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showing the superior dignity of man to that of HAPPINESS, IN A GREAT MEASURE, DEroyalty: that a peasant who does his duty is a no

PENDENT ON CONSTITUTION. bler character than a king of even middling reputation. Happy, I say, were princes, could such When I reflect on the unambitious retirement men be found to instruct them ; but those to whom in which I passed the earlier part of my life in the such an education is generally intrusted, are men country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinkwho themselves have acted in a sphere too high to ing that those happy days are never to return. In know mankind. Puffed up themselves with the that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording ideas of false grandeur, and measuring merit by pleasure: I then made no refinements on happiadventitious circumstances of greatness, they gene- ness, but could be pleased with the most awkward rally communicate those fatal prejudices to their efforts of rustic mirth; thought cross-purposes the pupils, confirm their pride by adulation, or increase highest stretch of human wit, and questions and their ignorance by teaching them to despise that commands the most rational amusement for spendwisdom which is found among the poor.

ing the evening. Happy could so charming an But not to moralize when I only intend a story,

illusion still continue! I find age and knowledge what is related of the journeys of this prince is no only contribute to sour our dispositions. My preless astonishing. He has sometimes been on sent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are horseback for four-and-twenty hours successively, infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure Garrick and thus traversed the greatest part of his king- gives can on way compare to that I have received dom. At last none of his officers were found ca- from a country wag, who imitated a quaker's serpable of following him; he thus consequently

The music of Matei is dissonance to what rode the greatest part of his journeys quite alone,

I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears without taking a moment's repose, and without

with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or any other subsistence but a bit of bread. In one the cruelty of Barbara Allen. of these rapid courses he underwent an adventure Writers of every age have endeavoured to show singular enough. Riding thus post one day, all that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offeralone, he had the misfortune to have his horse fall ed for our amusement. If the soul be happily disdead under him. This might have embarrassed posed, every thing becomes a subject of entertainan ordinary man, but it gave Charles no sort of ment, and distress will almost want a name. uneasiness. Sure of finding another horse, but Every occurrence passes in review like the figures not equally so of meeting with a good saddle and of a procession: some may be awkward, others pistols, he ungirds his horse, claps the whole equi- ill-dressed, but none but a fool is for this enraged page on his own back, and thus accoutred marches with the master of the ceremonies. on to the next inn, which by good fortune was not I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortifar off. Entering the stable, he here found a horse fication in Flanders, who appeared no way touchentirely to his mind; so, without further ceremony,

ed with his situation. He was maimed, deformed, he clapped on his saddle and housing with great

and chained ; obliged to toil from the appearance composure, and was just going to mount, when of day till nightfall, and condemned to this for life; the gentleman who owned the horse was apprised yet, with all these circumstances of apparent of a stranger's going to steal his property out of wretchedness, he sung, would have danced, but the stable. Upon asking the king, whom he had that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, never seen, bluntly, how he presumed to meddle happiest man of all the garrison. What a pracwith his horse, Charles coolly replied, squeezing in tical philosopher was here! a happy constitution his lips, which was his usual custom, that he took supplied philosophy, and though seemingly destithe horse because he wanted one; for you see, tute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading continued he, if I have none, I shall be obliged to or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy carry the saddle myself. This answer did not land around him. Every thing furnished him seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, who in- with an opportunity of mirth; and though some stantly drew his sword. In this the king was not thought him from his insensibility a fool, he was much behind-hand with him, and to it they were such an idiot as philosophers might wish in vain going, when the guards by this time came up, and to imitate. testified that surprise which was natural to see They who, like him, can place themselves on arms in the hand of a subject against his king. that side of the world, in which every thing apImagine whether the gentleman was less surpris- pears in a ridiculous or pleasing light, will find ed than they at his unpremeditated disobedience. something in every occurrence to excite their good His astonishment, however, was soon dissipated by humour. The most calamitous events, either to the king, who, taking him by the hand, assured themselves or others, can bring no new affliction; him he was a brave fellow, and himself would the whole world is to them a theatre, on which take care he should be provided for. This pro- comedies only are acted. All the bustle of heromise was afterwards fulfilled, and I have been as- ism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heightsured the king make him a captain.

en the absurdity of the scene, and make the hu

mour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little

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Simon (in great affiction to be sure), “ may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!" At last, turning to poor Dick, “As for you, you have always been a sad dog, you'll never come to good, you'll never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling to buy a halter.”—“Ah! father,” cries Dick, without any emotion, may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!” This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the neglect of a father; and Dick is not only excessively good-humoured, but competently rich.

The world, in short, may cry out at a bankrupt who appears at a ball; at an author, who laughs at the public which pronounces him a dunce; at a general, who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar; or a lady who keeps her good-humour in spite of scandal; but such is the wisest behaviour they can possibly assume. It is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it: by the first method we forget our miseries, by the last we only conceal them from others. By struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the conflict: the only method to come off victorious, is by running away.

ON OUR THEATRES.

anguish at their own distress, or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral.

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold he was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being a universal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more favourable reception; if she too rejected his addresses, he never thought of retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : he persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he only fancied he had loved her, and so all was well again. When fortune wore her angriest look, when he at last fell into the power of his most deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine, and was confined a close prisoner in the castle of Vincennes, he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though secluded from his friends, though denied all the amusements, and even the conveniences of life, teased every hour by the impertinence of wretches who were employed to guard him, he still retained his good-humour, langhed at all their little spite, and carried the jest so far as to be revenged, by writing the life of his gaoler.

All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's example will instruct us to be merry in circumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good-humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even idiotism; it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool would measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it.

Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick fell into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to Dick. His inattention to money matters had incensed his father to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends in his favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered round him. “I leave my second son Andrew,” said the expiring miser,“ my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal.” Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions,“ prayed Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself.”_"I recominend Sinon, iny third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thousand pounds.”—“Al! father,” cried

MadeMOISELLE Claroin, a celebrated actress at Paris, seems to me the most perfect female figure I have ever seen upon any stage. Not perhaps that nature has been more liberal of personal beauty to her, than some to be seen upon our theatres at home. There are actresses here who have as much of what connoisseurs call statuary grace, by which is meant elegance unconnected with motion, as she; but they all fall infinitely short of her, when the soul comes to give expression to the limbs, and animates every feature.

Her first appearance is excessively engaging ; she never comes in staring round upon the company, as if she intended to count the benefits of the house, or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her eyes are always, at first, intently fixed upon the persons of the drama, and she lifts them by degrees, with enchanting diffidence, upon the spectators. Her first speech, or at least the first part of it, is delivered with scarcely any motion of the arm; her hands and her tongue never set out together; but the one prepares us for the other. She sometimes begins with a mute eloquent attitude; but never goes forward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and voice. This observation, though it may appear of no importance, should certainly be adverted to; nor do I see any one performer (Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not in this particular apt to offend. By this simple begioning, she gives herself a power of rising in the passion of the scene. As she proceeds, every ges

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ture, every look, acquires new violence, till at last “ Language has been granted to man, in order to transported, she fills the whole vehemence of the discover his wants and necessities, so as to have part, and all the idea of the poet.

them relieved by society. Whatever we desire, Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and whatever we wish, it is but to clothe those desires then drawn in again, as with the singing women or wishes in words, in order to fruition ; the princiat Saddler's Wells; they are employed with grace- pal use of language, therefore,” say they,“ is to exful variety, and every moment please with new and press our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress.” unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their mo- Such an account as this may serve to satisfy tion is generally from the shoulder; she never grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but flourishes her hands while the upper part of her men who know the world maintain very contrary arm is motionless, nor has she the ridiculous ap- maxims; they hold, and I think with some show of pearance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips. reason, that he who best knows how to conceal his

But of all the cautions to be given to our rising necessity and desires, is the most likely person to actresses, I would particularly recommend it to

find redress; and that the true use of speech is not them never to take notice of the audience, upon so much to express our wants, as to conceal them. any occasion whatsoever; let the spectators ap

When we reflect on the manner in which manplaud never so loudly, their praises should pass, ex- kind generally confer their favours, we shall find, cept at the end of the epilogue, with seeming inat- that they who seem to want them least, are the tention. I can never pardon a lady on the stage, very persons who most liberally share them. There who, when she draws the admiration of the whole is something so attractive in riches, that the large audience, turns about to make them a low courtesy heap generally collects from the smaller ; and the for their applause. Such a figure no longer con- poor find as much pleasure in increasing the enortinues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Cib- mous mass, as the miser, who owns it, sees happiber. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a-year ness in its increase. Nor is there any thing in this takes his shilling's-worth at Drury-Lane, in order repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca to be delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the preof Sheba, for instance, or any other queen;

this sent should always be suited to the dignity of the honest man has no other idea of the great but from receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, their superior pride and impertinence; suppose and are thanked for accepting them. Men of such a man placed among the spectators, the first middling stations are obliged to be content with figure that appears on the stage is the queen her- presents something less; while the beggar, who self, courtesying and cringing to all the company; may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a how can he fancy her the haughty favourite of King farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. Solomon the wise, who appears actually more sub- Every man who has seen the world, and has missive than the wife of his bosom? We are all had his ups and downs in life, as the expression tradesmen of a nicer relish in this respect, and such is, must have frequently experienced the truth of conduct must disgust every spectator, who loves to this doctrine, and must know, that to have much, have the illusion of nature strong upon him. or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more.

Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skilful Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to attention to gesture, I would not have them study a falling column; the lower it sinks, the greater it in the looking-glass. This, without some pre- weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a caution, will render their action formal; by too man has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers great an intimacy with this, they become stiff and willing to lend him. Should he ask his friend to affected. People seldom improve when they have lend him a hundred pounds, it is possible, from no other model but themselves to copy after. I re- the iargeness of his demand, he may find credit for member to have known a notable performer of the twenty; but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, other sex, who made great use of this flattering it is two to one whether he might be trusted for monitor, and yet was one of the stiffest figures I twopence. A certain young fellow at George's, ever saw. I am told his apartment was hung round whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a with looking-glasses, that he might see his person guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted twenty times reflected upon entering the room; and two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums, I will make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly that none could ever think he wanted a small one. fellows whenever he did so.

The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit

for a new suit from his tailor, always made a proNo. III.

posal in laced clothes ; for he found by experience,

that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr. Saiurday, October 20, 1759.

Lynch had taken an oath against trusting; or, what was every bit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home these two days.

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, The manner in which most writers begin their except to find pity, and by this means relief; but treatises on the use of language, is generally thus: before a poor man opens his mind in such circum

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ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE.

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stances, he should first consider whether he is contented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendship only to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are passions incompatible with each other, and it is impossible that both can reside in any breast for the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt; the mind may for some time fluctuate between them, but it never can entertain both together.

Yet, let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the human mind. There are scarcely any who are not, in some degree, possessed of this pleasing softness; but it is at best but a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance: with some it scarcely lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others it may continue for twice that space, and on some extraordinary sensibility I have seen it operate for half an hour. But, however, last as it will, it generally produces but beg. gerly effects: and where, from this motive, we give a halfpenny, from others we give always pounds. In great distress, we sometimes, it is true, feel the influence of tenderness strongly; when the same distress solicits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility, but, like the repetition of an echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt.

Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance; but he's gone. Jack was bred in a counting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as a habitual prudence, and from such considerations, he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Those who had money were ready to offer him their assistance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently in the warmth of affection advised him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumstances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modestly declined their proposals.

Some errors in the management of his affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking; and he at last thought it his best way to let his friends know, that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was, therefore, to a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused.

Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony; and, as a man confident of not being refused, requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money. “ And pray, Mr. Spindle,” replied the scrivener,“ do you want all this money ?”—“Want it, sir,” says the other, “if

I did not want it, I should not have asked it.”“I am sorry for that,” says the friend ; " for those who want money when they come to borrow, will want money when they should come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money nowa-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part ; and he that has got a httle, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got.”

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship.“Let me see, you want a hundred guineas; and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer?”—“ If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented.” “ Fifty to spare! I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me.”

“ Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend." “ And pray,” replied the friend, “would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know ? Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time ; you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so. You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then ? Your very humble servant."

Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would permit. He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived, “ No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind.” Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galloon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match.

Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery ; his clothes flew piece by piece to the pawnbrokers ; and he seemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still he thought himself secure from starving; the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was, therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner because he wanted one ; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted. The last place I saw poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to.

He assured the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk to White-Conduit-House, where he had been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praised the figure of the damask, talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that

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the vension was overdone. All this, however, pro- She seems, in such circumstances, like one in ba. cured the poor creature no invitation, and he was ishment; she appears like a neutral being benot yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being tween the sexes ; and, though she may have the asked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the admiration of both, she finds true happiness from house insensible to all his fetches, he thought pro- neither. per, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a Of all the ladies of antiquity I have read of, none walk in the Park.

was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, Hypasia, the daughter of Leon, the philosopher. whether in rags or lace ; whether in Kent-street This most accomplished of women was born at or the Mall ; whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's ; Alexandria, in the reign of Theodosius the youngmight I advise you as a friend, never seem in want er. Nature was never more lavish of its gifts than of the favour which you solicit. Apply to every

it had been to her, endued as she was with the passion but pity for redress. You may find relief most exalted understanding, and the happiest turn from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, to science. Education completed what nature had but seldom from compassion. The very eloquence begun, and made her the prodigy not only of her of a poor man is disgusting; and that mouth age, but the glory of her sex, which is opened even for flattery, is seldom expect

From her father she learned geometry and ased to close without a petition.

tronomy; she collected from the conversation and

i If then

you
would ward off the gripe of poverty,

schools of the other philosophers, for which Alexpretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at andria was at that time famous, the principles of least use you with ceremony. Hear not my advice,

the rest of the sciences. but that of Offellus. If you be caught dining upon

What can not be conquered by natural penetraa halfpenny porringer of peas soup and potatoes, tion, and a passion for study? The boundless praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. knowledge which, at that period of time, was reYou may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed quired to form the character of a philosopher, no peas broth for the gravel ; hint that you are not was discouraged her ; she delivered herself up to one of those who are always making a god of your the study of Aristotle and Plato, and soon not one belly. If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in in all Alexandria understood so perfectly as she the midst of winter, be the first to remark that

all the difficulties of those two philosophers. stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be But not their systems alone, but those of every found some irreparable defects in any part of your other sect were quite familiar to her ; and to equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the this knowledge she added that of polite learning, arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, and the art of oratory. All the learning which it say, that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were was possible for the human mind to contain, beever very fond of dress. Or if you be a philosopher, ing joined to a most enchanting eloquence, renderhint that Plato and Seneca are the tailors you

ed this lady the wonder not only of the populace, choose to employ ; assure the company, that men

who easily admire, but of philosophers themselves, ought to be content with a bare covering, since

who are seldom fond of admiration. what is now so much the pride of some, was for- The city of Alexandria was every day crowded merly our shame. Horace will give you a Latin with strangers, who came from all parts of Greece sentence fit for the occasion,

and Asia to see and hear her. As for the charms

of her person, they might not probably have been Toga defendere frigus,

mentioned, did she not join to a beauty the most Quamvis crassa, queat.

striking, a virtue that might repress the most as

suming; and though in the whole capital, famed In short, however caught, do not give up, but as

for charms, there was not one who could equal cribe to the frugality of your disposition, what her in beauty ; though in a city, the resort of all others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness the learning then existing in the world, there was of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a not one who could equal her in knowledge ; yet, miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem with such accomplishments, Hypasia was the poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in most modest of her sex. Her reputation for virtue the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous ; was not less than her virtues ; and though in a beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can ex- city divided between two factions, though visited

by the wits and the philosophers of the age, calumny never dared to suspect her morals, or attempt her character. Both the Christians and the Heathens who have transmitted her history and her misfortunes, have but one voice, when they

speak of her beauty, her knowledge, and her virMan, when secluded from society, is not a more tue. Nay, so much harmony reigns in their aesolitary being than thre woman who leaves the du- counts of this prodigy of perfection, that, in spite ties of her

cuse.

THE HISTORY OF HYPASIA.

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