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suade her with bitterness; for there is a fantastical | it himself. Therefore, I am at hand for all maladies generosity in the sex to approve creatures of the least merit imaginable, when they see the imperfections of their admirers are become marks of derision for their sakes; and there is nothing so frequent, as that he, who was contemptible to a woman in her own judgment, has won her by being too violently opposed by others.

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Grecian Coffee-house, July 27.

arising from poetical vapours, beyond which I neve pretend. For being called the other day to one in love, I took indeed their three guineas, and gave them my advice, which was to send for Esculapius. Esculapius, as soon as he saw the patient, cries out, It is love! it is love! Oh! the unequal pulse! these are the symptoms a lover feels; such sighs, such pangs, attend the uneasy mind; nor can our art, or all our boasted skill, avail.-Yet, O fair! for thee' civi--Thus the sage ran on, and owned the passion which he pitied, as well as that he felt a greater pain than ever he cured after which he concluded, ‘All I can advise is marriage: charms and beauty will give new life and vigour, and turn the course of nature to its better prospect.' This is the new way; and thus Esculapius has left his beloved powders, and writes a receipt for a wife at sixty. In short, my friend followed the prescription, and married youth and beauty in its perfect bloom.

In the several capacities I bear of astrologer, lian, and physician, I have with great application studied the public emolument; to this end serve all my lucubrations, speculations, and whatever other labours I undertake, whether nocturnal or diurnal. On this motive am I induced to publish a neverfailing medicine for the spleen: my experience in this distemper came from a very remarkable cure on my ever-worthy friend Tom Spindle, who, through excessive gaiety, had exhausted that natural stock of wit and spirits he had long been blessed with: he was sunk and flattened to the lowest degree imaginable, sitting whole hours over the Book of Martyrs,' and Pilgrim's Progress;' his other contemplations never rising higher than the colour of his urine, or the regularity of his pulse. In this condition I found him, accompanied by the learned Dr. Drachm, and a good old nurse. Drachm had prescribed magazines of herbs, and mines of steel. I soon discovered the malady, and descanted on the nature of it, until I convinced both the patient and his nurse, that the spleen is not to be cured by medicine but by poetry. Apollo, the author of physic, shone with diffusive rays, the best of poets as well as of physicians; and it is in this double capacity that I have made my way; and have found sweet, easy, flowing numbers are oft superior to our noblest medicines. When the spirits are low, and nature sunk, the muse, with sprightly and harmonious notes, gives an unexpected turn with a grain of poetry; which I prepare with out the use of mercury. I have done wonders in this kind; for the spleen is like the Tarantula, the effects of whose malignant poison are to be prevented by no other remedy but the charms of music: for you are to understand, that as some noxious animals carry antidotes for their own poisons, so there is something equally unaccountable in poetry; for though it is sometimes a disease, it is to be cured only by itself. Now, I knowing Tom Spindle's constitution, and that he is not only a pretty gentleman, but also a pretty poet, found the true cause of his distemper was a violent grief, that moved his affections too strongly for, during the late treaty of peace, he had writ a most excellent poem on that subject; and when he wanted but two lines in the last stanza for finishing the whole piece, there comes news that the French tyrant would not sign. Spindle in a few days took his bed, and had lain there still, had I not been sent for. I immediately told him, there was great probability the French would now sue to us for peace. I saw immediately a new life in his eyes; and I knew that nothing could help him forward so well, as hearing verses which he would believe worse than his own. I read him, therefore the Brussels Postscript; after which I recited some heroic lines of my own, which operated so strongly on the tympanum of his ear, that I doubt not but I have kept out all other sounds for a fortnight; and have reason to hope, we shall see him abroad the day before his poem.

This you see, is a particular secret I have found out, viz. that you are not to choose your physician for his knowledge in your distemper, but for having

:

'Supine in Silvia's snowy arms he lies,
And all the busy cares of life defies :
Each happy hour is fill'd with fresh delight,
While peace the day, and pleasure crowns the night."

From my own Apartment, July 27.

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Tragical passion was the subject of the discourse where I last visited this evening, and a gentleman who knows that I am at present writing a very deep tragedy, directed his discourse in a particular manner to me. It is the common fault,' said he, of you gentlemen who write in the buskin style, that you give us rather the sentiments of such who behold tragical events, than of such who bear a part in them themselves. I would advise all who pretend this way to read Shakspeare with care and they will soon tragedy. The way of common writers in this kind is be deterred from putting forth what is usually called rather the description than the expression_of sorrow. There is no medium in these attempts, and you must go to the very bottom of the heart, or it is all mere language; and the writer of such lines is no more a poet, than a man is a physician for knowing the Men of sense are professed enemies to all such empty names of distempers, without the causes of them. labours: for he who pretends to be sorrowful, and is not, is a wretch yet more contemptible than he who pretends to be merry, and is not. Such a tragedian is only maudlin drunk.'

with much warmth; but all he could say had little The gentleman went on effect upon me: but when I came hither, I so far observed his counsel, that I looked into Shakspeare. In the scene where Morton is preparing to tell NorThe tragedy I dipped into was Henry the Fourth.' thumberland of his son's death, the old man does not give him time to speak, but says,

'The whiteness of thy cheeks Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand; Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's curtain at the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burnt; But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue, And I my Piercy's death, ere thou report'st it.'

The image in this place is wonderfully noble and great, yet this man in all this is but rising towards his great affliction, and is still enough himself as you see, to make a simile. But when he is certain of his son's death, he is lost to all patience, and gives up all the regards of this life; and since the last of

evils is fallen upon him, he calls for it upon all the life, will find he has been sometimes extricated out of world.

'Now let not nature's hand
Keep the wild flood confin'd; let order die.
And let the world no longer be a stage,
To feed contention in a ling'ring act;
But let one spirit of the first-born Cain
Reign in all bosoms, that each heart being set
On bloody courses, the wide scene may end,
And darkness be the burier of the dead.'

Reading but this one scene has convinced me, that he, who described the concern of great men, must have a soul as noble, and as susceptible of high thoughts, as they whom he represents: I shall therefore lay by my drama for some time, and turn my thoughts to cares and griefs somewhat below that of heroes, but no less moving. A. misfortune, proper for me to take notice of, has too lately happened: the disconsolate Maria has three days kept her chamber for the loss of the beauteous Fidelia, her lap-dog. Lesbia herself did not shed more tears for her sparrow. What makes her the more concerned is, that we know not whether Fidelia was killed or stolen; but she was seen in the parlour-window when the train-bands went by, and never since. Whoever gives notice of her, dead or alive, shall be rewarded with a kiss of her lady.

No. 48.] SATURDAY, JULY 30, 1709.

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Virtutem verba putant, ut
Lucum ligna
Hor. Ep. vi. 31.
They look on virtue as an empty name.

From my own Apartment, July 29.

THIS day I obliged Pacolet to entertain me with matters which regarded persons of his own character and occupation. We chose to take our walk on Tower-hill, and as we were coming from hence, in order to stroll as far as Garraway's, I observed two men who had but just landed coming from the waterside. I thought there was something uncommon in their mien and aspect; but though they seemed by their visage to be related, yet was there a warmth in their manner, as if they differed very much in their sentiments of the subject on which they were talking. One of them seemed to have a natural confidence mixed with an ingenuous freedom, in his gesture; his dress very plain, but very graceful and becoming; the other, in the midst of an overbearing carriage, betrayed by frequently looking round him, a suspicion that he was not enough regarded by those he met, or that he feared they would make some attack upon him. This person was much taller than his companion, and added to that height the advantage of a feather in his hat, and heels to his shoes so monstrously high, that he had three or four times fallen down, had he not been supported by his friend. They made a full stop as they came within a few yards of the place where we stood. The plain gentleman bowed to Pacolet; the other looked upon him with some displeasure; upon which I asked him who they both were? when he thus informed me of their persons and circumstances:

You may remember, Isaac, that I have often told you, there are beings of a superior rank to mankind; who frequently visit the habitations of men, in order to call them from some wrong pursuits in which they are actually engaged, or divert them from methods which will lead them into errors for the future. He that will carefully reflect upon the occurrences of his

difficulties, and received favours where he could never have expected such benefits; as well as met with cross events from some unseen hand, which has disappointed his best laid designs. Such accidents arrive from the interventions of aërial beings, as they are benevolent or hurtful to the nature of man; and attend his steps in the tracks of ambition, of business, and of pleasure. Before I ever appeared to you in the manner I do now, I have frequently followed you in your evening walks; and have often, by throwing some accident in your way, as the passing by of a funeral, or the appearance of some other solemn object, given your imagination a new turn, and changed a night you have destined to mirth and jollity, into an exercise of study and contemplation. I was the old soldier who met you last summer in Chelsea-fields, and pretended that I had broken my wooden leg, and could not get home; but I snapped it short off, on purpose that you might fall into the reflections you did on that subject, and take me into your hack. If you remember, you made yourself very merry on that fracture, and asked me whether I thought I should next winter feel cold in the toes of that leg? as is usually observed, that those who lose limbs are sensible of pains in the extreme parts, even after those limbs are cut off. However, my keeping you then in the story of the battle of the Boyne prevented an assignation, which would have led you into more disasters than I then related.

To be short: those two persons whom you see yonder are such as I am; they are not real men, but are mere shades and figures, one is named Alethes, the other Verisimilis. Their office is to be the guardians and representatives of conscience and honour. They are now going to visit the several parts of the town, to see how their interests in the world decay or flourish, and to purge themselves from the many false imputations they daily meet with in the commerce and conversation of men. You observed Verisimilis frowned when he first saw me. What he is provoked at is, that I told him one day, though he strutted and dressed with so much ostentation, if he kept himself within his own bounds he was but a lacquey, and wore only that gentleman's livery whom he is now with. This frets him to the heart; for you must know, he has pretended a long time to set up for himself, and gets among a crowd of the more unthinking part of mankind, who take him for a person of the first quality: though his introduction into the world was wholly owing to his present compa

nion.'

This encounter was very agreeable to me, and I was resolved to dog them, and desired Pacolet to accompany me. I soon perceived what he told me in the gesture of the persons; for, when they looked at each other in discourse, the well dressed man suddenly cast down his eyes, and discovered that the other had a painful superiority over him. After some further discourse they took leave. The plain gentleman went down towards Thames-street, in order to be present, at least, at the oaths taken at the Customhouse; and the other made directly for the heart of the city. It is incredible how great a change there immediately appeared in the man of honour, when he got rid of his uneasy companion; he adjusted the cock of his hat a-new, settled his sword-knot, and had an appearance that attracted a sudden inclination for him and his interests in all who beheld him.

For my part,' said I to Pacolet, 'I cannot but think you are mistaken in calling this person of the lower quality; for he looks much more like a gentleman

than the other. Do not you observe all eyes are upon very little business but to make up quarrels; and is him as he advances? how each sex gazes at his only a general referee, to whom every man pretends stature, aspect, address, and motion?' Pacolet only to appeal, but is satisfied with his determinations no smiled and shaked his head; as leaving me to be further than they promote his own interest. Hence convinced by my own further observation. We kept it is, that the soldier and the courtier model their on our way after him until we came to Exchange- actions according to Verisimilis's manner, and the alley, where the plain gentleman again came up to merchant according to that of Umbra. Among these the other; and they stood together after the manner men, honour and credit are not valuable possessions of eminent merchants, as if ready to receive applica- in themselves, or pursued out of a principle of justion; but I could observe no man talk to either of tice; but merely as they are serviceable to ambition them. The one was laughed at as a fop; and I and to commerce. But the world will never be in heard many whispers against the other, as a whimsi- any manner of order or tranquillity, until men are cal sort of a fellow, and a great enemy to trade. firmly convinced that conscience, honour, and credit, They crossed Cornhill together, and came into the are all in one interest; and that, without the concurfull Exchange, where some bowed, and gave them-rence of the former, the latter are but impositions selves airs in being known to so fine a man as Veri- upon ourselves and others. The force these delusive similis, who, they said, had great interest in all words have, is not seen in the transactions of the princes' courts; and the other was taken notice of by busy world only, but they have also their tyranny several as one they had seen somewhere long before. over the fair sex. Were you to ask the unhappy One more particularly said, he had formerly been a Lais, what pangs of reflection preferring the consi man of consideration in the world; but was so un- deration of her honour to her conscience has given lucky, that they who dealt with him, by some strange her? she could tell you, that it has forced her to infatuation or other, had a way of cutting off their | drink up half a gallon, this winter, of Tom Dassapas's own bills, and were prodigiously slow in improving potions; that she still pines away for fear of being a their stock. But as much as I was curious to ob- mother; and knows not the moment she is such, she serve the reception these gentlemen met with upon shall be a murderess: but if conscience had as strong the Exchange, I could not help being interrupted by a force upon the mind as honour, the first step to her one that came up towards us, to whom every body unhappy condition had never been made; she had made their compliments. He was of the common still been innocent as she is beautiful. Were men height, and in his dress there seemed to be great care so enlightened and studious of their own good, as to to appear no way particular, except in a certain exact act by the dictates of their reason and reflection, and and feat manner of behaviour and circumspection. not the opinion of others, conscience would be the He was wonderfully careful that his shoes and steady ruler of human life; and the words truth, law, cloaths should be without the least speck upon them; reason, equity, and religion, would be but synonymous and seemed to think, that on such an accident de- terms for that only guide which makes us pass our pended his very life and fortune. There was hardly days in our own favour and approbation.' a man on the Exchange who had not a note upon him; and each seemed very well satisfied that their money lay in his hands, without demanding payment. I asked Pacolet what great merchant that was who was so universally addressed to, yet made too familiar an appearance to command that extraordinary deference? Pacolet answered, This person is the demon or genius of credit; his name is Umbra. If you observe, he follows Alethes and Verisimilis at a distance; and indeed has no foundation for the figure he makes in the world, but that he is thought to keep their cash; though, at the same time, none who trust him would trust the others for a groat.'As the company rolled about, the three spectres were jumbled into one place; when they were so, and all thought there was an alliance between them, they immediately drew upon them the business of the whole Exchange. But their affairs soon increased to such an unwieldy bulk, that Alethes took his leave, and said, 'he would not engage further than he had an immediate fund to answer.' Verisimilis pretended, that though he had revenues large enough to go on his own bottom, yet it was below one of his family to condescend to trade in his own name;' therefore he also retired. I was extremely troubled to see the glorious mart of London left with no other guardian but him of credit. But Pacolet told me, 'that traders had nothing to do with the honour or conscience of their correspondents, provided they supported a general behaviour in the world, which could not hurt their credit or their purses; for,' said he, you may, in this one tract of building of London and Westminster, see the imaginary motives on which the greatest affairs move, as well as in rambling over the face of the earth. For though Alethes is the real governor as well as legislator of mankind, he has

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No. 49.]

TUESDAY, AUGUST 2, 1709.
Quicquid agunt homines-

―nostri est farrago libelli.

Juv. Sat. i. 85, 86.

Whate'er men do, or say, or think, or dream,
Our motley paper seizes for its theme.

P.

White's Chocolate-house, August 1. THE imposition of honest names and words upon improper subjects, has made so regular a confusion among us, that we are apt to sit down with our errors, well enough satisfied with the methods we are fallen into, without attempting to deliver ourselves from the tyranny under which we are reduced by such innovations. Of all the laudable motives of human life none have suffered so much in this kind, as love; under which revered name a brutal desire called lust, is frequently concealed and admitted; though they differ as much as a matron from a prostitute, or a companion from a buffoon. Philander the other day was bewailing this misfortune with much indignation, and upbraided me for having some time since quoted those excellent lines of the satirist :

To an exact perfection they have brought The action love, the passion is forgot.' 'How could you,' said he, leave such a hint so coldly? How could Aspasia and Sempronia enter into your imagination at the same time, and you never declare to us the different receptions you gave them?'

The figures which the ancient mythologists and

poets put upon Love and Lust in their writings are very instructive. Love is a beauteous blind child, adorned with a quiver and a bow, which he plays with, and shoots around him, without design or direction; to intimate to us that the person beloved has no intention to give us the anxieties we meet with, but that the beauties of a worthy object are like the charms of a lovely infant; they cannot but attract your concern and fondness, though the child so regarded is as insensible of the value you put upon it, as it is that it deserves your benevolence. On the other side, the sages, figured Lust in the form of a satyr; of shape, part human, part bestial; to signify that the followers of it prostitute the reason of a man to pursue the appetites of a beast. This satyr is made to haunt the paths and coverts of the wood-nymphs and sheperdesses, to lurk on the banks of rivulets, and watch the purling streams, as the resorts of retired virgins; to show, that lawless desire tends chiefly to prey upon innocence, and has something so unnatural in it, that it hates its own make, and shuns the object it loved, as soon as it has made it like itself. Love, therefore is a child that complains and bewails its inability to help itself, and weeps, for assistance, without an immediate reflection or knowledge of the food it wants: Lust, a watchful thief, which seizes its prey, and lays snares for its own relief; and its principal object being innocence, it never robs, but it murders at the same time.

From this idea of a Cupid and a Satyr, we may settle our notions of these different desires, and accordingly rank their followers. Aspasia must, therefore, be allowed to be the first of the beauteous orders of Love, whose unaffected freedom, and conscious innocence, give her the attendance of the graces in all her actions. That awful distance which we bear toward her in all our thoughts of her, and that cheerful familiarity with which we approach her, are certain instances of her being the truest object of love of any of her sex. In this accomplished lady, love is the constant effect, because it is never the design. Yet, though her mien carries much more invitation than command, to behold her is an immediate check to loose behaviour; and to love her is a liberal education; for, it being the nature of all love to create an imitation of the beloved person in the lover, a regard for Aspasia naturally produces decency of manners, and good conduct of life in her admirers. If, therefore, the giggling Leucippe could but see her train of fops assembled, and Aspasia move by them, she would be mortified at the veneration with which she is beheld, even by Leucippe's own unthinking equipage, whose passions have long taken leave of their understandings.

As charity is esteemed a conjunction of the good qualities necessary to a virtuous man, so love is the happy composition of all the accomplishments that make a fine gentleman. The motive of a man's life is seen in all his actions; and such as have the beauteous boy for their inspirer, have a simplicity of behaviour, and a certain evenness of desire, which burns like the lamp of life in their bosoms; while they who are instigated by the satyr, are ever tortured by jealousies of the object of their wishes; often desire what they scorn, and as often consciously and knowingly embrace where they are mutually indifferent.

Florio the generous husband, and Limberham, the kind keeper, are noted examples of the different effects which these desires produce in the mind. Amanda, who is the wife of Florio, lives in the continual enjoyment of new instances of her hus

band's friendship, and sees it the end of all his ambition to make her life one series of pleasure and satisfaction; and Amanda's relish of the goods of life is all that makes them pleasing to Florio: they behave themselves to each other, when present, with a certain apparent benevolence, which transports above rapture; and they think of each other in absence with a confidence unknown to the highest friendship: their satisfactions are doubled, their sorrows lessened, by participation.

On the other hand, Corinna, who is the mistress of Limberham, lives in constant torment: her equipage is an old woman, who was what Corinna is now; and an antiquated footman, who was pimp to Limberham's father; and a chambermaid, who is Limberham's wench by fits, out of a principal of politics to make her jealous and watchful of Corinna. Under this guard, and in this conversation, Corinna lives in state; the furniture of her habitation, and her own gorgeous dress, make her the envy of all the strolling ladies in the town; but Corinna knows she herself is but part of Limberham's household-stuff, and is as capable of being disposed of elsewhere, as any other moveable. But, while her keeper is persuaded by his spies that no enemy has been within his doors since his last visit, no Persian prince was ever so magnificently bountiful: a kind look or falling tear is worth a piece of brocade, a sigh is a jewel, and a smile is a cupboard of plate. All this is shared between Corinna and her guard in his absence. With this great economy and industry does the unhappy Limberham purchase the constant tortures of jealousy, the favour of spending his estate, and the opportunity of enriching one by whom he knows he is hated and despised. These are the ordinary and common evils which attend keepers; and Corinna is a wench but of common size of wickedness, were you to know what passes under the roof where the fair Messalina reigns with her humble adorer.

Messalina is the professed mistress of mankind; she has left the bed of her husband, and her beauteous offspring, to give a loose to want of shame and fulness of desire. Wretched Nocturnus, her feeble keeper! How the poor creature fribbles in his gait, and skuttles from place to place, to despatch his necessary affairs in painful daylight, that he may return to the constant twilight preserved in that scene of wantonness, Messalina's bed-chamber! How does he, while he is absent from thence, consider in his imagination the breadth of his porter's shoulders, the spruce nightcap of his valet, the ready attendance of his butler! any of all whom he knows she admits, and professes to approve of. This, alas! is the gallantry, this the freedom of our fine gentlemen ; for this they preserve their liberty, and keep clear of that bugbear, marriage. But he does not understand either vice or virtue, who will not allow that life without the rules of morality, is a wayward uneasy being, with snatches only of pleasure: but under the regulation of virtue, a reasonable and uniform habit of enjoyment. I have seen, in a play of old Haywood's, a speech at the end of an act, which touched this point with much spirit. He makes a married man in the play, upon some endearing occasion, look at his spouse with an air of fondness, and fall into the following reflection on his condition:

Oh marriage! happiest, easiest, safest state; Let debauchees and drunkards scorn thy rites, Who, in their nauseous draughts and lusts, profane Both thee and heav'n, by whom thou wert ordained. How can the savage call it loss of freedom,

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Chloris, for Chloe, for Betty, nor my lady, nor for the ready chamber-maid, nor distant baroness; woman was his mistress, and the whole sex his seraglio. His form was always irresistible: and if we consider, that not one of five hundred can] bear the least favour from a lady without being exalted above himself; if also we must allow, that a smile from a sidebox has made Jack Spruce half mad; we cannot think it wonderful that Orlando's repeated conquests touched his brain: so it certainly did, and Orlando became an enthusiast in love; and in all his address contracted something out of the ordinary course of breeding and civility. However, powerful as he was, he would still add to the advantages of his person, that of a profession which the ladies always favour, and immediately commenced soldier. Thus equipped for love and honour, our hero seeks distant climes and adventures, and leaves the despairing nymphs of Great Britain, to the courtship of beaux and witlings till his return. His exploits in foreign nations and courts have not been regularly enough communicated unto us, to report them with that veracity which we profess in our narrations: but after many feats of arms (which those who were witnesses to them have suppressed out of envy, but which we have had faithfully related from his own mouth in our public streets) Orlando returns home full, but not loaded with years. Beaux born in his absence made it their business to decry his furniture, his dress, his manner; but all such rivalry he suppressed (as the philosopher did the sceptic, who argued there was no such thing as motion) by only moving. The beauteous Villaria, who only was formed for his paramour, became the object of his affection. His first speech to her was as follows:

WHATEVER malicious men may say of our lucubrations, we have no design but to produce unknown merit, or place in a proper light the actions of our contemporaries who labour to distinguish themselves, whether it be by vice or virtue. For we shall never give accounts to the world of any thing, but what the lives and endeavours of the persons, of whom we treat, make the basis of their fame and reputation. For this reason it is to be hoped that our appearance is reputed a public benefit; and though certain persons may turn what we mean for panegyric into scandal, let it be answered once for all, that if our praises are really designed as raillery, such malevolent persons owe their safety from it, only to their being too inconsiderable for history. It is not every man who deals in ratsbane, or is unseasonably amorous, that can adorn a story like Esculapius; nor every stock-jobber of the India company can assume the port, and personate the figure of Aurengezebe. My noble ancestor, Mr. Shakspeare, who was of the race of the Staffs was not more fond of the memorable Sir John Falstaff, than I am of those worthies; but the Latins have an admirable admonition expressed in three words, to wit, Ne quid nimis, which forbids my indulging myself on those delightful subjects, and calls me to do justice to others, who make no less figures in our generation; of such, the first and most renowned is that eminent hero and lover, Orlando, the handsome, whose disappointment in love, in gallantry, and in war, have banished him from public view, and made him voluntarily enter into a Fortune having now supplied Orlando with necesconfinement to which the ungrateful age would other-saries for his high taste of gallantry and pleasure, his

wise have forced him. Ten lustra and more are wholly past since Orlando first appeared in the metropolis of this island; his descent noble, his wit humorous, his person charming. But to none of these recommendatory advantages was his title so undoubted, as that of his beauty. His complexion was fair, but his countenance manly; his stature of the tallest, his shape the most exact: and though in all his limbs he had a proportion as delicate as we see in the works of the most skilful statuaries, his body had a strength and firmness little inferior to the marble of which such images are formed. This made Orlando the universal flame of all the fair sex ; innocent virgins sighed for him, as Adonis; experienced widows, as Hercules. Thus did this figure walk alone the pattern and ornament of our species, but of course the envy of all who had the same passions without his superior merit and pretences to the favour of that enchanting creature, woman. However, the generous Orlando believed himself formed for the world, and not to be engrossed by any particular affection. He sighed not for Delia, for

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'MADAM,

It is not only that nature has made us two the most accomplished of each sex, and pointed to us to obey her dictates in becoming one; but there is also an ambition in following the mighty persons you have favoured. Where kings and heroes, as great as Alexander, or such as could personate Alexander, have bowed, permit your general to lay his laurels,' According to Milton;

The fair with conscious majesty approv'd
His pleaded reason.

equipage and economy had something in them more sumptuous and gallant than could be received in our degenerate age; therefore his figure, though highly graceful, appeared so exotic, that it assembled all the Britons under the age of sixteen, who saw his grandeur, to follow his chariot with shouts and acclamations which he regarded with the contempt which great minds affect in the midst of applauses. I remember I had the honour tosee him one day stop, and call the youths about him to whom he spake as

follows:

'Good bastards-Go to schoo! and do not lose your time in following my wheels: I am loth to hurt you, because I know not but you are all my own offspring: hark ye, you sirrah with the white hair, I am sure you are mine: there is half-a-crown. Tell your mother, this, with the half-crown I gave her when I got you, comes to five shillings. Thou hast cost me all that, and yet thou art good for nothing. Why, you young dogs, did you never see a man before?' 'Never such a one as you, noble general," replied a truant from Westminster. 'Sirrah, I

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