regard to our actions, we may discover that great and difficult than it is in its own nature, bet art and secret of religion which I have here men-¡ many into sins of omission which they could tioned. A good intention, joined to a good action, gives it its proper force and efficacy; joined to an evil action, extenuates its malignity, and in some cases takes it wholly away; and joined to an indifferent action, turns it to a virtue, and makes it meritorious as far as human actions can be so. In the next place, to consider in the same manner the influence of an evil intention upon our actions. An evil intention perverts the best of actions, and makes them, in reality, what the fathers with a witty kind of zeal have termed the virtues of the heathen world, so many shining sins. It destroys the innocence of an indifferent action, and gives an evil action all possible blackness and horror, or, in the emphatical language of sacred writ, makes "sin exceeding sinful."+ If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an indifferent intention, we shall find that it destroys the merit of a good action; abates, but never takes away, the malignity of an evil action; and leaves an indifferent action in its natural state of indifference. It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess our minds with an habitual good intention, and to aim all our thoughts, words, and actions at some laudable end, whether it be the glory of our Maker, the good of mankind, or the benefit of our own souls. It This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral life, which does not throw away any single action, but makes every one go as far as it can. multiplies the means of salvation, increases the number of our virtues and diminishes that of our vices. There is something very devout, though not so solid, in Acosta's answer to Limborch, who objects to him, the multiplicity of ceremonies in the Jewish religion, as washings, dresses, meats, purgations, and the like. The reply which the Jew makes upon this occasion, is, to the best of my remembrance, as follows: "There are not duties enough," says he, "in the essential parts of the law, for a zealous and active obedience. Time, place, and person are requisite, before you have an opportunity of putting a moral virtue into practice. We have therefore," says he, " enlarged the sphere of our duty, and made many things, which are in themselves indifferent, a part of our religion, that we may have more occasions of showing our love to God, and in all the circumstances of life, by doing something to please him." Monsieur St. Evremond has endeavored to palliate the superstitions of the Roman Catholic religion with the same kind of apology, where he pretends to consider the different spirits of the Papists and the Calvinists, as to the great points wherein they disagree. He tells us, that the former are actuated by love, and the other by fear; and that in their expressions of duty and devotion toward the Supreme Being, the former seems particularly careful to do everything which may possibly please him, and the other to abstain from everything which may possibly displease him. But notwithstanding this plausible reason with which both the Jew and the Roman Catholic would excuse their respective superstitions, it is certain there is something in them very pernicious to mankind, and destructive to religion; because the injunction of superfluous ceremonies makes such actions duties, as were before indifferent, and by that means renders religion more burdensome otherwise be guilty of, and fixes the mind of vulgar to the shadowy, unessential points, ins of the more weighty and more important ma of the law. This zealous and active obedience, howe takes place in the great point we are recomm ing; for if, instead of prescribing to ourselves different actions as duties, we apply a good in tion to all our most indifferent actions, we our very existence one continued act of obedi we turn our diversions and amusements to eternal advantage, and are pleasing Him (w we are made to please) in all the circumsta and occurrences of life. It is this excellent frame of mind, this hol ficiousness (if I may be allowed to call it st which is recommended to us by the apostle in uncommon precept wherein he directs us to pose to ourselves the glory of our Creator i our most indifferent actions, "whether we e drink, or whatsoever we do."* A person, therefore, who is possessed with an habitual good intention as that which I been here speaking of, enters upon no singl cumstance of life, without considering it as pleasing to the great Author of his being, formable to the dictates of reason, suitab human nature in general, or to that particula tion in which Providence has placed him. lives in a perpetual sense of the Divine Pres regards himself as acting, in the whole cour his existence, under the observation and in tion of that Being, who is privy to all his mo and all his thoughts, who knows his "dow ting and his uprising, who is about his path about his bed, and spieth out all his ways." a word, he remembers that the eye of his Ju always upon him, and in every action he re that he is doing what is commanded or all by him who will hereafter either reward or p it. This was the character of those holy m old, who, in that beautiful phrase of Scrip are said to have "walked with God."‡ When I employ myself upon a paper of lity, I generally consider how I may recom the particular virtue which I treat of, by the cepts or examples of the ancient heathen that means, if possible, to shame those who greater advantages of knowing their duty, therefore greater obligations to perform it, i better course of life; beside, that many amo are unreasonably disposed to give a fairer he to a Pagan philosopher than to a Christian w I shall, therefore, produce an instance of excellent frame of mind in a speech of Soc which is quoted by Erasmus. This great ph pher on the day of his execution, a little the draught of poison was brought to him, taining his friends with a discourse on the in tality of the soul, has these words: "Wheth no God will approve of my actions, I know but this I am sure of, that I have at all made it my endeavor to please him, and I h good hope that this my endeavor will be acc by him." We find in these words of that man the habitual good intention which I here inculcate, and with which that divine sopher always acted. I shall only add, that mus, who was an unbigoted Roman catholic so much transported with this passage of Soc that he could scarce forbear looking upon hi a saint, and desiring him to pray for him; -Perierunt tempora longi Servitii I DID Some time ago lay before the world the unhappy condition of the trading part of mankind, who suffer by want of punctuality in the dealings of persons above them; but there is a set of men who are much more the objects of compassion than even those, and these are the dependents on great men, whom they are pleased to take under their protection as such as are to share in their friendship and favor. These indeed, as well from the homage that is accepted from them as the hopes which are given to them, are become a sort of creditors; and these debts, being debts of honor, ought, according to the accustomed maxim, to be first discharged. When I speak of dependents, I would not be understood to mean those who are worthless in themselves, or who, without any call, will press into the company of their betters. Nor, when I speak of patrons, do I mean those who either have it not in their power, or have no obligation to assist their friends; but I speak of such leagues where there is power and obligation on the one part, and merit and expectation on the other. The division of patron and client, may, I believe, include a third of our nation: the want of merit and real worth in the client, will strike out about ninety-nine in a hundred of these; and the want of ability in patrons, as many of that kind. But, however, I must beg leave to say, that he who will take up another's time and fortune in his service, though he has no prospect of rewarding his merit toward him, is as unjust in his dealings as he who takes up goods of a tradesman without intention or ability to pay him. Of the few of the class which I think fit to consider, there are not two in ten who succeed, insomuch that I know a man of good sense who put his son to a blacksmith, though an offer was made him of his being received as a page to a man of quality. There are not more cripples come out of the wars than there are from those great services; some through discontent lose their speech, some their memories, others their senses, or their lives; and I seldom see a man thoroughly discontented, but I conclude he has had the favor of some great I have known of such as have been for twenty years together within a month of a good employment, but never arrived at the happiness of being possessed of anything. man. There is nothing more ordinary, than that a man, who has got into a considerable station, shall immediately alter his manner of treating all his friends, and from that moment he is to deal with you as if he were your fate. You are no longer to be consulted, even in matters which concern yourself; but your patron is of a species above you, and a free communication with you is not to be expected. This, perhaps, may be your condition all the while he bears office; and when that is at an end, you are as intimate as ever you were, and he will take it very ill if you keep the distance he prescribed you toward him in his grandeur. One would think this should be a behavior a man could fall into with the worst grace imagi nable; but they who know the world have seen it more than once. I have often, with secret pity, heard the same man who has professed his abhorrence against all kind of passive behavior, lose minutes, hours, days, and years, in a fruitless attendance on one who had no inclination to befriend him. It is very much to be regretted, that the great have one particular privilege above the rest of the world, of being slow in receiving impressions of kindness, and quick in taking offense. The elevation above the rest of mankind, except in very great minds, makes men so giddy, that they do not see after the same manner they did before. Thus they despise their old friends, and strive to extend their interests to new pretenders. By this means it often happens, that when you come to know how you lost such an employment, you will find the man who got it never dreamed of it; but, forsooth, he was to be surprised into it, or perhaps solicited to receive it. Upon such occasions as these a man may perhaps grow out of humor. If you are so, all mankind will fall in with the patron, and you are a humorist and untractable if you are capable of being sour at a disappointment: but it is the same thing whether you do or do not resent ill-usage, you will be used after the same manner; as some good mothers will be sure to whip their children till they cry, and then whip them for crying. There are but two ways of doing anything with great people, and those are by making yourself either considerable or agreeable. The former is not to be attained but by finding a way to live without them, or concealing that you want them; the latter is only by falling into their taste and pleasures. This is, of all the employments in the world, the most servile, except it happens to be of your own natural humor. For to be agreeable to another, especially if he be above you, is not to be possessed of such qualities and accomplishments as should render you agreeable in yourself but such as make you agreeable in respect to him. An imitation of his faults, or a compliance, if not subservience to his vices, must be the measure of your conduct. When it comes to that, the unnatural state a man lives in, when his patron pleases, is ended; and his guilt and complaisance are objected to him, though the man who rejects him for his vices was not only his partner, but seducer. Thus the client (like a young woman who has given up the innocence which made her charming) has not only lost his time, but also the virtue which could render him capable of resenting the injury which is done him. It would be endless to recount the tricks of turn ing you off from themselves to persons who have less power to serve you, the art of being sorry for such an unaccountable accident in your behavior, that such a one (who, perhaps, has never heard of you) opposes your advancement; and if you have anything more than ordinary in you, you are flattered with a whisper, that it is no wonder people are so slow in doing for a man of your talents, and the like. After all this treatment, I must still add the pleasantest insolence of all, which I have once or twice seen; to wit, that when a silly rogue has thrown away one part in three of his life in unprofitable attendance, it is taken wonderfully ill that he withdraws, and is resolved to employ the rest for himself. When we consider these things, and reflect upon so many honest natures (which one, who makes observation of what passes, may have seen) that *These. have miscarried by such sort of applications, it is too melancholy a scene to dwell upon; therefore I shall take another opportunity to discourse of good patrons, and distinguish such as have done their duty to those who have depended upon them, and were not able to act without their favor. Worthy patrons are like Plato's Guardian Angels, who are always doing good to their wards; but negligent patrons are like Epicurus's gods, that lie lolling on the clouds, and, instead of blessings, pour down storms and tempests on the heads of those that are offering incense to them.* T. Since I am engaged on this subject, I forbear mentioning a story which I have heard, and which is so well attested, that no manner of reason to suspect the truth of may call it a kind of wild tragedy that about twelve years ago at St. Christopher of our British Leeward islands. The negrowere the persons concerned in it, were all the slaves of a gentleman, who is now i land. This gentleman, among his negroes, young woman, who was looked upon as extraordinary beauty by those of her ow plexion. He had at the same time two fellows, who were likewise negroes and No. 215.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1711. remarkable for the comeliness of their -Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes OVID, de Ponto, II. ix, 47. I CONSIDER a human soul without education like marble in the quarry, which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colors, makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein that runs through the body of it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which without such helps are never able to make their appearance. If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in stone, the sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, very often lie hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred, and have brought to light. I am therefore, much delighted with reading the accounts of savage nations, and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated; to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes, who upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it frequently happens in our American plantations, who can forbear admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful à manner? What might not that savage greatness of soul which appears in these poor wretches on many occasions be raised to were it rightly cultivated? And what color of excuse can there be for the contempt with which we treat this part of our species? that we should not put them upon the common foot of humanity; that we should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who murders them; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off from the prospect of happiness in another world as well as in this, and deny them that which we look upon as the proper means for attaining it? The Spectator has not justly represented here the gods of Epicurus: they were supposed to be indolent and uninterested in the affairs of men, but not malignant or cruel beings. and for the friendship which they bore another. It unfortunately happened that them fell in love with the female negre mentioned, who would have been very have taken either of them for her husba vided they would agree between themselve should be the man. But they were both sionately in love with her, that neither would think of giving her up to his rival the same time were so true to one anot neither of them would think of gaining h out his friend's consent. The torments two lovers were the discourse of the fa which they belonged, who could not for serving the strange complication of which perplexed the hearts of the poor that often dropped expressions of the un they underwent, and how impossible it either of them ever to be happy. After a long struggle between love and ship, truth and jealousy, they one day tool together into a wood, carrying their mistre with them: where, after abundance of tions, they stabbed her to the heart, of w immediately died. A slave who was at not far from the place where this astonishi of cruelty was committed, hearing the sh the dying person, ran to see what was t sion of them. He there discovered the lying dead upon the ground, with the twe on each side of her, kissing the dead weeping over it, and beating their breast utmost agonies of grief and despair. mediately ran to the English family with of what he had seen; who, upon comin place, saw the woman dead, and the two expiring by her with wounds they had giv selves. The We see in this amazing instance of E what strange disorders are bred in the r those men whose passions are not reg virtue, and disciplined by reason. action which I have recited is in itsel guilt and horror, it proceeded from a te mind which might have produced ve fruits, had it been informed and guided able education. It is therefore an unspeakable blessi born in those parts of the world wher and knowledge flourish; though it mus fessed, there are, even in these parts, sev uninstructed persons, who are but little inhabitants of those nations of which I here speaking; as those who have had th tage of a more liberal education rise a another by several different degrees of p For, to return to our statue in the block o we see it sometimes only begun to be sometimes rough-hewn, and but just sket a human figure; sometimes we see the pearing distinctly in all his limbs and sometimes we find the figure wrought up to a great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or Praxiteles could not give several nice touches and finishings. No. 216.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1711. TER. Eun., Act. i, Sc. 1. spouse, she said to me, that I was a pretending coxcomb, a meddler that knew not what it was to interpose in so nice an affair as between a man and his wife. To which Mr. Freeman: 'Madam, Discourses of morality, and reflections upon were I less fond of you than I am, I should not human nature, are the best means we can make have taken this way of writing to the Spectator use of to improve our minds, and gain a true to inform a woman, whom God and nature has knowledge of ourselves, and consequently to re- placed under my direction, with what I request of cover our souls out of the vice, ignorance, and her; but since you are so indiscreet as not to take prejudice, which naturally cleave to them. I have the hint which I gave you in that paper, I must all along professed myself in this paper a pro- tell you, Madam, in so many words, that you have moter of these great ends; and I flatter myself that for a long and tedious space of time acted a part I do from day to day contribute something to the unsuitable to the sense you ought to have of the polishing of men's minds: at least my design is subordination in which you are placed. And I laudable, whatever the execution may be. I must must acquaint you, once for all, that the fellow confess I am not a little encouraged in it by many without Ha, Tom!'-(here the footman entered letters which I receive from unknown hands, in and answered, Madam) 'Sirrah, don't you know approbation of my endeavors; and must take this my voice? Look upon me when I speak to you.' opportunity of returning my thanks to those who I say, Madam, this fellow here is to know of write them, and excusing myself for not inserting me myself, whether I am at leisure to see comseveral of them in my papers, which I am sen-pany or not. I am from this hour master of this sible would be a very great ornament to them. house; and my business in it, and everywhere Should I publish the praises which are so well else is to behave myself in such a manner, as it penned, they would do honor to the persons who shall be hereafter an honor to you to bear my write them, but my publishing of them would, I name; and your pride that you are the delight, the fear, be a sufficient instance to the world that I darling, and ornament of a man of honor, useful did not deserve them.-C. and esteemed by his friends; and I no longer one that has buried some merit in the world, in compliance to a froward humor which has grown upon man ended this with a tenderness in his aspect, an agreeable woman by his indulgence.' Mr Freeand a downcast eye, which showed he was extremely moved at the anguish he saw her 111; for she sat swelling with passion, and her eyes firmly fixed on the fire; when I, fearing he would lose all again, took upon me to provoke her out of that amiable sorrow she was in, to fall upon me; upon which I said very seasonably for my friend, that indeed Mr. Freeman was become the common talk of the town; and that nothing was so much a jest, as when it was said in company, Mr. Freeman had promised to come to such a place. Upon which the good lady turned her softness into downright rage, and threw the scalding teakettle upon your humble servant, flew into the middle of the room, and cried out she was the unfortunatest of all women. Others kept family dissatisfactions for hours of privacy and retirement. No apology was to be made to her, no expedient to be found, no previous manner of breaking what was amiss in her; but all the world was to be acquainted with her errors, without the least admonition. Mr. Freeman was going to make a softening speech, but I interposed: Look you, Madam, I have nothing to say to this matter, but you ought to consider you are now past a chicken; this humor, which was well enough. in a girl, is insufferable in one of your motherly character.' With that she lost all patience, and flew directly at her husband's periwig. I got her in my arms, and defended my friend; he making. signs at the same time that it was too much; beckoning, nodding, and frowning over her shoulder, that he was lost if he did not persist. In. this manner we flew around and round the room in a moment, until the lady I spoke of above and servants entered; upon which she fell upon the couch as breathless. I still kept up my friend: but he, with a very silly air, bid them bring the coach to the door, and we went off; I being forced to bid the coachman drive on. We were no sooner come to my lodgings, but all his wife's relations came to inquire after him; and Mrs. Freeman's mother wrote a note, wherein she thought never to have seen this day, and so forth. 0 brave! oh excellent! if you maintain it! "To MR. SPECTATOR. SIR, temper, "MR. SPECTATOR, "The uproar was so great as soon as I had read the Spectator concerning Mrs. Freeman, that after many revolutions in her temper, of raging, swoon ing, railing, fainting, pitying herself, and reviling her husband, upon an accidental coming in of a neighboring lady (who says she has written to you also), she had nothing left for it but to fall into a fit. I had the honor to read the paper to her, and have pretty good command of countenance and temper on such occasions; and soon found my historical name to be Tom Meggot in Your writings, but concealed myself until I saw how it affected Mrs. Freeman. She looked frequently at her husband, as often at me and she did not tremble as she filled tea, until she came to the circumstance of Armstrong's writing out a piece of Tully for an opera tune. Then she burst out, she was exposed, she was deceived, she was wronged and abused. The tea-cup was thrown into the fire; and without taking vengeance on her "In a word, Sir, I am afraid we are upon a thing we have no talents for; and I can observe already, my friend looks upon me rather as a man that knows a weakness of him that he is ashamed; whalebone and buckram, that we had mu of, than one who has rescued him from slavery. to come at her; but you would have die Mr. Spectator, I am but a young fellow, and if laughing to have seen how the sober, av Mr. Freeman submits, I shall be looked upon as an thing looked when she was forced out of incendiary, and never get a wife as long as I trenchments. In short, Sir, it is imposs breathe. He has indeed sent word home he shall give you a true notion of our sport, unl lie at Hampstead to-night; but I believe fear of would come one night among us; and th the first onset after this rupture has too great a be directly against the rules of our societ place in this resolution. Mrs. Freeman has a very mit a male visitant, we repose so much co pretty sister; suppose I delivered him up, and in your silence and taciturnity, that it wa articled with her mother for her bringing him by the whole club, at our last meeting, to g home. If he has not courage to stand it (you are entrance for one night as a Spectator. a great casuist), is it such an ill thing to bring myself off as well as I can? What makes me doubt my man is, that I find he thinks it reasonable to expostulate at least with her? and Captain Sentry will tell you, if you let your orders be disputed, you are no longer a commander. I wish you could advise me how to get clear of this business handsomely. Ꭲ . "Yours, "TOM MEGGOT." "I am your humble Servant, "KITTY TERMAC "P. S. We shall demolish a prude nex day." Though I thank Kitty for her kind of not at present find in myself any inclin venture my person with her and her companions. I should regard myself as Clodius intruding on the mysterious rit No. 217.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1711. Bona Dea, and should apprehend being ished as much as the prude. The following letter comes from a ge whose taste I find is much too delicate t the least advance toward romping. I haps hereafter improve upon the hint given me, and make it the subject of Spectator; in the meantime take it as i in his own words: I SHALL entertain my reader to-day with some letters from my correspondents. The first of them is the description of a club, whether real or imaginary I cannot determine: but am apt to fancy," that the writer of it, whoever she is, has formed a kind of nocturnal orgie out of her own fancy. Whether this be so or not, her letter may conduce to the amendment of that kind of persons who are represented in it, and whose characters are frequent enough in the world. "MR. SPECTATOR, MR. SPECTATOR, "It is my misfortune to be in love with creature who is daily committing fault though they give me the utmost unea know not how to reprove her for, or even her with. She is pretty, dresses well and good-humored; but either wholly or has no notion of that which polite pe agreed to distinguish by the name of After our return from a walk the othe threw herself into an elbow-chair, and before a large company, that she was all sweat. She told me this afternoon that ach ached; and was complaining yes dinner of something that stuck in her treated her with a basket of fruit last which she ate so very greedily, as almost resolve never to see her more. In short. gin to tremble whenever I see her abou or move. As she does not want sense, if these hints I am happy; if not, I am afraid, that these things, which shock n the behavior of a mistress, will app portable in that of a wife. "I am, Sir, you "In some of your first papers you were pleased to give the public a very diverting account of several clubs and nocturnal assemblies; but I am a member of a society which has wholly escaped your notice, I mean a club of She-Romps. We take each a hackney-coach, and meet once a week in a large upper-chamber, which we hire by the year for that purpose; our landlord and his family, who are quiet people, constantly contriving to be abroad on our club-night. We are no sooner come together, than we throw off all that modesty and reservedness with which our sex are obliged to disguise themselves in public places. I am not able to express the pleasure we enjoy from ten at night till four in the morning, in being as rude as you men can be for your lives. As our play runs high, the room is immediately filled with broken fans, torn petticoats, lappets, or head-dresses, flounces, furbelows, garters, and working-aprons. I had forgot to tell you at first, that beside the coaches we come in ourselves, there is one which stands always empty to carry off our dead men, for so we call all those fragments and tatters with which the room is strewed, and which we pack up together in bundles, and put into the aforesaid coach. It is no small diversion for us to meet the next night at some member's chamber, where every one is to pick out what belongs to her from this confused bundle of silks, stuffs, laces, and ribbons. I have hitherto given you an account of our diver sion on ordinary club-nights; but must acquaint you further, that once a month we demolish a prude, that is, we get some queer, formal creature in among us, and unrig her in an instant. Our last month's prude was so armed and fortified in own sex, do not be afraid of reprovin My next letter comes from a corr whom I cannot but very much value, account which she gives of herself. "MR. SPECTATOR, which few people envy, I mean that "I am happily arrived at a state of tr maid: therefore being wholly unconcer that medley of follies which our sex is tract from their silly fondness of you your railleries on us without provocati say with Hamlet, -Man delights not me, Nor woman either. Therefore, dear Sir, as you never s |
