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-Servetur ad imum,
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet.
HOR., Ars. Poet, v, 126.

Keep one consistent plan from end to end.
NOTHING that is not a real crime makes a man

appear so contemptible and little in the eyes of
the world as inconstancy, especially when it re-
gards religion or party. In either of these cases,
though a man perhaps does but his duty in chang-
ing his side, he not only makes himself hated by
those he left, but is seldom heartily esteemed by

those he comes over to.

Converts and

If I would here put on the scholar and politi- No. 162.] WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 171). cian, I might inform my readers how these bodily exercises or games were formerly encouraged in all the commonwealths of Greece; from whence the Romans afterward borrowed their pentathlum, which was composed of running, wrestling, leaping, throwing, and boxing, though the prizes were generally nothing but a crown of cypress or pars ley, hats not being in fashion in those days: that there is an old statute, which obliges every man in England, having such an estate, to keep and exercise the long-bow: by which means our ancestors excelled all other, nations in the use of that weapon, and we had all the real advantages, without the inconvenience of a standing army; In these great articles of life, therefore, a man's and that I once met with a book of projects, in conviction ought to be very strong, and if possiwhich the author considering to what noble ends ble so well timed, that worldly advantages may seem to have no share in it, or mankind will be that spirit of emulation, which so remarkably shows itself among our common people in these ill-natured enough to think he does not change wakes, might be directed, proposes that for the im- sides out of principle, but either out of levity of provement of all our handicraft trades there should temper, or prospects of interest. be annual prizes set up for such persons as were renegadoes of all kinds should take particular most excellent in their several arts. But laving care to let the world see they act upon honorable aside all these political considerations, which motives: or, whatever approbations they may remight tempt me to pass the limits of my paper, Iceive from themselves, and applauses from those confess the greatest benefit and convenience that I they converse with, they may be very well assured can observe in these country festivals, is the bring that they are the scorn of all good men, and the ing young people together, and giving them an public marks of infamy and derision. opportunity of showing themselves in the most advantageous light. A country fellow that throws his rival upon his back, has generally as good success with their common mistress; as nothing is more usual than for a nimble-footed wench to get a husband at the same time that she wins a Smock. Love and marriages are the natural effects of these anniversary assemblies. I must therefore very much approve the method by which my correspondent tells ne each sex endeavors to recommend itself to the other, since nothing seems more likely to promise a healthy offspring, or a happy cohabitation. And I believe I may assure my country friend, that there has been many a court lady who would be contented to exchange her crazy young husband for Tom Short, and several men of quality who would have parted with a tender yoke-fellow for Black Kate.

I am the more pleased with having love made the principal end and design of these meetings, as it seems to be most agreeable to the intent for which they were at first instituted, as we are informed by the learned Dr. Kennet, with whose words I shall conclude my present paper.

These wakes," says he, "were in imitatior. of the ancient love-feasts; and were first established in England by Pope Gregory the Great, who, in an epistle to Melitus the abbot, gave orders that they should be kept in sheds or arbories made up with the branches or boughs of trees around the

church."

He adds, "that this laudable custom of wakes prevailed for many ages, until the nice Puritans began to exclaim against it as a remnant of popery; and by degrees the precise humor grew so popular, that at an Exeter assizes the Lord Chief Baron Walter made an order for the suppression of all wakes; but on Bishop Laud's complaining of this innovating humor, the king commanded the

order to be reversed."-X.

*In his Parochial Antiquities, 4to., 1695, p. 610, 614.

Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer

themselves to our choice, and inconstancy in pursuing them, are the greatest and most universal causes of all our disquiet and unhappiness. When ambition pulls one way, interest another, inclination a third, and perhaps reason contrary to all, a man is likely to pass his time but ill who has so many different parties to please. When the mind hovers among such a variety of allurements, one had better settle on a way of life that is not the very best we might have chosen, than grow old without determining our choice, and go out of the world as the greatest part of mankind do, before we have resolved how to live in it. There is but one method of setting ourselves at rest in this particular, and that is by adhering steadfastly to one great end as the chief and ultimate aim of all our pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to the dictates of reason, without any regard to wealth, reputation, or the like considerations, any more than as they fall in with our principal design, we may go through life with steadiness and pleasure; but if we act by several broken views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy, popular, and everything that has a value set upon it by the world, we shall live and die in misery and repentance.

One would take more than ordinary care to guard one's self against this particular imperfection, because it is that which our nature very strongly inclines us to; for if we examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find that we are the most changeable beings in the universe. In respect of our understanding, we often embrace and reject the very same opinions; whereas beings above and beneath us have probably no opinions at all, or, at least, no wavering and uncertainties in those they have. Our superiors are guided by intuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In respect

of our wills, we fall into crimes and recover out of them, are amiable or odious in the eyes of our great Judge, and pass our whole life in offending and asking pardon. On the contrary, the beings underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those above us of repenting. The one is out of the possibilities of duty, and the other fixed in an eternal course of sin, or an eternal course of virtue.

There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it,

which does not produce changes and revolutions in the mind of man. Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost in those of youth; these too take a different turn in manhood, until old age often leads us back into our former infancy. A new title or an unexpected success throws us out of ourselves, and in a manner destroys our identity. A cloudy day, or a little sunshine, have as great an influence on many constitutions, as the most real blessing or misfortunes. A dream varies our being, and changes our condition while it lasts; and every passion, not to mention health and sickness, and the greater alterations in body and mind, makes us appear almost different creatures. If a man is so distinguished among other beings by this infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves remarkable for it even

this world is contentment; if we aim at anything higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and disappointment. A man should direct all his studies and endeavors at making himself easy now, and happy hereafter.

The truth of it is, if all the happiness that is dispersed through the whole race of mankind in this world were drawn together, and put into the possession of any single man, it would not make a very happy being. Though, on the contrary, if the miseries of the whole species were fixed in a single person, they would make a very miserable one.

I am engaged in this subject by the following letter, which, though subscribed by a fictitious name, I have reason to believe is not imaginary: MR. SPECTATOR,

among their own species? It is a very trifling"
character to be one of the most variable beings of
the most variable kind, especially if we consider
that he who is the great standard of perfection
has in him no shadow of change, but is the
same yesterday, to-day, and forever."

As this mutability of temper and inconsistency with ourselves is the greatest weakness of human nature, so it makes the person who is remarkable for it in a very particular manner, more ridiculous than any other infirmity whatsoever, as it sets him in a greater variety of foolish lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an opposition of party-colored characters. The most humorous character in Horace is founded upon this unevenness of temper, and irregularity of conduct:

-Sardus habebat

Ille Tigellius hoc: Caesar, qui cogere posset,
Si peteret per amicitiam patris, atque suam, non
Quidquam proficeret: si collibuisset, ab ovo
Usque ad mala citaret, Io Bacche, modo summa
Voce, modo hac, resonat quæ chordis quatuor ima,
Nil æquale homini fuit illi: sæpe velut qui
Currebat fugiens hostem: persæpe velut qui
Junonis sacra ferret: habebat sæpe ducentos,
Stepe decem servos: modo reges atque tetrarchas,
Omnia magna loquens: modo sit mihi mensa tripes, et
Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus,
Quamvis crassa, queat. Deces centena dedisses
Huic parco, paucis contento, quinque diebus
Nil erat in loculis. Noces vigilabat ad ipsum
Mane: diem totum stertebat. Nil fuit unquam
Sic impar sibi-

HOR. 1 Sat. iii.

Instead of translating this passage in Horace, I shall entertain my English reader with the description of a parallel character, that is wonderfully well finished by Mr. Dryden, and raised upon the same foundation:

In the first rank of these did Zimri stand:
A man so various, that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome.
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was everything by starts and nothing long:
But in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon:
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
Beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman who could every hour employ,
With something new to wish, or to enjoy!*
C.

"I am one of your disciples, and endeavor to live up to your rules, which I hope will incline you to pity my condition. I shall open it to you in a very few words. About three years since, a gentleman, whom I am sure, you yourself would have approved, made his addresses to me. He had everything to recommend him but an estate; so that my friends, who all of them applauded his person, would not for the sake of both of us favor his passion. For my own part, I resigned myself up entirely to the direction of those who knew the world much better than myself, but still lived in hopes that some juncture or other would make me happy in the man whom, in my heart, I preferred to all the world; being determined, if I could not have him, to have nobody else. About three months ago I received a letter from him, acquainting me, that by the death of an uncle he had a considerable estate left him, which he said was welcome to him upon no other account, but as he hoped it would remove all difficulties that lay in the way to our mutual happiness. You may well suppose, Sir, with how much joy I received this letter, which was followed by several others filled with those expressions of love and joy, which I verily believed nobody felt more sincerely, nor knew better how to describe, than the gentleman I am speaking of. But, Sir, how shall I be able to tell it you! by the last week's post I received a letter from an intimate friend of this unhappy gentleman, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his affairs, and was preparing for his journey, he fell sick of a fever and died. It is impossible to express to you the distress I am in upon this occasion. I can only have recourse to my devotions, and to the reading of good books for my consolation; and as I always take a particular delight in those frequent advices and admonitions which you give the public, it would be a very great piece of charity in you to lend me your assistance in this conjuncture. If, after the reading of this letter, you find yourself in a humor, rather to rally and ridicule, than to comfort me, I desire you would throw it into the fire, and think no more of it; but if you are touched with my misfortune, which is greater than I know

No. 163.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1711. how to bear, your counsels may very much sup

-Si quid ego adjuero, curamve levasso

Quæ nunc te coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa,
Ecquid erit pretii?-ENN. apud TULLIUM.
Say, will you thank me if I bring you rest,

And ease the torture of your troubled breast?

INQUIRIES after happiness, and rules for attain ing it, are not so necessary and useful to mankind as the arts of consolation, and supporting one's self under affliction. The utmost we can hope for in

*From Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel." Perhaps it is needless to mention, that this character was meant for George Villiers, duke of Buckingham, author of the Rehearsal.

port and will infinitely oblige the afflicted
"LEONORA."

A disappointment in love is more hard to get and subdues the heart, that it disables it from. over than any other; the passion itself so softens. struggling or bearing up against the woes and disother misfortunes in her whole strength; she tresses which befall it. The mind meets with. shock with all the force which is natural to her; but stands collected within herself, and sustains the a heart in love has its foundation sapped, and

immediately sinks under the weight of accidents that are disagreeable to its favorite passion.

In afflictions men generally draw their consolations out of books of morality, which indeed are of great use to fortify and strengthen the mind against the impressions of sorrow. Monsieur St. Evremont, who does not approve of this method, recommends authors who are apt to stir up mirth in the mind of the readers, and fancies Don Quixote can give more relief to a heavy heart than Plutarch or Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief than to conquer it. This doubtless may have its effects on some tempers. I should rather have recourse to authors of a quite contrary kind, that give us instances of calamities and misfortunes, and show human nature in its greatest distresses. If the afflictions we groan under be very heavy, we shall find some consolation in the society of as great sufferers as ourselves, especially when we find our companions men of virtue and merit. If our afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the comparison we make between ourselves and our fellow-sufferers. A loss at sea, a fit of sickness, or the death of a friend, are such trifles, when we consider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, families put to the sword, wretches shut up in dungeons, and the like calamities of mankind, that we are out of countenance for our own weakness, if we sink under such little strokes of for

tune.

Let the disconsolats Leonora consider, that at the very time in which she languishes for the loss of her deceased lover, there are persons in several parts of the world just perishing in shipwreck; others crying out for mercy in the terrors of a death-bed repentance; others lying under the tortures of an infamous execution, or the like dreadful calamities; and she will find her sorrows vanish at the appearance of those which are so much greater and more astonishing.

I would farther propose to the consideration of my afflicted disciple, that possibly what she now looks upon as the greatest misfortune, is not really such in itself. For my own part, I question not but our souls in a separate state will look back on their lives in quite another view, than what they had of them in the body; and what they now consider as misfortunes and disappointments, will very often appear to have been escapes and blessings.

The mind that hath any cast toward devotion, naturally flies to it in its afflictions.

When I was in France I heard a very remarkable story of two lovers, which I shall relate at length in my to-morrow's paper, not only because the circumstances of it are extraordinary, but because it may serve as an illustration to all that can be said on this last head, and show the power of religion in abating that particular anguish which seems to lie so heavily on Leonora. The story was told me by a priest, as I traveled with him in a stage-coach. I shall give it my reader as well as I can remember, in his own words, after I have premised, that if consolations may be drawn from a wrong religion, and a misguided devotion, they cannot but flow much more naturally from those which are founded upon reason and estabdished in good sense.-L.

No. 164.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1711
Illa; quis et me, inquit, miseram, et te perdidit, Orpheu?
Jamque vale; feror ingenti circumdata nocte,
Invalidasque tibi tendens heu! non tua palmas.
VIRG., iv Georg., 491.

Then thus the bride: What fury seiz'd on thee,
Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me?
And now farewell! invov'd in shades of night,
Forever I am ravish'd from thy sight:
In vain I reach my feeble hands to join

one

In sweet embraces, ah! no longer thine.-DRYDEN. CONSTANTIA was a woman of extraordinary wit and beauty, but very unhappy in a father, who having arrived at great riches by his own industry, took delight in nothing but his money. Theodosius* was the younger son of a decayed family, of great parts and learning improved by a genteel and virtuous education. When he was in the twentieth year of his age he became acquainted with Constantia, who had not then passed her fifteenth. As he lived but a few miles distant from her father's house, he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the advantages of a good per son and pleasing conversation, made such an im pression on her heart as it was impossible for tine to efface. He was himself no less smitten with Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still discover new beauties in each other, and by degrees raised in them that mutual passion which had an influence on their following lives. It unfortunately happened, that in the midet of this intercourse of love and friendship, betwe Theodosius and Constantia, there broke out an irreparable quarrel between their parents, the valuing himself too much upon his birth, and the other upon his possessions. The father of Constantia was so incensed at the father of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreasonable aversion toward his son, insomuch that he forbade him his house, and charged his daughter, upon her duty, never to see him more. In the meantime, to break off all communication between the two lovers, whom he knew entertained secret hopes of some favorable opportunity that should bring them together, he found out a young gentleman of good fortune and an agreeable person, whom pitched upon as a husband for his daughter. He soon concerted this affair so well, that he told Constantia it was his design to marry her to such a gentleman, and that her wedding should be celebrated on such a day. Constantia, who was overawed with the authority of her father, and unable to object anything against so advantageous a match, received the proposal with a profound silence, which her father commended in her, as the most decent manner of a virgin's giving her consent to an overture of that kind. The noise of this intended marriage soon reached Theodosius, who, after a long tumult of passions, which naturally rise in a lover's heart on such an occasion, wrote the following letter to Constantia :

"The thought of my Constantia, which for some years has been my only happiness, is now become a greater torment to me than I am able to bear. Must I then live to see you another's? The streams, the fields, and meadows, where we have so often talked together, grow pair ful to me; life itself is become a burden. May you long be happy in the world, but forget that there was ever such a man in it as THEODOSIUS."

This letter was conveyed to Constantia that very evening, who fainted at the reading of it;

*The Theodosius and Constantia of Dr. Langhorne, a cor lection of letters, in 2 vols. 12mo., takes its rise from this paper.

him the history of a life full of innocence, she burst out into tears, and entered upon that part of her story in which he himself had so great a share. My behavior," says she, "has, I fear been the death of a man who had no other fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear he was to me while he lived, and how bitter the remembrance of him has been to me since his death." She here paused, and lifted up her eyes that streamed with tears toward the father; whe was so moved with the sense of he sorrows, that he could only command his voice which was broke with sighs and sobbings, so fa. as to bid her proceed. She followed his direc tions, aud in a flood of tears poured out her heart before him. The father could not forbear weep

and the next morning she was much more alarmed by two or three messengers, that came to her father's house, one after another, to inquire if they had heard anything of Theodosius, who it seems had left his chamber about midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deep melancholy which had hung upon his mind some time before, made them apprehend the worst that could befall him. Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was not to be comforted. She now accused herself for having so tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of her father's displeasure, rather than comply with a marriage which appeared to her so full of guilting aloud, insomuch that in the agonies of his and horror. The father, seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep a considerable portion in his family, was not very much concerned at the obstinate refusal of his daughter; and did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that account to his intended son-in-law, who had all along regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of convenience than of love. Constantia had now no relief but in her devotions and exercises of religion, to which her afflictions had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settled her thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass the remainder of her days in a convent. Her father was not displeased with a resolution which would save money in his family, and readily complied with his daughter's intentions. Accordingly, in the twenty-fifth year of her age, while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom, he carried her to a neighboring city, in order to look out a sisterhood of nuns among whom to place his daughter. There was in this place a father of a convent who was very much renowned for his piety and exemplary life; and as it is usual in the Romish church for those who are under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to apply themselves to the most eminent confessors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful votary took the opportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very morning that the above-mentioned inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a religious house in the city where now Constantia resided; and desiring that secrecy and concealment of the fathers of the convent, which is very usual upon any extraordinary occasion, he made himself one of the order, with a private vow never to inquire after Constantia; whom he looked upon as given away to his rival upon the day on which, according to common fame, their marriage was to have been solemnized. Having in his youth made a good progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to religion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renowned for his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired into all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom Constantia had dermined to apply herself in confession, though neither she nor any other, beside the prior of the convent, knew anything of his name or family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had now taken upon him the name of Father Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shaven head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the man of the world in the venerable conventual.

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, Constantia, kneeling by him, opened the state of her soul to him; and after having given

grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion toward her, and by the horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquaint him with that vow of virginity in which she was going to engage herself, as the proper atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice she could make to the memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this time had pretty well composed himself, burst out again in tears upon hearing that name to which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving this instance of an unparalleled fidelity from one who he thought had several years since given herself up to the possession of another. Amidst the interruptions of his sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted; to tell her that her sins were forgiven herthat her guilt was not so great as she apprehended-that she should not suffer herself to be afflicted above measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her the absolution in form; directing her at the same time to repair to him again the next day, that he might encourage her in the pious resolution she had taken, and give her suitable exhortations for her behavior in it. Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed her applications. Theodosius, having manned his soul with proper thoughts and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the best manner he could to animate his penitent in the course of life she was entering upon, and wear out of her mind those groundless fears and apprehensions which had taken possession of it; concluding with a promise to her that he would from time to time continue his admonitions when she should have taken upon her the holy vail. The rules of our respective orders," says he, "will not permit that I should see you, but you may assure yourself not only of having a place in my prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructions as I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the glorious course you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a peace and satisfaction in your mind, which it is not in the power of the world to give."

Constantia's heart was so elevated with the discourse of Father Francis, that the very next day she entered upon her vow. As soon as the solemnities of her reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, with the abbess into her own apartment.

The abbess had been informed the night before of all that had passed between her novitiate and Father Francis: from whom she now delivered to her the following letter:

"As the first fruits of those joys and consolations which you may expect from the life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that Theo dosius, whose death sits so heavy upon your

thoughts, is still alive; and that the father, to whom you have confessed yourself, was once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The love which we have had for one another will make us more happy in its disappointment than it could have done in its success. Providence has disposed of us for our advantage, though not according to our wishes. Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure yourself of one who will not cease to pray for you in Father

"FRANCIS."

Constantia saw that the hand-writing agreed with the contents of the letter: and upon reflecting on the voice of the person, the behavior, and above all, the extreme sorrow of the father during her confession, she discovered Theodosius in every particular. After having wept with tears of joy, It is enough," says she, Theodosius is still in being: I shall live with comfort and die in peace."

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ful in beating down their power. Ou: soldiers are men of strong heads for action, and perform such feats as they are not able to express. They want words in their own tongue to tell us what it is they achieve, and therefore send us over accounts of their performances in a jargon of phrases which they learn among their conquered enemies. They ought however to be provided with secretaries, and assisted by our foreign ministers, to tell their story for them in plain English, and to let us know in our mother tongue what it is our brave countrymen are about. The French would indeed be in the right to publish the news of the present war in the English phrases, and make their campaigns unintelligible. Their people might flatter themselves that things are not so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with foreign terms, and thrown into shades and obscurity; but the English cannot be too clear in their narrative of those actions which have raised their country to a higher pitch of glory than it ever yet arrived at, and which will be still the more admired the better they are explained.

The letters which the father sent her afterward, are yet extant in the nunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young religious, in order For my part, by that time a siege is carried on to inspire them with good resolutions and senti- two or three days, I am altogether lost and bewilments of virtue. It so happened, that after Con-dered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable stantia had lived about ten years in the cloister, a difficulties, that I scarce know which side has the violent fever broke out in the place, which swept better of it, until I am informed by the Tower away great multitudes, and among others Theodo- guns that the place is surrendered. "I do indeed sius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction make some allowances for this part of the war: in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at fortifications have been foreign inventions, and that time was so far gone in the same fatal dis- upon that abound in foreign terms. But when temper, that she lay delirious. Upon the interval we have won battles which may be described in which generally precedes death in sickness of this our own language, why are our papers filled with nature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had so many unintelligible exploits, and the French given her over, told her that Theodosius was just obliged to lend us a part of their tongue before gone before her, and that he had sent her his ben- we can know how they are conquered? They ediction in his last moments. Constantia received must be made accessory to their own disgrace, as it with pleasure. "And now," says she, "If I do the Britons were formerly so artificially wrought not ask anything improper, let me be buried by in the curtain of the Roman theater, that they Theodosius. My vow reaches no farther than the seemed to draw it up in order to give the spectagrave; what I ask is, I hope, no violation of it."-tors an opportunity of seeing their own defeat She died soon after, and was interred according celebrated upon the stage: for so Mr. Dryden has to her request. translated that verse in Virgil:

Their tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin inscription over them, to the following purpose:

"Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided."-C.

L.

Purpurea intexti tollunt aula Britanni.-GEORG. iii, 25. Which interwoven Britons seem to raise, And show the triumph that their shame displays. The histories of all our former wars are transmitted to us in our vernacular idiom, to use the phrase of a great modern critic. I do not find ir. any of our chronicles, that Edward the Third ever 'reconnoitered' the enemy, though he often dis

No. 165.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1711. covered the posture of the French, and as often van

-Si forte necesse est,

Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis

Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.
HOR., Ars. Poet., v, 43.

-If you would unheard-of things express,
Invent new words; we can indulge a muse,
Until the license rise to an abuse.—CREECH.

quished thein in battle. The Black Prince passed many a river without the help of pontoons,' and filled a ditch with fagots as successfully as the generals of our times do it with 'fascines.' Our commanders lose half their praise, and our people half their joy, by means of those hard words and dark expressions in which our newspapers do so I HAVE often wished, that as in our constitution much abound. I have seen many a prudent citithere are several persons whose business is to zen, after having read every article, inquire of his watch over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, next neighbor what news the mail had brought. certain men might be set apart as superintendI remember in that remarkable year, when our ents of our language, to hinder any words of a country was delivered from the greatest fears and foreign coin from passing among us; and in partic-apprehensions, and raised to the greatest height ular to prohibit any French phrases from becoming of gladness it had ever felt since it was a nacurrent in this kingdom, when those of our own tion,-I mean the year of Blenheim,-I had the stamp are altogether as valuable. The present copy of a letter sent me out of the country, which war has so adulterated our tongue with strange was written from a young gentleman in the army words, that it would be impossible for one of our to his father, a man of good estate and plain great-grandfathers to know what his posterity sense. As the letter was very modishly checkerhave been doing, were he to read their exploits in ed with this modern military eloquence, I shall a modern newspaper. Our warriors are very in- present my reader with a copy of it: dustrious in propagating the French language, at the same time that they are so gloriously success

Dr. Richard Bentley.

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