. "MR. SPECTATOR,

"If this paper has the good fortune to be honored with a place in your writings, I shall be the more pleased, because the character of Emilia is not an imaginary but a real one. I have industriously obscured the whole by the addition of one or two circumstances of no consequence, that the person it is drawn from might still be concealed,

and that the writer of it might not be in the least Were I to relate that part of Emilia's life which suspected, and for some other reasons, I choose has given her an opportunity of exerting th not to give it in the form of a letter: but if, be- heroism of Christianity, it would make too sad side the faults of the composition, there be any-too tender a story; but when I consider her alon thing in it more proper for a correspondent than in the midst of her distresses, looking beyon the Spectator himself to write, I submit it to your this gloomy vale of affliction and sorrow, into th better judgment, to receive any other model you joys of heaven and immortality, and when I se think fit. her in conversation thoughtless and easy, as if sh were the most happy creature in the world, I ar transported with admiration. Surely never d such a philosophic soul inhabit such a beauteo form! For beauty is often made a privile against thought and reflection; it langh wisdom, and will not abide the gravity of its i structions.

"I am, Sir,

"Your very humble Servant."

There is nothing which gives one so pleasing a prospect of human nature, as the contemplation of wisdom and beauty: the latter is the peculiar portion of that sex which is therefore called fair; but the happy concurrence of both these excellencies in the same person, is a character too celestial to be frequently met with. Beauty is an overweening self-sufficient thing, careless of providing itself any more substantial ornaments; nay, so little does it consult its own interests, that it too often defeats itself, by betraying that innocence, which renders it lovely and desirable. As therefore virtue makes a beautiful woman appear more beautiful, so beauty makes a virtuous woman really more virtuous. While I am considering these two perfections gloriously united in one person, I cannot help representing to my mind the image of Emilia.

Who ever beheld the charming Emilia, without feeling in his breast at once the glow of love, and the tenderness of virtuous friendship? The unstudied graces of her behavior, and the pleasing accents of her tongue, insensibly draw you on to wish for a nearer enjoyment of them; but even her smiles carry in them a silent reproof to the impulses of licentious love. Thus, though the attractives of her beauty play almost irresistibly upon you, and create desire, you immediately stand corrected, not by the severity, but the decency, of her virtue. That sweetness and goodhumor, which is so visible in her face, naturally diffuses itself into every word and action: a man must be a savage, who, at the sight of Emilia, is not more inclined to do her good, than gratify himself. Her person as it is thus studiously embellished by nature, thus adorned with unpremeditated graces, is a fit lodging for a mind so fair and lovely; there dwell rational piety, modest hope, and cheerful resignation.

Many of the prevailing passions of mankind do undeservedly pass under the name of religion; which is thus made to express itself in action, according to the nature of the constitution in which it resides; so that were we to make a judgment from appearances, one would imagine religion in some is little better than sullenness and reserve, in many fear, in others the despondings of a melancholy complexion, in others the formality of insignificant unaffecting observances, in others severity, in others ostentation. In Emilia it is a principle founded in reason, and enlivened with hope; it does not break forth into irregular fits and sallies of devotion, but it is a uniform and consistent tenor of action; it is strict without severity; compassionate without weakness; it is the perfection of that good-humor which proceeds from the understanding, not the effect of an easy con

stitution.

By a generous sympathy in nature, we feel ourselves disposed to mourn when any of our fellowcreatures are afflicted; but injured innocence and beauty in distress is an object that carries in it something inexpressibly moving; it softens the most manly heart with the tenderest sensations of love and compassion, until at length it confesses its humanity, and flows out into tears.

Were I able to represent Emilia's virtues their proper colors, and their due proportion love or flattery might perhaps be thought to ha drawn the picture larger than life; but as this but an imperfect draught of so excellent a chara ter, and as I cannot, I will not, hope to have any i terest in her person, all that I can say of her is but in partial praise extorted from me by the prevailin brightness of her virtues. So rare a pattern female excellence ought not to be concealed, b should be set out to the view and imitation of t world; for how amiable does virtue appear the as it were, made visible to us, in so fair an e ample!

Honoria's disposition is of a very different tu her thoughts are wholly bent upon conquest a arbitrary power. That she has some wit a beauty nobody denies, and therefore has the este of all her acquaintance as a woman of an agr able person and conversation; but (whatever) husband may think of it) that is not sufficient Honoria: she waves that title to respect as a me acquisition, and demands veneration in the rig of an idol; for this reason, her natural desire life is continually checked with an inconsta fear of wrinkles and old age.

Emilia cannot be supposed ignorant of her p sonal charms, though she seems to be so; but will not hold her happiness upon so precarious tenure, while her mind is adorned with beaut of a more exalted and lasting nature. When the full bloom of youth and beauty we saw surrounded with a crowd of adorers, she took pleasure in slaughter and destruction, gave false deluding hopes which might increase torments of her disappointed lovers; but havi for some time given to the decency of a virg coyness, and examined the merit of their seve pretensions, she at length gratified her own. resigning herself to the ardent passion of Brom Bromius was then master of many good qualit and a moderate fortune, which was soon after 1 expectedly increased to a plentiful estate. T for a good while proved his misfortunes, as furnished his inexperienced age with the opp tunities of evil company, and a sensual life. might have longer wandered in the labyrinths vice and folly, had not Emilia's prudent cond won him over to the government of his reas Her ingenuity has been constantly employed humanizing his passions, and refining his p sures. She has showed him, by her own examp that virtue is consistent with decent freed and good-humor, or rather that it cannot subs without them. Her good sense readily instruc her, that a silent example, and an easy unrepini behavior, will always be more persuasive th the severity of lectures and admonitions; and there is so much pride interwoven into the ma of human nature, that an obstinate man must o take the hint from another, and then be left to vise and correct himself. Thus by an artful tr

of management, and unseen persuasions, having at first brought him not to dislike, and at length to be pleased with that which otherwise he would not have borne to hear of, she then knew how to press and secure this advantage; by approving it as his thought, and seconding it as his proposal. By this means she has gained an interest in some of his leading passions, and made them accessory to his reformation.

There is another particular of Emilia's conduct which I cannot forbear mentioning: to some, perhaps, it may at first sight appear but a trifling inconsiderable circumstance; but, for my part, I think it highly worthy of observation, and to be recommended to the consideration of the fair sex. I have often thought wrapping-gowns and dirty linen, with all that huddled economy of dress which passes under the name of "a mob," the bane of conjugal love, and one of the readiest means imaginable to alienate the affection of a husband, especially a fond one. I have heard some ladies who have been surprised by company in such a dishabille, apologize for it after this manner: "Truly, I am ashamed to be caught in this pickle: but my husband and I were sitting all alone by ourselves, and I did not expect to see such good company." This, by the way, is a fine compliment to the good man, which it is ten to one but he returns in dogged answers and a churlish behavior, without knowing what it is that puts him out of humor.

more intensely, and dart a stronger light than
others; so, notwithstanding I have already shown
Milton's poem to be very beautiful in general, I
shall now proceed to take notice of such beauties
as appear to me more exquisite than the rest.
Milton has proposed the subject of his poem in
the following verses:

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,

Sing, heavenly Muse!

These lines are, perhaps, as plain, simple, and unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in which particular the author has conformed himself to the example of Homer, and the precept of Horace. His invocation to a work which turns in a great measure upon the creation of the world, is very properly made to the Muse who inspired Moses in those books from whence our author drew his subject, and to the Holy Spirit, who is therein represented as operating after a particular manner in the first production of nature. This whole exordium rises very happily into noble language and sentiments, as I think the transition to the fable is exquisitely beautiful and natural.

The nine days' astonishment, in which the angels lay entranced after their dreadful overthrow and fall from heaven, before they could recover either the use of thought or speech, is a noble circumstance, and very finely imagined. The division of hell into seas of fire, and into firm ground impregnated with the same furious element, with that particular circumstance of the exclusion of Hope from those infernal regions, are instances of the same great and fruitful invention.

Emilia's observation teaches her, that as little inadvertencies and neglects cast a blemish upon a great character; so the neglect of apparel, even among the most intimate friends, does insensibly lessen their regards to each other, by creating a familiarity too low and contemptible. She under- The thoughts in the first speech and descripstands the importance of those things which the tion of Satan, who is one of the principal actors generality account trifles; and considers every-in this poem, are wonderfully proper to give us a thing as a matter of consequence that has the least full idea of him. His pride, envy, and revenge, tendency toward keeping up or abating the affec-obstinacy, despair, and impenitence, are all of tion of her husband: him she esteems as a fit object to employ her ingenuity in pleasing, because he is to be pleased for life.

By the help of these, and a thousand other nameless arts, which it is easier for her to practice than for another to express, by the obstinacy of her goodness and unprovoked submission, in spite of all her afflictions and ill-usage, Bromius is become a man of sense and a kind husband, and Emilia a happy wife.

Ye guardian angels, to whose care Heaven has intrusted its dear Emilia, guide her still forward in the paths of virtue, defend her from the insolence and wrongs of this undiscerning world: at length, when we must no more converse with such purity on earth, lead her gently hence, innocent and unreprovable, to a better place, where, by an easy transition from what she now is, she may shine forth an angel of light.—T.

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them very artfully interwoven. In short, his first
speech is a complication of all those passions
which discover themselves separately in several
other of his speeches in the poem. The whole
part of this great enemy of mankind is filled with
such incidents, as are very apt to raise and terrify
the reader's imagination. Of this nature, in the
book now before us, is his being the first that
awakens out of the general trance, with his pos-
ture on the burning lake; his rising from it, and
the description of his shield and spear:

Thus Satan talking to his nearest mate,
With head up-lift above the wave, and eyes
That sparkling blaz'd, his other parts beside
Prone on the flood extended long and large,
Lay floating many a rood-

Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool
His mighty stature; on each hand the flames
Driv'n backward slope their pointing spires, and roll'd'

In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale.
Then, with expanded wings he steers his flight
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air
That felt unusual weight-

-His pond'rous shield,

Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round,

Behind him cast; the broad circumference

Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb
Through optic glass the Tuscan artists view
At ev'ning from the top of Fesole,

Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe.
His spear (to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand)
He walk'd with, to support uneasy steps
Over the burning marl-

angels that lay plunged and stupified in the sea
To which we may add his call to the fallen

of fire:

He call'd so loud, that all the hollow deep
Of hell resounded.

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