them. Among several that I examined, I very | The springs are made to run among pebbles, and well remember these that follow:

by that means taught to murmur very agreeably. They are likewise collected into a beautiful lake that is inhabited by a couple of swans, and empties itself by a little rivulet which runs through a green meadow, and is known in the family by the name of The Purling Stream. The knight likewise tells me, that this lady preserves her game

The Grand Cyrus; with a pin stuck in one of better than any of the gentlemen in the country, the middle leaves.

not (says Sir Roger) that she sets so great a value upon her partridges and pheasants, as upon her

Locke on Human Understanding, with a paper larks and nightingales. For she says that every of patches in it.

A Dictionary for the explanation of hard words. next year.
Sherlock upon Death.

The fifteen comforts of matrimony.

Sir William Temple's Essays.

When I think how oddly this lady is improved by learning, I look upon her with a mixture of admiration and pity. Amidst these innocent en

Father Malebranche's Search after Truth, trans- tertainments which she has formed to herself,

how much more valuable does she appear than those of her sex, who employ themselves in diversions that are less reasonable, though more in fashion? What improvements would a woman have made, who is so susceptible of impressions from what she reads, had she been guided by such books as have a tendency to enlighten the understanding and rectify the passions, as well as to those which are of little more use than to divert the imagination?

But the manner of a lady's employing herself usefully in reading, shall be the subject of another paper in which I design to recommend such particular books as may be proper for the improvement of the sex. And as this is a subject of very nice nature, I shall desire my correspondents to

A Prayer-book with a bottle of Hungary Wa- give me their thoughts upon it.-C.

but what is immediately followed by a reflection of the world which should be most polite, of conscience, which tells you whether that which ble wherever we turn our eyes: it pushes was so presented is graceful or unbecoming. This only into impertinencies in conversation, act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture, by a proper behavior in those whose consciousness goes no farther than to direct them in the just progress of their present state or action; but betrays an interruption in every second thought, when the consciousness is employed in too fondly approving a man's own conceptions; which sort of consciousness is what we call affectation.

As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms as a strong incentive to worthy actions, it is a very difficult task to get above a desire of it for things! that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in the consciousness that they are the objects of love and admiration, are ever changing the air of their countenances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to strike the hearts of their beholders with new sense of their beauty. The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the same with the sillier part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy condition to be regarded for a well-tied cravat, a hat cocked with an uncommon briskness, a very well chosen coat, or other instances of merit, which they are impatient to see unobserved.

in their premeditated speeches. At the b ments the bench, whose business it is to cu superfluities in what is spoken before it practitioner; as well as several little piec justice which arise from the law itself. seen it make a man run from the purpos a judge, who was, when at the bar hin close and logical a pleader, that with all tl of eloquence in his power, he never spoke too much.*

It might be borne even here, but it often the pulpit itself; and the declaimer in tha place is frequently so impertinently witty of the last day itself with so many quaint that there is no man who understands but must resolve to sin no more. Nay, y behold him sometimes in prayer, for a pr livery of the great truths he is to utter, himself with so very well-turned phra mention his own unworthiness in a way becoming, that the air of the pretty gentl preserved under the lowliness of the prea I shall end this with a short letter I w other day to a very witty man, overrun

This apparent affectation, arising from an ill-fault I am speaking of: governed consciousness, is not so much to be wondered at in such loose and trivial minds as DEAR SIR, these but when we see it reign in characters of "I spent some time with you the other worth and distinction, it is what you cannot but must take the liberty of a friend to tell yo lament, not without some indignation. It creeps insufferable affectation you are guilty o into the heart of the wise man as well as that of you say and do. When I gave you a hi the coxcomb. When you see a man of sense look you asked me whether a man is to be cold about for applause, and discover an itching inclin- his friends think of him? No, but prais ation to be commended; lay traps for a little in- to be the entertainment of every mome cense, even from those whose opinion he values in that hopes for it must be able to suspend nothing but his own favor; who is safe against session of it till proper periods of life, this weakness? or who knows whether he is guil- itself. If you would not rather be com ty of it or not? The best way to get clear of such than be praiseworthy, contemn little meri a light fondness for applause, is to take all possi- allow no man to be so free with you, as t ble care to throw off the love of it upon occasions you to your face. Your vanity by this mo that are not in themselves laudable, but as it ap- want its food. At the same time your pa pears we hope for no praise from them. Of this esteem will be more fully gratified; n nature are all graces in men's persons, dress, and praise you in their actions: where you bodily deportment, which will naturally be win-ceive one compliment, you will then recei ning and attractive if we think not of them, but ty civilities. Till then you will never lose their force in proportion to our endeavor to either, farther than, make them such.

When our consciousness turns upon the main design of life, and our thoughts are employed upon the chief purpose either in business or pleasure, we shall never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty of it but when we give the passion for praise an unbridled liberty, our pleasure in little perfections robs us of what is due to us for great virtues, and worthy qualities. How many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost, for want of being indifferent where we ought? Men are oppressed with regard to their way of speaking and acting, instead of having their thoughts bent upon what they should do or say; and by that means bury a capacity for great things, by their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, perhaps, cannot be called affectation; but it has some tincture of it, at least so far, as that their fear of erring in a thing of no consequence, argues they would be too much pleased in performing it.

It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in such particulars, that a man can act with a laudable sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon one point in view; and he commits no errors, because he thinks nothing an error but what deviates from that intention.

"Sir, your humble servant."

No. 39.] SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1
Multa fero, ut placem genus irritabile vatum
Cum scribo
HOR., 2 Ep., ii, 102.

IMITATED.

Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace
This jealous, waspish, wrong-headed rhyming

As a perfect tragedy is the noblest pr of human nature, so it is capable of gi mind one of the most delightful and most ing entertainments. A virtuous man (says struggling with misfortunes, is such a spe gods might look upon with pleasure; an pleasure it is which one meets with in th sentation of a well-written tragedy. Di of this kind wear out of our thoughts ev that is mean and little. They cherish a vate that humanity which is the ornamen nature. They soften insolence, soothe a and subdue the mind to the dispensations vidence.

*This seems to be intended as a compliment to

The wild havoc affectation makes in that part Cowper.

It is no wonder, therefore, that in all the polite nations of the world, this part of the drama has met with public encouragement.

The modern tragedy excels that of Greece and Rome in the intricacy and disposition of the fable; but, what a Christian writer would be ashamed to own, falls infinitely short of it in the moral part of the performance.

This I may show more at large hereafter: and in the meantime, that I may contribute something toward the improvement of the English tragedy, I shall take notice, in this and in other following papers, of some particular parts in it that seem liable to exception.

Aristotle observes, that the Iambic verse in the Greek tongue was the most proper for tragedy; because at the same time that it lifted up the discourse from prose, it was that which approached nearer to it than any other kind of verse. "For," says he, "we may observe that men in ordinary discourse very often speak iambics without taking notice of it." We may make the same observation of our English blank verse, which often enters into our common discourse, though we do not attend to it, and is such a due medium between rhyme and prose, that it seems wonderfully adapted to tragedy. I am therefore very much offended when I see a play in rhyme; which is as absurd in English, as a tragedy of hexameters would have been in Greek or Latin. The solecism is, I think, still greater in those plays that have some scenes in rhyme and some in blank verse, which are to be looked upon as two several languages; or where we see some particular similes dignified with rhyme at the same time that everything about them lies in blank verse. I would not how ever debar the poet from concluding his tragedy, or, if he pleases, every act of it, with two or three couplets, which may have the same effect as an air in the Italian opera after a long recitativo, and give the actor a graceful exit. Beside that, we see a diversity of numbers in some parts of the old tragedy in order to hinder the ear from being tired with the same continued modulation of voice. For the same reason I do not dislike the speeches in our English tragedy that close with a hemistich, or half verse, notwithstanding the person who speaks after it begins a new verse, without filling up the preceding one; nor with abrupt pauses and breakings off in the middle of a verse, when they humor any passion that is expressed by it.

being imposed upon by words, we may judge impartially of the thought, and consider whether it be natural or great enough for the person that utters it, whether it deserves to shine in such a blaze of eloquence, or show itself in such a variety of lights as are generally made use of by the writers of our English tragedy.

I must in the next place observe, that when our thoughts are great and just, they are often obscured by the sounding phrases, hard metaphors, and forced expressions in which they are clothed. Shakspeare is often very faulty in this particular. There is a fine observation in Aristotle to this purpose, which I have never seen quoted. The expression, says he, ought to be very much labored in the inactive parts of the fable, as in descriptions, similitudes, narrations, and the like; in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for these (namely, the opinions, manners, and passions) are apt to be obscured by pompous phrases and elaborate expressions. Horace, who copied most of his criticisms after Aristotle, seems to have had his eye on the foregoing rule, in the following verses:

Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri:
Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque.
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.

HOR., Ars. Poet., ver. 95.

Tragedians, too, lay by their state to grieve: Peleus and Telephus, exil'd and poor, Forget their swelling and gigantic words.-RoSCOMMON. Among our modern English poets, there is none who has a better turn for tragedy than Lee; if, instead of favoring the impetuosity of his genius, he had restrained it, and kept it within its proper bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited to tragedy, but frequently lost in such a cloud of words that it is hard to see the beauty of them. There is an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke that it does not appear in half its luster. He frequently succeeds in the passionate parts of the tragedy, but more particularly where he slackens his efforts, and eases his style of those epithets and metaphors in which he so much abounds. What can be more natural, more soft, or more passionate, than that line in Statira's speech where she describes the charms of Alexander's conversation?

Then he would talk-Good gods! how he would talk! That unexpected break in the line, and turning the description of his manner of talking into an admiration of it, is inexpressibly beautiful, and wonderfully suited to the fond character of the person that speaks it. There is a simplicity in the words that outshines the utmost pride of expression.

Since I am upon this subject, I must observe that our English poets have succeeded much better in the style than in the sentiment of their tragedies. Their language is very often noble and sonorous, but the sense either very trifling or very common. On the contrary, in the ancient tragedies, and indeed in those of Corneille and Racine, though the expressions are very great, it is the thought that bears them up and swells them. For my own Otway has followed nature in the language of part, I prefer a noble sentiment that is depressed his tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate with homely language, infinitely before a vulgar parts more than any of our English poets. As one that is blown up with all the sound and energy there is something familiar and domestic in the of expression. Whether this defect in our trage-fable of his tragedy, more than in those of any other dies may arise from want of genius, knowledge, or experience in the writers, or from their compliance with the vicious taste of their readers, who are better judges of the language than of the sentiments, and consequently relish the one more than the other, I cannot determine. But I believe it night rectify the conduct both of the one and of the other, if the writer laid down the whole contexture of his dialogue in plain English, before he turned it into blank verse: and if the reader, after the perusal of a scene, would consider the naked thought of every speech in it, when divested of all its tragic ornaments. By this means, without

poet, he has little pomp, but great force in his expressions. For which reason, though he has admirably succeeded in the tender and melting part of his tragedies, he sometimes falls into too great familiarity of phrase in those parts, which, by Aristotle's rule, ought to have been raised and supported by the dignity of expression.

It has been observed by others, that this poet has founded his tragedy of Venice Preserved on so wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this play discovered the same good qualities in the defense of his country that he showed for its ruin

No. 40.] MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1711.

and subversion, the audience could not enough the chimerical notion of poetical justice, in pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, humble opinion it has lost half its beauty. A we can only say of him what the Roman historian same time I must allow, that there are very says of Catiline, that his fall would have been tragedies which have been framed upon the glorious (si pro patriâ sic concidisset), had he so plan, and have ended happily; as indeed mos fallen in the service of his country.-C. the good tragedies, which have been written the starting of the above-mentioned criticism, taken this turn as The Mourning Bride, Ta lane, Ulysses, Phædra and Hippolytus, with of Mr. Dryden's. I must also allow, that n of Shakspeare's, and several of the celebrated gedies of antiquity, are in the same form. not therefore dispute against this way of wri tragedies, but against the criticism that w establish this as the only method; and by means would very much cramp the English gedy, and perhaps give a wrong bent to the ge of our writers.

Ac ne forte putes me quæ facere ipse recusem,
Cum recte tractant alii, laudare maligne;
Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,

Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.
HOR., 2 Ep., i, 208.

IMITATED.

Yet lest you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise, malignant, arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once presume t' instruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes;
"Tis he, who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each passion that he feigns;
Enrage, compose, with more than magic art,
With pity, and with terror, tear my heart;
And snatch me o'er the earth, or through the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.-POPE.

The tragi comedy, which is the product of English theater, is one of the most monst inventions that ever entered in a poet's thoug An author might as well think of weaving adventures of Eneas and Hudibras into one po as of writing such a piece of motley sorrow. the absurdity of these performances is so visible, that I shall not insist upon it.

The same objections which are made to tr comedy, may in some measure be applied to tragedies that have a double plot in them; wi are likewise more frequent upon the English st than upon any other; for though the grief of audience, in such performances, be not chan into another passion, as in tragi-comedies; diverted upon another object, which weakens t concern for the principal action, and breaks tide of sorrow, by throwing it into different cl nels. This inconvenience, however, may i great measure be cured, if not wholly remo by the skillful choice of an under plot, which bear such a near relation to the principal des as to contribute toward the completion of it, be concluded by the same catastrophe.

THE English writers of tragedy are possessed with a notion, that when they represent a virtuous! or innocent person in distress, they ought not to leave him till they have delivered him out of his troubles, or made him triumph over his enemies. This error they have been led into by a ridiculous doctrine in modern criticism, that they are obliged to an equal distribution of rewards and punishments, and an impartial execution of poetical justice. Who were the first that established this rule I know not; but I am sure it has no foundation in nature, in reason, or in the practice of the ancients. We find that good and evil happen alike to all men on this side the grave; and as the principal design of tragedy is to raise commiseration and terror in the minds of the audience, we shall defeat this great end, if we always make virtue and innocence happy and successful. Whatever crosses and disappointments a good man suffers in the body of the tragedy, they will make but a small impression on our minds, when we know that in the last act he is to arrive at the end of his wishes and desires. When we see him engaged in the depth of his afflictions, we are apt to comfort ourselves, because we are sure he will find his way out of them; and that his grief, how great soever it may be at present, will soon terminate in glad ness. For this reason, the ancient writers of tragedy treated men in their plays, as they are dealt with in the world, by making virtue sometimes happy and sometimes miserable, as they found it in the fable which they made choice of, or as it might affect the audience in the most agreeable manner. Aristotle considers the tragedies that were written in either of these kinds, and observes, that those which ended unhappily had always pleased the people, and carried away the prize in the public disputes of the stage, from those that ended happily. Terror and commiseration leave a pleasing anguish on the mind, and fix the audience in such a serious composure of thought, as is much more lasting and delightful than any little I shall here add a remark, which I am afr transient starts of joy and satisfaction. Accord- our tragic writers may make an ill use of. As ingly we find, that more of our English tragedies heroes are generally lovers, their swelling a have succeeded, in which the favorites of the au- blustering upon the stage very much recommen dience sink under their calamities, than those in them to the fair part of the audience. The lad which they recover themselves out of them. The are wonderfully pleased to see a man insulti best plays of this kind are, The Orphan, Venice kings, or affronting the gods, in one scene, a Preserved, Alexander the Great, Theodosius, All for throwing himself at the feet of his mistress Love, Edipus, Oroonoko, Othello, etc. King Lear another. Let him behave himself insolently is an admirable tragedy of the same kind, as Shak-ward the men, and abjectly before the fair or speare wrote it; but as it is reformed according to and it is ten to one but he proves a favorite wi

There is also another particular, which may reckoned among the blemishes, or rather the f beauties of our English tragedy: I mean th particular speeches which are commonly kno by the name of Rants. The warm and passion parts of a tragedy are always the most taking w the audience; for which reason we often see players pronouncing, in all the violence of acti several parts of the tragedy which the author wr with great temper, and designed that they sho have been so acted. I have seen Powell very of raise himself a loud clap by this artifice. T poets that were acquainted with this secret, h given frequent occasion for such emotions the actor, by adding vehemence to words wh there was no passion, or inflaming a real pass into fustian. This hath filled the mouths of heroes with bombast; and given them such ser ments as proceed rather from a swelling th a greatness of mind. Unnatural exclamatio curses, vows, blasphemies, a defiance of manki and an outraging of the gods, frequently p upon the audience for towering thoughts, a have accordingly met with infinite applause.

the boxes. Dryden and Lee, in several of their tragedies, have practiced this secret with good

success.

But to show how a rant pleases beyond the most just and natural thought that is not pronounced with vehemence, I would desire the reader, when he sees the tragedy of Edipus, to observe how quietly the hero is dismissed at the end of the third act, after having pronounced the following lines, in which the thought is very natural, and apt to move compassion:

To you, good gods, I make my last appeal;
Or clear my virtues, or my crimes reveal.
If in the maze of fate I blindly run,

And backward tread those paths I sought to shun;
Impute my errors to your own decree!

My hands are guilty, but my heart is free.

Let us then observe with what thunder-claps of applause he leaves the stage, after the impieties and execrations at the end of the fourth act; and you will wonder to see an audience so cursed and so pleased at the same time.

O that, as oft I have at Athens seen

them but a tolerable pair of eyes to set up with,
and they will make bosom, lips, cheeks and eye-
brows, by their own industry. As for my dear,
never was a man so enamored as I was of her fair
forehead, neck, and arms, as well as the bright
jet of her hair; but to my great astonishment I
find they were all the effect of art. Her skin is so
tarnished with this practice, that when she first
wakes in a morning, she scarce seems young
enough to be the mother of her whom I carried to
bed the night before. I shall take the liberty to
part with her by the first opportunity, unless her
father will make her portion suitable to her real,
not her assumed, countenance. This I thought
fit to let him and her know by your means.
"I am, Sir,

"Your most obedient, humble servant.

I cannot tell what the law or the parents of the lady will do for this injured gentleman, but must allow he has very much justice on his side. I have indeed very long observed this evil, and distinguished those of our women who wear their own, from those in borrowed complexions, by the

[Where, by the way, there was no stage till many Picts and the British. There does not need any years after Edipus.]

"Supposing you to be a person of general knowledge, I make my application to you on a very particular occasion. I have a great mind to be nd of my wife, and hope, when you consider my case, you will be of opinion I have very just pretensions to a divorce. I am a mere man of the town, and have very little improvement but what I have got from plays. I remember in the Silent Woman, the learned Dr. Cutberd, or Dr. Otter (I forget which), makes one of the causes of separation to be Error Persone-when a man marries a woman, and finds her not to be the same woman whom he intended to marry, but another. If that be law, it is, I presume, exactly my case. For you are to know, Mr. Spectator, that there are women who do not let their husbands see their faces till they are married.

"Not to keep you in suspense, I mean plainly that part of the sex who paint. They are some of them so exquisitely skillful in this way, that give

great discernment to judge which are which.
The British have a lively animated aspect; the
Picts, though never so beautiful, have dead unin-
formed countenances. The muscles of a real
face sometimes swell with soft passion, sudden
surprise, and are flushed with agreeable confu-
sions, according as the objects before them, or the
ideas presented to them, affect their imagination.
But the Picts behold all things with the same air,
whether they are joyful or sad; the same fixed
insensibility appears upon all occasions.
A Pict,
though she takes all that pains to invite the ap-
proach of lovers, is obliged to keep them at a
certain distance; a sigh in a languishing lover,
if fetched too near her, would dissolve a feature;
and a kiss snatched by a forward one, might
transfer the complexion of the mistress to the ad-
mirer. It is hard to speak of these false fair ones,
without saying something uncomplaisant, but Í
would only recommend to them to consider how
they like to come into a room new painted; they
may assure themselves the near approach of a
lady who uses this practice is much more offen-
sive.

Will Honeycomb told us one day, an adventure he once had with a Pict. This lady had wit, as well as beauty, at will; and made it her business to gain hearts, for no other reason but to rally the torments of her lovers. She would make great advances to insnare men, but without any manner of scruple break off when there was no provocation. Her ill-nature and vanity made my friend very easily proof against the charms of her wit and conversation; but her beauteous form, instead of being blemished by her falsehood and inconstancy, every day increased upon him, and she had new attractions every time he saw her. When she observed Will irrevocably her slave, she began to use him as such, and after many steps toward such a cruelty, she at last utterly banished him. The unhappy lover strove in vain, by servile epistles, to revoke his doom; till at length he was forced to the last refuge, a round sum of money to her maid. This corrupt attendant placed him early in the morning behind the hangings in her mistress's dressing-room. He stood very conveniently to observe, without being seen. The Pict begins the face she designed to wear that day, and I have heard him protest she had worked a full half hour before he knew her to be the same woman. As soon as he saw the dawn of that complexion, for which he had so