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No. 377.] TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1712.
Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis
Cautum est in horas. -Hor. 2 Od. xiii. 13.
What each should fly, is seldom known;
We unprovided, are undone.-CREECH.

LOVE was the mother of poetry, and still produces, among the most ignorant and barbarous, a thousand imaginary distresses and poetical complaints. It makes a footman talk like Oroondates, and converts a brutal rustic into a gentle swain. The most ordinary plebeian or mechanic in love bleeds and pines away with a certain elegance and tenderness of sentiments which this passion naturally inspires. These inward languishings of a mind infected with this softness have given birth to a phrase which is made use of by all the meating tribe, from the highest to the lowest-I mean that of "dying for love."

Romances, which owe their very being to this passion, are full of these metaphorical deaths. Heroes and heroines, knights, squires, and damsels, are all of them in a dying condition. There is the same kind of mortality in our modern tragedies, where every one gasps, faints, bleeds, and dies. Many of the poets, to describe the execution which is done by this passion, represent the fair sex as basilisks, that destroy with their eyes; but I think Mr. Cowley has, with great justness of thought, compared a beautiful woman to a porcupine, that sends an arrow from every part.

I have often thought that there is no way so effectual for the cure of this general infirmity, as a man's reflecting upon the motives that produce it. When the passion proceeds from the sense of any virtue or perfection in the person beloved, I would by no means discourage it; but if a man considers that all his heavy complaints of wounds and deaths rise from some little affectations of coquetry, which are improved into charms by his own fond imagination, the very laying before himself the cause of his distemper may be sufficient to effect the cure of it.

It is in this view that I have looked over the several bundles of letters which I have received from dying people, and composed out of them the following bill of mortality, which I shall lay before my reader without any further preface, as hoping that it may be useful to him in discovering those several places where there is most danger, and those fatal arts which are made use of to destroy the heedless and unwary:

Lysander, slain at a

September.

puppet-show on the third of

Thyrsis, shot from a casement in Piccadilly. T. S. wounded by Zelinda's scarlet stocking, as she was stepping out of a coach.

Will Simple, smitten at the opera by the glance of an eye that was aimed at one who stood by him.

Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball.

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W. W. killed by an unknown hand, that was playing with the glove off upon the side of the front box in Drury-lane.

Sir Christopher Crazy, Bart. hurt by the brush of a whale-bone petticoat.

Sylvius, shot through the sticks of a fan at St. James's church.

Damon struck through the heart by a diamond necklace.

Thomas Trusty, Francis Goosequill, William Meanwell, Edward Callow, Esers. standing in a row, fell all four at the same time, by an ogle of the Widow Trapland.

Tom Rattle, chancing to tread upon a lady's tail as he came out of the play-house, she turned full upon him, and laid him dead upon the spot. Dick Tastewell, slain by a blush from the queen's box in the third act of the Trip to the Jubilee.

Samuel Felt, haberdasher, wounded in his walks to Islington, by Mrs. Susannah Cross-stitch, as she was clambering over a stile.

R. F. T. W. S. I. M. P. &c. put to death in the last birth-day massacre.

Roger Blinko, cut off in the twenty-first year of his age by a white-wash.

Musidorus, slain by an arrow that flew out of a dimple, in Belinda's left cheek.

Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove (which she had dropped on purpose), she received it, and took away his life with a curtsey.

John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was dispatched by a smile.

Strephon, killed by Clarinda as she looked down into the pit.

Charles Careless, shot flying by a girl of fifteen, who unexpectedly popped her head upon him out of a coach.

Josiah Wither, aged threescore and three, sent to his long home by Elizabeth Jetwell, spinster. Jack Freelove, murdered by Melissa in her hair. William Wiseacre, Gent. drowned in a flood of tears by Moll Common.

John Pleadwell, Esq. of the Middle Temple, barrister-at-law, assassinated in his chambers the sixth inst. by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come to him for his advice.

I.

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I WILL make no apology for entertaining the reader with the following poem, which is is written by a great genius, a friend of mine* in the country, who is not ashamed to employ his wit in the praise of his Maker.

MESSIAH:

A SACRED ECLOGUE,

Tim. Tattle, killed by the tap of a fan on his left Composed of several passages of Isaiah the prophet,

shoulder by Coquetilla, as he was talking carelessly

with her in a bow-window.

Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the play-house in

Drury lane by a frown.

Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora, as she was adjusting her tucker.

Written in Imilation of Virgil's Polio.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong,
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and th' Aonian maids,

* Pope. See No. 534.

4

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From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away:

li. 6. and hv. 10.

All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; But fix'd His word, His saving power remains;

ix 7

Returning Justice lift aloft her scale:

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,

T.

No. 379.] THURSDAY, MAY 15, 1712.

XXXV. 2.

xl. 3, 4

xlii. 18.

And white-rob'd Innocence from heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn! Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring: See lofty Lebanon his head advance, See nodding forests on the niountains dance, See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise. And Carmel's flow'ry top perfumes the skies! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; Prepare the way! a God, a God appears: A God! a God! the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim th approaching Deity. Lo earth receives him from the bending skies! Sink down, ye mountains: and ye valleys, rise! With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay: Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way! The SAVIOUR Comes! by ancient bards foretold! Hear him, ye deaf: and all ye blind, behold! xxxv. 5, 6. He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day. "Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe; No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, From every face he wipes off every tear:. In adamantine chains shall death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound, As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pastures and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects, The tender Lamb he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms; Mankind shall thus his guardian care engage, The promis'd Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more: But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a plough-share end.

xxv. 8.

xl. 11.

ix. 6. ii. 4.

Ixv. 21, 22. Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field

xxxv. 1.7. The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise,
And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear:
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. xll. 19. and Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,

lv. 13.

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;

To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And od rous myrtle to the noisome weed.

xi. 6, 7, 8. The lambs with wools shall grace the verdant

lx. 1.

Ix. 4

x. 3.

Ix. 6.

mead,

And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet:
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake-
Pleas'd the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forked tongue and pointless sting
shall play.

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn!
See future sons and daughters yet unborn
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!.
See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs!

Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter.

PERS. Sat. i. 27.

Science is not science till reveal'd. - DRYDEN.

I HAVE often wondered at that ill-natured position which has sometimes been maintained in the schools, and is comprised in an old Latin verse, namely, that "A man's knowledge is worth nothing if he communicates what he knows to any one besides." There is certainly no more sensible pleasure to a good-natured man, than if he can by any means gratify or inform the mind of another. I might add, that this virtue naturally carries it own reward along with it, since it is almost impossible it should be exercised without the improvement of the person who practises it. The reading of books, and the daily occurrences of life, are continually furnishing us with matter for thought and reflection. It is extremely natural for us to desire to see such our thoughts put in the dress of words, without which, indeed, we can scarce have a clear and distinct idea of them ourselves. When they are thus clothed in expressions, nothing so truly shows us whether they are just or false, as those effects which they produce in the minds of others.

I am apt to flatter myself, that, in the course of these my speculations, I have treated of several subjects, and laid down many such rules for the conduct of a man's life, which my readers were either wholly ignorant of before, or which at least those few who were acquainted with them, looked upon as so many secrets they have found out for the conduct of themselves, but were resolved never to have made public.

I am the more confirmed in this opinion from my having received several letters, wherein I am censured for having prostituted Learning to the embraces of the vulgar, and made her, as one of my correspondents phrases it, a common strumpet. I am charged by another with laying open the arcana. or secrets of prudence to the eyes of every reader.

The narrow spirit which appears in the letters of these my correspondents is the less surprising, as it has shown itself in all ages: there is still extant an epistle, written by Alexander the Great to his tutor Aristotle, upon that philosopher's publishing some part of his writings; in which the prince complains of his having made known to all the world those secrets in learning which he had before communicated to him in private lectures: concluding, that he had rather excel the rest of mankind in knowledge than in power.

Louisa de Padilla, a lady of great learning, and countess of Aranda, was in like manner angry with the famous Gratian, upon his publishing his treatise of the Discreto, wherein she fancied that he had laid open those maxims to common readers which ought only to have been reserved for the knowledge of the

great.

These objections are thought by many of so much weight, that they often defend the above-mentioned authors by affirming they have affected such an obscurity in their style and manner of writing, that, though every one may read their works, there will be but very few who can comprehend their meaning. Persius, the Latin satirist, affected obscurity for another reason; with which, however, Mr. Cowley is so offended, that, writing to one of his friends, "You," says he, "tell me, that you do not know whether Persius be a good poet or no, because you cannot understand him; for which very reason I affirm that he is not so."

However, this art of writing unintelligibly has been very much improved, and followed by several of the moderns, who, observing the general inclination of mankind to dive into a secret, and the reputation many have acquired by concealing their meaning under obscure terms and phrases, resolve, that they may be still more abstruse, to write with out any meaning at all. This art, as it is at present practised by many eminent authors, consists in throwing so many words at a venture into different periods, and leaving the curious reader to find out the meaning of them.

The Egyptians, who made use of hieroglyphics to signify several things, expressed a man who confined his knowledge and discoveries altogether within himself by the figure of a dark lantern closed on all sides; which, though it was illuminated within, afforded no manner of light or advantage to such as stood by it. For my own part, as I shall from time to time communicate to the public whatever discoveries I happen to make, I should much rather be compared to an ordinary lamp, which consumes and wastes itself for the benefit of every passenger.

I shall conclude this paper with the story of Rosicrusius's sepulchre. I suppose I need not inform my readers, that this man was the founder of the Rosicrusian sect, and that his disciples still pretend to new discoveries, which they are never to communicate to the rest of mankind.*

"A certain person having occasion to dig somewhat deep in the ground, where this philosopher lay interred, met with a small door, having a wall on each side of it. His curiosity, and the hopes of finding some hidden treasure, soon prompted him to force open the door. He was immediately surprised by a sudden blaze of light, and discovered a very fair vault. At the upper end of it was a statue of a man in armour, sitting by a table, and leaning on his left arm. He held a truncheon in his right hand, and had a lamp burning before him. The man had no sooner set one foot within the vault, than the statue erected itself from its leaning posture, stood bolt upright, and upon the fellow's advancing another step, lifted up the truncheon in his right hand. The man still ventured a third step, when the statue, with a furious blow, broke the lamp into a thousand pieces, and left his guest in a sudden darkness.

"Upon the report of this adventure, the country

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"THE character you have in the world of being the ladies' philosopher, and the pretty advice I have seen you give to others in your papers, make me address myself to you in this abrupt manner, and to desire your opinion of what in this age a woman may call a lover. I have lately had a gentleman that I thought made pretensions to me, insomuch that most of my friends took notice of it, and thought we were really married. I did not take much pains to undeceive them, and especially a young gentlewoman of my particular acquaintance, who was then in the country. She coming to town, and seeing our intimacy so great, gave herself the liberty of taking me to task concerning it: I ingenuously told her we were not married, but I did not know what might be the event. She soon got acquainted with the gentleman, and was pleased to take upon her to examine him about it. Now, whether a new face had made a greater conquest than the old I will leave you to judge. I am informed that he utterly denied all pretensions to courtship, but withal professed a sincere friendship for me; but, whether marriages are proposed by way of friendship or not, is what I desire to know, and what I may really call a lover? There are so many who talk in a language fit only for that character, and yet guard themselves against speaking in direct terms to the point, that it is impossible to distinguish between courtship and conversation. I hope you will do me justice both upon my lover and my friend, if they provoke me further. In the mean time I carry it with so equal a behaviour, that the nymph and the swain too are mightily at a loss: each believes I, who know them both well, think myself revenged in their love to one another, which creates an irreconcilable jealousy. If all comes right again, you shall hear further from,

"Sir, your most obedient Servant,

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"Your observations on persons that have behaved themselves irreverently at church, I doubt not have had a good effect on some that have read them: but there is another fault which has hitherto escaped your notice, I mean of such persons as are there very zealous and punctual to perform an ejaculation that is only preparatory to the service of the church, and yet neglect to join in the service itself. There

people soon came with lights to the sepulchre, and is an instance of this in a friend of Will Honeydiscovered that the statue, which was made of brass, comb's, who sits opposite to me. He seldom comes was nothing more than a piece of clock-work; that in till the prayers are about half over; and when the floor of the vault was all loose, and underlaid he has entered his seat (instead of joining with the spends the remaining time in surveying the congre- do them the same favour in Friday's Spectator for gation. Now, Sir, what I would desire is, that you Sunday next, when they are to appear with their would animadvert a little on this genleman's prac- humble airs at the parish church of St. Bride's. tice. In my opinion, this gentleman's devotion, Sir, the mention of this may possibly be serviceable cap in hand, is only a compliance to the custom of to the children; and sure no one will omit a good the place, and goes no further than a little ecclesias- action attended with no expense.

See Compte de Gabalis, par l'Abbe Villars, 1742, 2 vols. in 12mo. and Pope's Works, ed. of Warb. vol. i p. 109, 12mo. 1770. 6 vols.

congregation) he devoutly holds his hat before his face for three or four moments, then bows to all his acquaintance, sits down, takes a pinch of snuff (if it be the evening service perhaps takes a nap), and

tical good breeding. If you will not pretend to tell
us the motives that bring such triflers to solemn
assemblies, yet let me desire that you will give this
letter a place in your paper, and shall remain,
"Sir, you obliged humble Servant,

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"J. S." *

May the 5th. "The conversation at a club, of which I am a member, last night, falling upon vanity and the desire of being admired, put me in mind of relating how agreeably I was entertained at my own door last Thursday, by a clean fresh-coloured girl, under the most elegant and the best furnished milk-pail I had ever observed. I was glad of such an opportunity of seeing the behaviour of a coquette in low life, and how she received the extraordinary notice that was taken of her; which I found had affected every muscle of her face in the same manner as it does the features of a first-rate toast at a play or in an assembly. This hint of mine made the discourse turn upon the sense of pleasure; which ended in a general resolution, that the milkmaid enjoys her vanity as exquisitely as the woman of quality. I think it would not be an improper subject for you to examine this frailty, and trace it to all conditions of life; which is recommended to you as an occasion of obliging many of your readers: among the rest, "Your most humble Servant,

"SIR,

"Т. В."

May 12, 1712.

"Coming last week into a coffee-house not far from the Exchange, with my basket under my arm, a Jew of considerable note, as I am informed, takes half-a-dozen oranges of me, and at the same time slides a guinea into my hand; I made him a curtsey, and went my way. He followed me, and finding I was going about my business, he came up with me, and told me plainly that he gave with no other intent but to purchase my person for an hour. Did you so, Sir,' says I: 'you gave it me then to make me wicked; I will keep it to make me honest. However, not to be in the least ungrate

،

me the guinea

ful, I promise you I will lay it out in a couple of rings, and wear them for your sake.' I am so just, Sir, besides, as to give every body that asks how I came by my rings this account of my benefactor: but to save me the trouble of telling my tale over and over again, I humbly beg the favour of you to teli it once for all, and you will extremely oblige,

"SIR,

"Your humble Servant,

"BETTY LEMON."

T.

" I am, Sir,

"Your very humble Servant,
"THE SEXTON,"

No. 381] SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1712.
Æquam memento rebus in arduis
Servare mentem, non secus in bonis,
Ab insolenti temperatam

Lætitia, moriture Delli.-Hor. 2 Jd. iii. L

Be calm, my Dellius, and serene,
However fortune change the scene,
In thy most dejected state,
Sink not underneath the weight;
Nor yet, when happy days begin,
And the full tide comes rolling in,
Let a fierce, unruly, joy

The settled quiet of thy mind destroy.-Asos.

I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy. On the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the Sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection was never seen to laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is of a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very consuicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, teemed as saints and holy men among Christians. as well as those who have been deservedly es

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of his soul. His imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude. He comes with for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation relish to all those goods which nature has provided which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may

St. Bride's, May 15, 1712. "'Tis a great deal of pleasure to me, and I dare say will be no less satisfactory to you, that I have an opportunity of informing informing you, that the gentlemen and others of the parish of St. Bride's have raised a befal him. charity-school of fifty girls, as before of fifty boys. You were so kind to recommend the boys to the charitable world; and the other sex hope you will

• Perhaps the initials of Swift's name, in whose works there in a sermon on sleeping at church.

whom he converses with, it naturally produces love If we consider him in relation to the persons and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging; but raises the same good humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he dues

not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion. It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it. When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a con

after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally arise in the mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improvable faculties, which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will still be receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of hapstant habitual gratitude to the great Author of na-piness! The consciousness of such a being spreads ture. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a

and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of the Divine Will in his conduct towards man.

There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness.

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever titles it shelter itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of; and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is indeed no wonder, that men who are uneasy to themselves should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire existence, and dropping into nothing?

The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no pretence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good-humour, and enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation; of being miserable, or of not being at all.

After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age, nay death itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has a dependance. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which,

virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is the consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependance, and in whom, though we behold him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves every where uph upheld by his goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and merey. In short, we depend upon a a Being, whose power qualifies him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage him to make those happy who desire it of him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction; all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom we were made to please.-I.

No. 382.] MONDAY, MAY 19, 1712.
Habes confitentem reum,-TULL.
The accused confesses his guilt.

I OUGHT not to have neglected a request of one of my correspondents so long as I have; but I dare say I have given him time to add practice to profession. He sent me some time ago a bottle or two of excellent wine to drink the health of a gentleman who had by the penny-post advertised him of an egregious error in his conduct. My correspondent received the obligation from an unknown hand with the candour which is natural to an ingenuous mind; and promises a contrary behaviour in that point for the future. He will offend his monitor with no more errors of that kind, but thanks him for his benevolence. This frank carriage makes me reflect upon the amiable atonement a man makes in the ingenuous acknowledgment of a fault. All such miscarriages as flow from inadvertency are more than repaid by it; for reason, though not concerned in the injury, employs all its force in the atonement. He that says, he did not design to disoblige you in such an action, does as much as if he should tell you, that though the circumstance which displeased was never in his thoughts, he has that respeet for you that he is unsatisfied, till it is wholly out of yours. It must be confessed. that when an acknowledgment of an offence is made out of poorness of spirit, and not conviction of heart, the circumstance is quite different. But in the case of my correspondent, where both the notice is taken, and the return made in private, the affair begins and ends

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