fulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour iter 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 tbe shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve tbe 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 briug 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, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally rise in tbe mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improveable faculties which in a few jears, and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of happiness! The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a 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 its 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 everything that we can imagine as rat, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves everywhere upheld , his goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon 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 unchangeahleness 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 uuthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction; ell 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 to support it; and establish in ns 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.

ADDISON.* I.

No. 382. MONDAY. MAY 19, 1712.

Habcs confitentem rami. Till.

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 to reflect upon the amiable atonement a man makes in an ingenuous acknowledg'•ment 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, lie has that respect 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 with the highest grace on each side. To make the acknowledgement of a fault in the highest manner graceful, it is lucky when the circumstances of the offender place him above any ill consequences from the resentment of the person offended. A dauphin of France, upon a review of the army, and a command of the king to alter the posture of it by a march of one of the wings, gave an improper order to an officer at the head of a brigade, who told his highness, he presumed he had not received the last orders, which were to move a contrary way. The prince, instead of taking'the admonition, which was delivered in a manner that accounted for

* See the subject resumed No. 3S7, and concluded No. 393.

his error with safety to his understanding, shaked a cane at the officer, and, with the return of opprobrious language, persisted in his own orders. The whole matter came necessarily before the king, who commanded his son, on foot, to lay his right hand on the gentleman's stirrup as be sat on horseback in sight of the whole army, and ask his pardon. When the prince touched his stirrup, and was going to speak, the officer, with an incredible agility, threw himself on the earth, and kissed his feet

The body is very little concerned in the pleasures or sufferings of souls truly great: and the reparation, when an honour was designed this soldier, appeared as much too great to be borne by bis gratitude, as the injury was intolerable to his resentment.

When we turn our thoughts from these extraordinary occurrences into common life, we see an ingenuous kind of behaviour not only make up for faults committed, but in a manner expiate them in the very commission. Thus many things wherein a man has pressed too far, he implicitly excuses, by owning, " This is a tresspass; you'll pardon my confidence; I am sensible I have no pretensions to this favour;" and the like. But commend me to those gay fellows about town who are directly impudent, and nuke up for it no otherwise than by calling themselves such, and exulting in it. But this sort of carriage, which prompts a man against rules to urge what he has a mind to, is pardonable only when you sue for another. When you are confident in preference of yourself to others of equal merit, every man that loves virtue and modesty ought, in defence of those qualities, to oppose you. But, without considering the morality of the thing, let us at this time behold only the natural consequence of candour when we speak of ourselves.

The Sfectatob writes often in an elegant, often in an argumentative, and often in a sublime style, with equal success; but how would it hurt the reputed author of that paper to own, that of the most beautiful pieces under his title he is barely the publisher ? There is nothing but what a man really performs can be an honour to him; what he takes more than he ought in the eye of the world, he loses in the conviction of his own heart; and a man must lose his consciousness, that is, his very self, before he can rejoice in any falsehood without inward mortification.

Who has not seen a very criminal at the bar, when his counsel and friends have done all that they could for him in vain, prevail on the whole assembly to pity him, and his judge to recommend his case to the mercy of the throne, without offering anything nsw in his defence, but that he, whom before we wished convicted, became so out of his own mouth, and took upon himself all the shame and sorrow we were just before preparing for him ? The great opposition to this kind of candour arises from the unjust idea people ordinarily have of what we call a high spirit It is far from

*oi.. in. °

greatness of spirit to persist in the wrong in anything; nor is it a 'minution of greatness of spirit to have been in the wrong. Perfection is not the attribute of man, therefore he is not degraded by the acknowledgment of an imperfection: but it is the work of little minds to imitate the fortitude of great spirits, on worthy occasions, by obstinacy in the wrong. This obstinaoy prevails so for upon them, that -they make it extend to the defence of faults in their very servants, It would swell this paper to too great a length, should I insert all the quarrels and debates which are now on foot in this town; where one party, and in some cases both, is sensible of being on the faulty side, and have not spirit enough to ac knowledge it. » Among the ladies the case is very common; for there are very few of them who know that it is to maintain a true and high spirit, to throw away from it all which itself disapproves, and to scorn so pitiful a shame, as that which disables the heart from ac uiring a liberality of affections and sentiments. The candid min(d, by acknowledging and discarding its faults, has reason and truth for the foundation of all its assions and desires, and consequently is happy and simple; the disingenuous spirit, by indulgence of one unaclmowledgedged error, is entangled with an after-life of guilt, sorrow, and perplexity.

As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinkin on a subject for my next Sraorxroa, I heard two or three irreguiar bounces at my landlady's door, and upon the opening of it, a loud cheerful voice inquiring whether the philosopher was at home The child who went to the door answered very innocently that he did not lodge there. I immediately recollected that it was my good friend Sm Rooea's voice, and that I had promised to go with him on the water to Spring-garden,* in case it proved a good evening. The knight put me in mind of my promise from the bottom of the stair ease, but told me that if I was speculating, he would stay below till I had done. Upon my coming down, found all the childmll of the family got about my old friend; and my landlady hcrseli who is a notab e prating gossip, engaged in a conference with him:

° Now known by the name of Vauxhall.

being mightily pleased with his stroking her little hoy on the bead, and bidding him be a good child and mind his book.

We were no sooner come to the Temple-stairs, but we were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering us their respective services. Sir Roger, after having looked about him very attentively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders to set his boat ready. As we were walking towards it, " You must know," says Sir Roger, "I never make use of anybody to row me, that has not either lost a leg or an arm. I would rather bate him ifew strokes of his oar than not employ an honest man that has been wounded in. the queen's service. If I was a lord or a bishop, and kept a barge. I would not put a fellow iu my livery that had not a wooden leg."

My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed the boat with his coachman, who being a very sober man, always served for ballast on these occasions, we mode the best of our way for Yauxh&U*. Sib Roger obliged the waterman to give us the history of bis right leg; and, hearing that he had left it at La Hogue, with many particulars which passed in that glorious action, the knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several reflections on the greatness of the British nation: as, that one Englishman could heat three Frenchmen ; that we could never be in danger of popery so long as we. took care of our fleet; that the Thames was the noblest river in Europe; that London-bridge was a greater piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the world; with many other honest prejudices which naturally cleave to the heart of a true Englishman.

Alter some short pause, the old knight, turning about his head twice or thrice, to take a survey of this great metropolis, bid me observe how thick the city was set with churches, and that there was scarce a single steeple on this side Temple-bar. " A most heathenish sight!" says Sir Roger: " there is no religion at this end of the town. The fifty new churches will very much mend the prospect: but church work is slow, church-work is slow."

1 do not remember I have anywhere mentioned in Sir Roger's character, his custom of saluting everybody that passes by him with a good-morrow, or a good-night. This the old man does out of the overflowings of his humanity, though at the same time it renders him so popular among all his country neighbours, that it '••- thought to have gone a good way in making him once or twice knight of the shire. He cannot forbear this exercise of benevolence even in town, when he meets with any one in his morning or evening walk. It broke from him to several boats that passed by us on the water; but to the knight's great surprise, as he gave the good-night to two or three young fellows a little before our

* In the original folio edition, it is Fox-hall.