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Celestial equipage! and now came forth
Spontaneous, for within them spirit liv'd,
Attendant on the Lord: Heav'n open'd wide
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound!
On golden hinges moving.

I have before taken notice of these chariots of God, and of these gates of heaven; and shall here only add, that Homer gives us the same idea of the latter, as opening of themselves; though he after. wards takes off from it, by telling us that the hours first of all removed those prodigious heaps of clouds which lay as a barrier before them.

I do not know any thing in the whole poem more sublime than the description which follows, where the Messiah is represented at the head of his angels, as looking down into the chaos, calming its confusion, riding into the midst of it, and drawing the first outline of the creation:

On heav'nly ground they stood, and from the shore
They view'd the vast immeasurable abyss
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild,
Up from the bottom turn'd by furious winds
And surging waves, as mountains to assault
Heav'n's height, and with the centre mix the pole.
"Silence, ye troubled waves: and thou, deep, peace!"
Said then th' omnific Word, "Your discord end!"
Nor staid, but on the wings of cherubim
Up-lifted, in paternal glory rode

Far into Chaos, and the world unborn;
For Chaos heard his voice. Him all his train
Follow'd in bright procession, to behold
Creation, and the wonders of his might.

Then stay'd the fervid wheels; and in his hand
He took the golden compasses, prepar'd,

In God's eternal store to circumscribe

This universe and all created things:

One foot he centred, and the other turn'd
Round through the vast profundity obscure,
And said, "Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds,
This be thy just circumference, O world!"

the creation rise up to view one after another, in such a manner, that the reader seems present at this wonderful work, and to assist among the choirs of angels who are the spectators of it. How glorious is the conclusion of the first day!

Thus was the first day ev'n and morn:

Nor past uncelebrated, nor unsung,

By the celestial choirs, when orient light
Exhaling first from darkness they beheld:
Birth-day of heav'n and earth! with joy and shout
The hollow universal orb they fill'd.

We have the same elevation of thought in the third day, when the mountains were brought forth and the deep was made:

Immediately the mountains huge appear

Emergent, and their broad bare backs up-heave
Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky:
So high as heav'n the tumid hills, so low
Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep,
Capacious bed of waters

We have also the rising of the whole vegetable world described in this day's work, which is filled with all the graces that other poets have lavished on their description of the spring, and leads the reader's imagination into a theatre equally surprising and beautiful.

The several glories of the heavens make their appearance on the fourth day:

First in bis east the glorious lamp was seen,
Regent of day, and all the horizon round
Invested with bright rays, jocund to run

His longitude through heaven's high road; the gray
Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danc'd,

Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon,

But opposite in levell'd west was set

His mirror, with full face borrowing her light
From him, for other lights she needed none
In that aspect, and still that distance keeps
Till night; then in the east her turn she shines,
Revolv'd on heaven's great axle, and her reign
With thousand lesser lights dividual holds,

With thousand thousand stars, that then appear'd
Spangling the hemisphere -

One would wonder how the poet could be so concise in his description of the six days' works, as to and at the same time, so particular, as to give us comprehend them within the bounds of an episode, in his account of the fifth and sixth days, in which a lively idea of them. This is still more remarkable he has drawn out to our view the whole animal lion and the leviathan are two of the noblest procreation, from the reptile to the behemoth. As the ductions in the world of living creatures, the reader will find a most exquisite spirit of poetry in the account which our author gives us of them. The sixth day concludes with the formation of man, upthe battle in heaven, to remind Adam of his obeon which the angel takes occasion, as he did after dience, which was the principal design of this his

The thought of the golden compasses is conceived. altogether in Homer's spirit, and is a very noble incident in this wonderful description. Homer, when he speaks of the gods, ascribes to them several arms and instruments with the same greatness of imagination. Let the reader only peruse the description of Minerva's ægis, or buckler, in the fifth book of the Iliad, with her spear, which would over turn whole squadrons, and her helmet that was sufficient to cover an army drawn out of a hundred cities. The golden compasses, in the above-mentioned passage, appear a very natural instrument in the hand of him whom Plato somewhere calls the Divine Geometrician. As poetry delights in clothing abstracted ideas in allegories and sensible images, we find a magnificent description of the creation formed after the same manner in one of the prophets, wherein he describes the Almighty Architect as measuring the waters in the hollow of his hand, meting out the heavens with his span, comprehending the dust of the earth in a measure, weighing the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance. Another of them describing the Supreme The poet afterward represents the Messiah reBeing in this great work of creation, represents him turning into heaven, and taking a survey of his as laying the foundations of the earth, and stretch-great work. There is something inexpressibly subing a line upon it; and, in another place, as gar- scribes that great period of time, filled with so many lime in this part of the poem, where the author denishing the heavens, stretching out the north over the empty place, and hanging the earth upon no-earth were finished; when the Messiah ascended up glorious circumstances; when the heavens and thing. This last noble thought Milton has ex-in triumph through the everlasting gates; when he pressed in the following verse:

And earth self-balanc'd on her centre hung.

The beauties of description in this book lie so very thick, that it is impossible to enumerate them in this paper. The poet has employed on them the whole energy of our tongue. The several great scenes of


looked down with pleasure upon his new creation;
when every part of nature seemed to rejoice in its
existence, when the morning-stars sang together,
and all the sons of God shouted for joy.

So ev'n and morn accomplish'd the sixth day:
Yet not till the Creator from his work
Desisting, though unwearied, up retura'd,

Up to the heaven of heavens, his high abode;
Thence to behold his new created world,
Th' addition of his empire, how it shew'd
In prospect from his throne, how good, how fair,
Answering his great idea. Up he rode,
Follow'd with acclamation and the sound
Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tun'd
Angelic harmonies: the earth, the air
Resounded (thou rememberest, for thou heard'st)
The heavens and all the constellations rung,
The planets in their station list ning stood,
While the bright pomp ascended jubilant.
"Open, ye everlasting gates!" they sung,
"Open, ye heavens, your living doors! let in
The great Creator from his work return'd
Magnificent, his six days' work-a world."

I cannot conclude this book upon the creation, without mentioning a poem which has lately appeared under that title. The work was undertaken with so good an intention, and is executed with so great a mastery, that it deserves to be looked upon as one of the most useful and noble productions in our English verse. The reader cannot but be pleased to find the depths of philosophy eulivened with all the charms of poetry, and to see so great a strength of reason amidst so beautiful a redundancy of the imagination. The author has shown us that design in all the works of nature which necessarily leads us to the knowledge of the first cause. In short, he has illustrated, by numberless and incontestible instances, that divine wisdom which the son of Sirach has so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his formation of the world, when he tells us, that" He created her, he saw her, and numbered her, and poured her out upon all his works."-L.

are naturally incited to indulge a curiosity in beholding the person, behaviour, feature, and shape, of him in whose character, perhaps, each man had formed something in common with himself.

Whether such, or any other, are the causes, all men have a yearning curiosity to behold a man of heroic worth; and I have had many letters from all parts of this kingdom, that request I would give them an exact account of the stature, the mien, the aspect of the prince who lately visited England, and has done such wonders for the liberty of Europe. It would puzzle the most curious to form to himself the sort of man my several correspondents expect to hear of by the action mentioned, when they desire a description of him. There is always something that concerns themselves, and growing out of their own circumstances, in all their inquiries. A friend of mine in Wales beseeches me to be very exact in my account of that wonderful man, who had marched an army and all its baggage over the Alps; and, if possible, to learn whether the peasant who showed him the way, and is drawn in the map, be yet living. A gentleman from the university, who is deeply intent on the study of humanity, desires me to be as particular, if I had opportunity, in observing the whole interview between his highness and our late general. Thus do men's faucies work according to their several educations and circumstances; but all pay a respect, mixed with admiration, to this illustrious character. I have waited for his arrival in Holland, before I would let my correspondents know that I have not been so uncurious a Spectator as not to have seen Prince Eugene.* It would be very difficult, as I said just now, to answer every expectation of those who have written to me on that head; nor is it possible for me. to find words to let one know what an artful glance there is in his countenance who surprised Cremona; What chief is this that visits us from far, how daring he appears who forced the trenches of Whose gallant mien bespeaks him train'd to war? Turin; but in general I can say that he who beholds, I TAKE it to be the highest instance of a noble him will easily expect from him any thing that is to' mind, to bear great qualities without discovering in be imagined, or executed, by the wit or force of a man's behaviour any consciousness that he is The prince is of that stature which makes a superior to the rest of the world. Or, to say it nan most easily become all parts of exercise; has, otherwise, it is the duty of a great person so to de- height to be graceful on occasions of state and cemean himself, as that whatever endowments he remony, and no less adapted for agility and dismay have, he may appear to value himself upon no patch: his aspect erect and composed; his eye qualities but such as any man may arrive at. He lively and thoughtful, yet rather vigilant than sparkought to think no man valuable but for his public ling; his action and address the most easy imaginspirit, justice, and integrity: and all other endow-able, and his behaviour in an assembly peculiarly ments to be esteemed only as they contribute to the exerting those virtues. Such a man, if he is wise or valiant, knows it is of no consideration to other men that he is so, but as he employs those high talents for their use and service. He who affects the applauses and addresses of a multitude, or assumes to himself a pre-eminence upon any other consideration, must soon turn admiration into contempt. It is certain that there can be no merit in any man who is not conscious of it; but the sense that it is valuable only according to the application of it, makes that superiority amiable, which would otherwise be invidious. In this light it is considered as a thing in which every man bears a share. It annexes the ideas of dignity, power, and fame, in an agreeable and familiar manner, to him who is possessor of it; and all men who are strangers to him

No. 340.] MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1712.
Quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus hospes?
Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!
VIRG. Æn. iv. 10.

Creation, a philosophical poem; demonstrating the exence and providence of God. In seven books. By Sir Rhard Blackmore, Knt. M.D. and fellow of the college of tay sicians in London.


graceful in a certain art of mixing insensibly with the rest, and becoming one of the company, instead of receiving the courtship of it. The shape of his person, and composure of his limbs, are remarkably exact and beautiful. There is in his looks something sublime, which does not seem to arise from his quality or character, but the innate disposition of his mind. It is apparent that he suffers the presence of much company, instead of taking delight in it; and he appeared in public, while with us, rather to return good-will, or satisfy curiosity, than to gratify any taste he himself had of being popular. As his thoughts are never tumultuous in danger, they are as little discomposed on occasions of pomp and magnificence. A great soul is affected, in either case, no further than in considering the properest methods to extricate itself from them. If this hero has the strong incentives to uncommon enterprises that were remarkable in Alexander, he

* He stood godfather to Steele's second son, who was named Eugene after this prince.

prosecutes and enjoys the fame of them with the more Andromache, but Mrs. Oldfield; and though justness, propriety, and good sense of Cæsar. It is the poet had left Andromache stone-dead upon the easy to observe in him a mind as capable of being stage, as your ingenious correspondent phrases it, entertained with contemplation as enterprise; a Mrs. Oldfield might still have spoken a merry epimiud ready for great exploits, but not impatient for logue. We have an instance of this in a tragedy occasions to exert itself. The prince has wisdom, where there is not only a death, but a martyrdom. and valour in as high perfection as man can enjoy St. Catherine was there personated by Nell Gwynne; it; which noble faculties, in conjunction, banish all she lies stone-dead upon the stage, but, upon those vain-glory, ostentation, ambition, and all other vices gentlemen's offering to remove her body, whose which might intrude upon his mind, to make it un- business it is to carry off the slain in our English equal. These habits and qualities of soul and body, tragedies, she breaks out into that abrupt beginrender this personage so extraordinary, that he ap-ning, of what was very ludicrous, but at ile same pears to have nothing in him but what every man should have in him, the exertion of his very self, abstracted from the circumstances in which fortune has placed him. Thus, were you to see Prince! Eugene, and were told he was a private gentleman, you would say he is a man of modesty and merit. Should you be told that was Prince Eugene, he would be diminished no otherwise, than that part of your distant admiration would turn into a familiar good-will.

This I thought fit to entertain my reader with, concerning a hero who never was equalled but by one man; over whom also he has this advantage, that he has had an opportunity to manifest an esteem for him in his adversity.-T.

No. 341.] TUESDAY, APRIL 1, 1712.
Revocate animos, mæstumque timorem
Mittite-VIRG. En. i. 206.

Resume vour courage and dismiss your fear.


HAVING, to oblige my correspondent Physibulus, printed his letter last Friday, in relation to the new epilogue, he cannot take it amiss if I now publish another, which I have just received from a gentleman who does not agree with him in his sentiments upon that matter.


"I am amazed to find an epilogue attacked in your last Friday's paper, which has been so generally applauded by the town, and received such honours as were never before given to any in an English theatre.

"The audience would not permit Mrs. Oldfield to go off the stage the first night till she had repeated it twice; the second night the noise of encores was as loud as before, and she was again obliged to speak it twice; the third night it was still called for a second time; and, in short, contrary to all other epilogues, which are dropped after the third sentation of the play, this has already been repeated

nine times.



"I must own, I am the more surprised to find this censure in opposition to the whole town, in paper which has been hitherto famous for the candour of its criticisms.

"I can by no means allow your melancholy correspondent, that the new epilogue is unnatural because it is gay. If I had a mind to be learned, I could tell him that the prologue and epilogue were real parts of the ancient tragedy; but every one knows, that, on the British stage, they are distinct performances by themselves, pieces entirely detached from the play, and no way essential to it. "The moment the play ends, Mrs. Oldfield is no

The Duke of Marlborough, who was at this time turned out of all his public employments.

time thought a very good epilogue;

Hold! are you mad? you damn'd confounded dog
I am to rise and speak the epilogue.

Mr. Dryden, who, if he was not the best writer of
"This diverting manner was always practised by
tragedies in his time, was allowed by every one to
have the happiest turn for a prologue or an epi-
logue. The epilogues to Cleomenes, Don Sebastian,
The Duke of Guise, Aurengzebe, and Love Tri-
umphant, are all precedents of this nature.
cellent epilogue which was spoken, a few years
"I might further justify this practice by that ex-
since, after the tragedy of Phædra and Hippolytus;*
with a great many others, in which the authors have
endeavoured to make the audience merry. If they
have not all succeeded so well as the writer of this,
they have however shown that it was not for want
of good-will.

"I must further observe, that the gaiety of it may be still the more proper, as it is at the end of a French play; since every one knows that nation, who are generally esteemed to have as polite a taste as any in Europe, always close their tragic entertainments with what they call a petite pièce, which is purposely designed to raise mirth, and send away the audience well pleased. The same person who has supported the chief character in the tragedy very often plays the principal part in the petite pièce; so that I have myself seen, at Paris, Orestes and Lubin acted the same night by the same man.

"Tragi-comedy, indeed, you have yourself, in a former speculation, found fault with very justly, because it breaks the tide of the passions while they are yet flowing; but this is nothing at all to the present case, where they have had already their full course.

"As the new epilogue is written conformably to the practice of our best poets, so it is not such a one, which, as the Duke of Buckingham says in his kehearsal, might serve for any other play; but wholly rises out of the occurrences of the piece it was composed for.

"The only reason your mournful correspondent gives against this facetious epilogue, as he calls it, is, that he has a mind to go home melancholy. I wish the gentleman may not be more grave than wise. For my own part, I must confess, I think it very sufficient to have the anguish of a fictitions piece remain upon me while it is representing; but I love to be sent home to bed in a good humour. If Physibulus is, however, resolved to be inconsolable, and not to have his tears dried up, he need only continue his old custom, and, when he has had his half-crown's worth of sorrow, slink out before the epilogue begins.

A tragedy by Mr. Edmund Neal, known by the name of Smith, 8vo. 1707. Addison wrote a prologue to this day when Italian operas were in vogue, to rally the vitiated laste of the town in preferring sound to sense. Prior wrote the epilogue here mentioned.

"It is pleasant enough to hear this tragical genius complaining of the great mischief Andromache had done him. What was that? Why, she made him laugh. The poor gentleman's sufferings put me in mind of Harlequin's case, who was tickled to death. He tells us soon after, through a small mistake of sorrow for rage, that during the whole action he was so very sorry, that he thinks he could have attacked half a score of the fiercest Mohocks in the excess of his grief. I cannot but look upon it as a happy accident, that a man who is so bloody-minded in his affiction was diverted from this fit of outrageous melancholy. The valour of this gentleman in his distress brings to one's memory the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, who lays about him at such an unmerciful rate in an old romance. I shall readily grant him that his soul, as he himself says, would have made a very ridiculous figure, had it quitted the body, and descended to the poetical shades, in such an encounter.

"As to his conceit of tacking a tragic head with a comic tail, in order to refresh the audience, it is such a piece of jargon, that I don't know what to make of it.

is at present, I am sure, no way below your Asteria. for conjugal affection: but I see the behaviour of some women so little suited to the circumstance wherein my wife and I shall soon be, that it is with a reluctance, I never knew before, I am going to my duty. What puts me to present pain is, the example of a young lady, whose story you shall have as well as I can give it you. Hortensius, an officer of good rank in her Majesty's service, happened, in a certain part of England, to be brought to a country gentleman's house, where he was received with that more than ordinary welcome with which men of domestic lives entertain such few soldiers whom a military life, from the variety of adventures, has not rendered overbearing, but humane, easy, and agreeable. Hortensius stayed here some time, and had easy access at all hours, as well as unavoidable conversation at some parts of the day, with the beautiful Sylvana, the gentleman's daughter. People who live in cities are wonderfully struck with every little country abode they see when they take the air; and it is natural to fancy they could live in every neat cottage (by which they pass) much happier than in their present circumstances. The turbulent way of life which Hortensius was used to made him reflect with much satisfaction on all the advantages of a sweet retreat one day; and, among the rest, you will think it not improbable it might enter into his thought, that such a woman as Sylvana would consummate the happiness. The world is so debauched with mean considerations, that Hortensius knew it would be received as an act of generosity, if he asked for a woman of the highest merit, without further questions, of a parent who had nothing to add to her personal qualifications. The wedding was celebrated at her father's house. When that was over, the generous husband did not proportion his provision for her to the cir"In the mean time, Sir, this gloomy writer, who cumstances of her fortune, but considered his wife is so mightily scandalized at a gay epilogue after a as his darling, his pride, and his vanity; or, rather, serious play, speaking of the fate of those unhappy that it was in the woman he had chosen that a man wretches who are condemned to suffer an ignomi- of sense could show pride or vanity with an excuse, nious death by the justice of our laws, endeavours and therefore adorned her with rich habits and vato make the reader merry on so improper an occa-luable jewels. He did not, however, omit to admo. sion, by those poor burlesque expressions of tragical dramas and monthly performances.

." The elegant writer makes a very sudden transition from the playhouse to the church, and from thence to the gallows.

"As for what relates to the church, he is of opinion that the epilogues have given occasion to those merry jigs from the organ-loft, which have dissipated those good thoughts and dispositions he has found in himself, and the rest of the pew, upon the singing of two staves culled out by the judicious and diligent clerk.

"He fetches his next thought from Tyburn; and seems very apprehensive lest there should happen any innovations in the tragedies of his friend Paul


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nish her, that he did his very utmost in this; that it was an ostentation he could not be guilty of but to a woman he had so much pleasure in, desiring her to consider it as such; and begged of her also to take these matters rightly and believe the gems, the gowns, the laces, would still become her better, if her air and behaviour was such, that it might appear she dressed thus rather in compliance to his humour that way, than out of any value she herself had for the trifles. To this lesson, too hard for a woman, Hortentius added, that she must be sure to stay with her friends in the country till his return. As soon as Hortensius departed, Sylvana saw, in her looking-glass, that the love he conceived for her was wholly owing to the accident of seeing her; and she was convinced it was only her misfortune the rest of mankind had not beheld her, or men of much greater quality and merit had contended for one so genteel, though bred in obscurity; so very witty, though never acquainted with court or town. She therefore resolved not to hide so much excellence from the world; but, without any regard to the absence of the most generous man alive, she is now the gayest lady about this town, and has shut out the thoughts of her husband, by a constant retinue of the vainest young fellows this age has produced; to entertain whom she squanders away all Hortensius is able to support her with, though,

that supply is purchased with no less difficulty than the hazard of his life."

"Now, Mr. Spectator, would it not be a work becoming your office, to treat this criminal as she deserves? You should give it the severest reflections you can. You should tell women that they are more accountable for behaviour in absence, than after death. The dead are not dishonoured by their levities; the living may return, and be laughed at by empty fops, who will not fail to turn into ridicule the good man, who is so unreasonable as to be still alive, and come and spoil good company. "I am, Sir,

"Your most obedient humble Servant."

that doctrine to this day. "Sir Paul Rycaut,"

says he,
gives us an account of several well-dis-
posed Mahometans that purchase the freedom of
any little bird they see confined to a cage, and
think they merit as much by it as we should do
here by ransoming any of our countrymen from
their captivity at Algiers. You must know," says
Will, the reason is, because they consider every
animal as a brother or sister in disguise; and there-
fore think themselves obliged to extend their charity
to them though under such mean circumstances.
They'll tell you," says Will," that the soul of a
man, when he dies, immediately passes into the
body of another man, or of some brute, which he
resembled in his humour, or his fortune, when he
was one of us."

"The lady soon after coming into the parlour, and seeing her monkey look upon a paper with great earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in some doubt," says Will, "whether it was written by Jack or the monkey."

All strictness of behaviour is so unmercifully laughed at in our age, that the other much worse As I was wondering what this profusion of learnextreme is the more common folly. But let any ing would end in, Will told us, that "Jack Freewoman consider, which of the two offences a hus- love, who was a fellow of whim, made love to one band would the more easily forgive, that of being of those ladies who throw away all their fondness on less entertaining than she could to please company, parrots, monkeys, and lap-dogs. Upon going to pay or raising the desires of the whole room to his dis- her a visit one morning, he writ a very pretty episadvantage, and she will easily be able to form her tle upon this hint. Jack," says he," was conducted conduct. We have indeed carried women's charac-into the parlour, where he diverted himself for some ters too much into public life, and you shall see time with her favourite monkey, which was chained them now-a-days affect a sort of fame: but I cannot in one of the windows: till at length observing a help venturing to disoblige them for their service, pen and ink lie by him, he writ the following letter by telling them, that the utmost of a woman's cha- to his mistress in the person of the monkey; and, racter is contained in domestic life; she is blameable upon her not coming down so soon as he expected, or praiseworthy according as her carriage affects the left it in the window, and went about his business. house of her father or husband. All she has to do in this world is contained within the duties of a daughter, a sister, a wife, and a mother. All these may be well performed, though a lady should not be the very finest woman at an opera or an assembly. They are likewise consistent with a moderate share of wit, a plain dress, and a modest air. But when the very brains of the sex are turned, and "Not having the gift of speech, I have a long they place their ambition on circumstances, wherein time waited in vain for an opportunity of making to excel is no addition to what is truly commendable; myself known to you: and having at present the where can this end, but, as it frequently does, in conveniences of pen, ink, and paper, by me, I their placing all their industry, pleasure, and ambi- gladly take the occasion of giving you my history tion, on things which will naturally make the grati-in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth. fications of life last, at best, no longer than youth and good fortune? When we consider the least ill consequence, it can be no less than looking on their own condition, as years advance, with a disrelish of life, and falling into contempt of their own persons, or being the derision of others. But when they consider themselves as they ought, no other than an additional part of the species (for their own happiness and comfort, as well as that of those for whom they were born), their ambition to excel will be directed accordingly; and they will in no part of their lives want opportunities of being shining ornaments to their fathers, husbands, brothers, or children.-T.

No. 343.] THURSDAY, APRIL 3, 1712.
Errat, et illinc

Huc venit, hinc illuc, et quoslibet occupat artus
Spiritus; æque feris humana in corpora transit,
Inque feras noster
Ovin, Metam. xv. 165.

- All things are but alter'd; nothing dies;
And here and there th' unbody'd spirit flies,
By time, or force, or sickness dispossess`d,

And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast.-DRYDEN. WILL HONEYCOMB, who loves to show upon occasion all the little learning he has picked up, told us yesterday at the club, that he thought there might be a great deal said for the transmigration of souls; and that the eastern parts of the world believed in


You must know, Madam, that about a thousand years ago I was an Indian brachman, and versed in all those mysterious secrets which your European philosopher, called Pythagoras, is said to have learned from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated myself, by my great skill in the occult sciences, with a demon whom I used to converse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask of him. I desired that my soul might never pass into the body of a brute creature; but this, he told me, was not in his power to grant me. I then begged that, into whatever creature I should chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my memory, and be conscious that I was the same person who lived in different animals. This, he told me, was within his power, and accordingly promised, on the word of a demon, that he would grant me what I desired. From that time forth I lived so very unblameably, that I was made president of a college of brachmans, an office which I discharged with great integrity till the day of my death.

"I was then shuffled into another human body, and acted my part so well in it, that I became first minister to a prince who reigned upon the banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honour for several years, but by degrees lost all the innocence of the brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I became so odious, that my master, to recover his credit

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