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false or the neglect of true honour. For my part, I seldom receive a benefit, but in a night or two's time I make most noble returns for it; which, though my benefactor is not a whit the better for, yet it pleases me to think that it was from a principle of gratitude in me, that my mind was susceptible of such generous transport, while I thought myself repaying the kindness of my friend and I have often been ready to beg pardon, instead of returning an injury, after considering that when the offender was in my power I had carried my resentments much too far.

• I think it has been observed in the course of your papers, how much one's happiness or misery may depend upon the imagination: of which truth those strange workings of fancy in sleep are no inconsiderable instances; so that not only the advantages a man has of making discoveries of himself, but a regard to his own ease or disquiet, may induce him to accept of my advice. Such as are willing to comply with it, I shall put into a way of doing it with pleasure, by observing only one maxim which I shall give them, viz. " To go to bed with a mind entirely free from passion, and a body clear of the least intemperance."

They, indeed, who can sink into sleep with their thoughts less calm or innocent than they should be, do but plunge themselves into scenes of guilt and misery; or they who are willing to purchase any midnight disquietudes for the satisfaction of a full meal, or a skin full of wine; these I have nothing to say to, as not knowing how to invite them to reflections full of shame and hor ror: but those that will observe this rule, I promise them they shall awake into health and cheerfulness, and be capable of recounting with delight those glorious moments, wherein the mind has been indulging itself in such luxury of thought, such noble hurry of imagination. Suppose a man's going supperless to bed should introduce him to. the table of some great prince or other, where he shall be entertained with the noblest marks of honour and plenty, and do so much business after, that he shall rise with as good a stomach to his breakfast as if he had fasted all night long: or suppose he should see his dearest friends remain all night in great distresses, which he could instantly have disengaged them from, could he have been content

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to have gone to bed without the other bottle; believe me these effects of fancy are no contemptible consequences of commanding or indulging one's appetite.

I forbear recommending my advice upon many other accounts till I hear how you and your readers relish what I have already said; among whom, if there be any that may pretend it is useless to them, because they never dream at all, there may be others, perhaps, who do little else all day long. Were every one as sensible as I am of what happens to him in his sleep, it would be no dispute whether we pass so considerable a portion of our time in the condition of stocks and stones, or whether the soul were not perpetually at work upon the princi ple of thought. However, it is an honest endeavour of mine to persuade my countrymen to reap some advantage from so many unregarded hours, and as such you will encourage it.

I shall conclude with giving you a sketch or two of my way of proceeding.

If I have any business of consequence to do to-mor row, I am scarce dropt asleep to-night but I am in the midst of it; and when awake, I consider the whole procession of the affair, and get the advantage of next day's experience before the sun has risen upon it.

There is scarce a great post but what I have some time or other been in; but my behaviour while I was master of a college pleases me so well, that whenever there is a province of that nature vacant, I intend to step in as soon as I can.

'I have done many things that would not pass examination, when I have had the art of flying or being invisible; for which reason I am glad I am not possessed of those extraordinary qualities.

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Lastly, Mr. Spectator, I have been a great correspondent of yours, and have read many of my letters in paper which I never wrote you. If you have a mind I should really be so, I have got a parcel of visions and other miscellanies in my noctuary, which I shall send to enrich your paper with on proper occasions. I am, &c. Oxford, Aug. 20.

BYROM.

JOHN SHADOW*.

*This paper was written by Mr. John Byrom, who likewise wrote the letters in the next paper, NO. 587, and in N0. 593. He

No. 587. MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 1714.

Intus, et in cute novi.

PERS. Sat. iii. ver. 30.

I know thee to thy bottom; from within
Thy shallow centre, to the utmost skin.

DRYDEN.

THOUGH the author of the following vision is unknown to me, I am apt to think it may be the work of that ingenious gentleman, who promised me, in the last paper, some extracts out of his noctuary.

C SIR,

I was the other day reading the life of Mahomet. Among many other extravagancies, I find it recorded of that impostor, that in the fourth year of his age the angel Gabriel caught him up, while he was among his playfellows; and, carrying him aside, cut open his breast, plucked out his heart, and wrung out of it that black drop of blood, in which, say the Turkish divines, is contained the Fomes Peccati, so that he was free from sin ever after. I immediately said to myself, though this story be a fiction, a very good moral may be drawn from it, would every man but apply it to himself, and endeavour to squeeze out of his heart whatever sins or ill qualities he finds in it.

was also author of the pastoral poem in NO. 603. Mr Byrom was born at Kersal, near Manchester, in 1691, and educated first at Merchant Taylor's school, and afterwards at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he was elected a fellow. In 1716 he went to France for his health, and on his return to London he applied to physic with a view of making it his profession; and soon after married, to the great displeasure of his relations, a lady with little or no fortune. He now supported himself principally by teaching a newly-invented system of short hand. In 1724 he was elected a fellow of the Royal Society; and soon after, by the death of an elder brother without issue, the paternal estate at Kersal came to him by inheritance, and rendered him independent. He was a man of fine taste, and a great proficient in polite literature, yet strongly tinctured with the enthusiastic notions of Behmen and other mystics. Mr. Byrom died at Manchester, Sept. 26, 1763.

While my mind was wholly taken up with this contemplation, I insensibly fell into a most pleasing slumber, when methought two porters entered my chamber, car rying a large chest between them. After having set it down in the middle of the room they departed. I immediately endeavoured to open what was sent me, when a shape, like that in which we paint our angels, appeared before me, and forbade me. "Inclosed," said he, 66 are the hearts of several of your friends and acquaintance; but, before you can be qualified to see and animadvert on the failings of others, you must be pure yourself:" whereupon he drew out his incision-knife, cut me open, took out my heart, and began to squeeze it. I was in a great confusion to see how many things, which I had always cherished as virtues, issued out of my heart on this occasion. In short, after it had been thoroughly squeezed, it looked like an empty bladder; when the phantom, breathing a fresh particle of divine air into it, restored it safe to its former repository; and having sewed me up, we began to examine the chest.

The hearts were all inclosed in transparent phials, and preserved in a liquor which looked like spirits of wine. The first which I cast my eye upon, I was afraid would have broke the glass which contained it. It shot up and down, with incredible swiftness, through the liquor in which it swam, and very frequently bounced against the side of the phial. The fomes, or spot in the middle of it, was not large, but of a red fiery colour, and seemed to be the cause of these violent agitations. "That," says my instructor," is the heart of Tom Dreadnought, who behaved himself well in the late wars, but has for these ten years last past been aiming at some post of honour to no purpose. He is lately retired into the country, where, quite choked up with spleen and choler, he rails at better men than himself, and will be for ever uneasy, because it is impossible he should think his merits sufficiently rewarded." The next heart that I examined was remarkable for its smallness; it lay still at the bottom of the phial, and I could hardly perceive that it beat at all. The fomes was quite black, and had almost diffused itself over the whole heart. "This," says my interpreter, "is the heart of Dick Gloomy, who never thirsted after any thing but money. Notwithstanding all his endeavours,

he is still poor. This has flung him into a most deplorable state of melancholy and despair. He is a composition of envy and idleness, hates mankind, but gives them their revenge by being more uneasy to himself than to any one else."

The phial I looked upon next contained a large fair heart, which beat very strongly. The fomes, or spot in it, was exceedingly small; but I could not help observing, that which way soever I turned the phial, it always appeared uppermost, and in the strongest point of light. The heart you are examining," says my companion, belongs to Will Worthy. He has, indeed, a most noble soul, and is possessed of a thousand good qualities. The speck which you discover is vanity."

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"Here," says the angel, "is the heart of Freelove, your intimate friend."" Freelove and I," said I, at present very cold to one another, and I do not care for looking on the heart of a man which I fear is overcast with rancour." My teacher commanded me to look upon it: I did so, and, to my unspeakable surprise, found that a small swelling spot, which I at first took to be ill-will towards me, was only passion; and that upon my nearer inspection it wholly disappeared; upon which the phantom told me, Freelove was one of the best-natured men alive.

"This," says my teacher, " is a female heart of your acquaintance." I found the fomes in it of the largest size, and of an hundred different colours, which were still varying every moment. Upon my asking to whom it belonged, I was informed that it was the heart of Coquetilla.

I set it down, and drew out another, in which I took the fomes at first sight to be very small, but was amazed to find that, as I looked stedfastly upon it, it grew still larger. It was the heart of Melissa, a noted prude, who lives the next door to me.

"I shew you this," says the phantom, "because it is indeed a rarity, and you have the happiness to know the person to whom it belongs." He then put into my hands a large crystal glass, that inclosed a heart, in which, though I examined it with the utmost nicety, I could not perceive any blemish. I made no scruple to affirm that it must be the heart of Seraphina; and was glad, but not surprised, to find that it was so. "She is indeed,” con

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