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herself, that she may not be disguised or misrep- ployed upon occasion, with good success. You resented. The poor bride can give her hand, and must know that I am a plain man, and love my say, I do,' with a languishing air, to the man she money; yet I have a spouse who is so great an is obliged by cruel parents to take for mercenary orator in this way, that she draws from me what reasons, but at the same time she cannot look as sum she pleases. Every room in my house is fur if she loved; her eye is full of sorrow, and reluc- nished with trophies of her eloquence, rich cabitance sits in a tear, while the offering of a sacrifice nets, piles of china, japan screens, and costly jars; is performed in what we call the marriage cere- and if you were to come into my great parlor, you mony. Do you never go to plays? Cannot you would fancy yourself in an India warehouse distinguish between the eyes of those who go to Beside this she keeps a squirrel, and I am see, from those who come to be seen? I am a doubly taxed to pay for the china he breaks. She woman turned of thirty, and am on the observa- is seized with periodical fits about the time of the tion a little; therefore, if you or your correspond- subscriptions to a new opera, and is drowned in ent had consulted me in your discourse on the tears after having seen any woman there in finer eye, I could have told you that the eye of Leonora clothes than herself. These are arts of persua is slily watchful while it looks negligent; she sion purely feminine, and which a tender heart looks round her without the help of the glasses cannot resist. What I would therefore desire of you speak of, and yet seems to be employed on you, is, to prevail with your friend who has proobjects directly before her. This eye is what af- mised to dissect a female tongue, that he would fects chance-medley, and on a sudden, as if it at- at the same time give us the anatomy of the fe tended to another thing, turns all its charms male eye, and explain the springs and sluices against an ogler. The eye of Lusitania is any in- which feed it with such ready supplies of moiststrument of premeditated murder; but the design ure; and likewise show by what means, if possi being visible, destroys the execution of it; and ble, they may be stopped at a reasonable expense. with much more beauty than that of Leonora, it Or indeed, since there is something so moving in is not half so mischievous. There is a brave sol- the very image of weeping beauty, it would be dier's daughter in town, that by her eye has been worthy his art to provide, that these eloquent the death of more than ever her father made fly drops may no more be lavished on trifles, or embefore him. A beautiful eye makes silence elo-ployed as servants to their wayward wills; but quent, a kind eye makes contradiction an assent, reserved for serious occasions in life, to adorr an enraged eye makes beauty deformed. This generous pity, true penitence, or real sorrow. little member gives life to every other part about us, and I believe the story of Argus implies no more, than that the eye is in every part; that is to say, every other part would be mutilated, were not its force represented more by the eye than even by itself. But this is heathen Greek to those who have not conversed by glances. This, Sir, is a language in which there can be no deceit, nor can a skillful observer be imposed upon by looks, even among politicians and courtiers. If you do me the honor to print this among your speculations, I shall in my next make you a present of secret history, by translating all the looks of the next assembly of ladies and gentlemen into words, to adorn some future paper.

"I am, Sir, your faithful Friend,

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"MARY HEARTFREE."

"I have a sot of a husband that lives a very scandalous life: who wastes away his body and fortune in debaucheries; and is immovable to all the arguments that I can urge to him. I would gladly know whether in some cases a cudgel may not be allowed as a good figure of speech, and whether it may not be lawfully used by a female orator.

"Your humble Servant,

"MR. SPECTATOR,

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"" BARBARA CRABTREE."

T.

No.

"I am," etc.

253.] THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1711

Indignor quicquam reprehendi, non quia crasse
Compositum, ilepideve putetur, sed quia nuper.
Нов. 1 Ер. її, 76.

I feel my honest indignation rise,
When with affected air a coxcomb cries,
The work 1 own has elegance and ease,
But sure no modern should presume to please.

FRANCIS.

THERE is nothing which more denotes a great mind than the abhorrence of envy and detraction. This passion reigns more among bad poets than any other set of men.

As there are none more ambitious of fame than those who are conversant in poetry, it is very natural for such as have not succeeded in it, to depreciate those who have. For since they cannot raise themselves to the reputation of their fellowwriters, they must endeavor to sink that to their own pitch, if they would still keep themselves upon a level with them.

The greatest wits that ever were produced in one age, lived together in so good an understanding, and celebrated one another with so much generosity, that each of them receives an additional luster from his cotemporaries, and is more famous for having lived with men of so extraordinary a genius, than if he had himself been the sole won Though I am a practitioner in the law of some der of the age. i need not tell my reader, that I standing, and have heard many eminent pleaders here point at the reign of Augustus; and I believe in my time, as well as other eloquent speakers of he will be of my opinion, that neither Virgil no: hoth universities, yet I agree with you, that wo-Horace would have gained so great a reputation men are better qualified to succeed in oratory than the men, and believe this is to be resolved into natural causes. You have mentioned only the volubility of their tongues; but what do you think of the silent flattery of their pretty faces, and the persuasion which even an insipid discourse carries with it when flowing from beautiful lips, to which it would be cruel to deny anything? It is certain, too, that they are possessed of some springs of rhetoric which men want, such as tears, In our own country a man seldom sets up for a fainting fits, and the like, which I have seen em-poet, without attacking the reputation of all his

in the world, had they not been the friends and admirers of each other. Indeed all the great writers of that age, for whom singly we have so great an esteem, stand up together as vouchers for one another's reputation. But at the same time that Virgil was celebrated by Gallus, Propertius, Horace, Varius, Tucca, and Ovid, we know that Bavius and Mævius were his declared foes and calumniators.

brothers in the art. The ignorance of the moderns, the scribblers of the age, the decay of poetry, are the topics of detraction with which he makes his entrance into the world: but how much more noble is the fame that is built on candor and ingenuity, according to those beautiful lines of Sir John Denham, in his poem on Fletcher's works:

But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise,
Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise;
Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built,

Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt

Of Eastern kings, who to secure their reign,
Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

I am sorry to find that an author, who is very justly esteemed among the best judges, has admitted some strokes of this nature into a very fine poem; I mean the Art of Criticism, which was published some months since, and is a masterpiece in its kind. The observations follow one another like those in Horace's Art of Poetry, without that methodical regularity which would have been requisite in a prose author. They are some of them uncommon,+ but such as the reader must assent to, when he sees them explained with that elegance and perspicuity in which they are delivered. As for those which are the most known, and the most received. they are placed in so beautiful a light, and illustrated with such apt allusions, that they have in them all the graces of novelty and make the reader who was before acquainted with them, still more convinced of their truth and solidity. And here give me leave to mention what Monsieur Boileau has so very well enlarged upon in the preface to his works, that wit and fine writing do not consist so much in advancing things that are new, as in giving things that are known an agreeable turn. It is impossible for us, who live in the latter ages of the world, to make observations in criticism, morality, or in any art or science, which have not been touched upon by others We have little else left us, but to represent the common sense of mankind in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon lights. If a reader examines Horace's Art of Poetry, he will find but very few precepts in it, which he may not meet with in Aristotle, and which were not commonly known by all the poets of the Augustan age. His way of expressing and applying them, not his invention of them, is what we are chiefly to admire.

For this reason I think there is nothing in the world so tiresome as the works of those critics who write in a positive dogmatic way, without either language, genius, or imagination. If the reader would see how the best of the Latin critics wrote, he may find their manner very beautifully described in the characters of Horace, Petronius, Quintilian, and Longinus, as they are drawn in the essay of which I am now speaking.

Since I have mentioned Longinus, who in his reflections has given us the same kind of sublime, which he observes in the several passages that occasioned them; I cannot but take notice that our English Author has after the same manner exemplified several of his precepts in the very precepts themselves. I shall produce two or three instances of this kind. Speaking of the insipid smoothness which some readers are so much in love with, he has the following verses:

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The gaping of the vowels in the second line, the expletive "do" in the third, and the ten monosyllables in the fourth, give such a beauty to this passage, as would have been very much admired in an ancient poet. The reader may observe the following lines in the same view:

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. And afterward.

"Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw.
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.

The beautiful distich upon Ajax in the foregoing lines puts me in mind of a description in Homer's Odyssey, which none of the critics have taken notice of It is where Sisyphus is represented lifting his stone up the hill, which is no sooner carried to the top of it, but it immediately tumbles to the bottom. This double motion of the stone is admirably described in the number of these verses, as in the four first it is heaved up by several spondees intermixed with proper breathing-places, and at last trundles down in a continued line of dactyls;

I turn'd my eye, and as I turn'd, survey'd
A mournful vision! the Sisyphian shade:
With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone:
The huge round stone, resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.

РОРЕ.

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No. 254.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1711. Virtuous love is honorable, but lust increaseth sorrow.

WHEN I consider the false impressions which are received by the generality of the world, I am troubled at none more than a certain levity of thought, which many young women of quality have entertained, to the hazard of their characters, and the certain misfortune of their lives. The first of the following letters may best represent the faults I would now point at; and the answer to it, the temper of mind in a contrary character. "MY DEAR Harriet,

"If thou art she, but oh how fallen, how changed, what an apostate! how lost to all that is gay and agreeable! To be married I find is to be buried alive; I cannot conceive it more dismal to be shut up in a vault to converse with the shades of my ancestors, than to be carried down to an old manorhouse in the country, and confined to the conversation of a sober husband, and an awk. ward chambermaid. For variety I suppose you may entertain yourself with madam in her gro

By the earl of Roscommon.

gram gown, the spouse of your parish vicar, who end of my devotions; half my prayers are for his has by this time, I am sure, well furnished you happiness. I love to talk of him, and never hear with receipts for making salves and possets, dis-him named but with pleasure and emotion. I am tilling cordial waters, making sirups, and applying poultices.

"Blest solitude! I wish thee joy, my dear, of thy loved retirement, which indeed you would persuade me is very agreeable, and different enough from what I have here described: but, child, I am afraid thy brains are a little disordered with romances and novels. After six month's marriage to hear thee talk of love, and paint the country scenes so softly, is a little extravagant; one would think you lived the lives of sylvan deities, or roved among the walks of paradise, like the first happy pair. But pray thee leave these whimsies, and come to town in order to live and talk like other mortals. However, as I am extremely interested in your reputation, I would willingly give you a little good advice at your first appearance under the character of a married woman. It is a little insolent in me, perhaps, to advise a matron; but I am so afraid you will make so silly a figure as a fond wife, that I cannot help warning you not to appear in any public places with your husband, and never to saunter about St. James'spark together: if you presume to enter the ring at Hyde-park together, you are ruined forever: nor must you take the least notice of one another, at the playhouse, or opera, unless you would be laughed at for a very loving couple, most happily paired in the yoke of wedlock. I would recom mend the example of an acquaintance of ours to your imitation; she is the most negligent and fashionable wife in the world; she is hardly ever seen in the same place with her husband, and if they happen to meet, you would think them perfect strangers; she was never heard to name him in his absence, and takes care he shall never be the subject of any discourse that she has a share in. I hope you will propose this lady as a pattern, though I am very much afraid you will be so silly as to think Portia, etc., Sabine and Roman wives, much brighter examples. I wish it may never come into your head to imitate those antiquated creatures so far as to come into public in the habit, as well as air, of a Roman matron. You make already the entertainment at Mrs. Modish's tea-table: she says; she always thought you a discreet person, and qualified to manage a family with admirable prudence; she dies to see what demure and serious airs wedlock has given you, but she says, she shall never forgive your choice of so gallant a man as Bellamour, to transform him into a mere sober husband; it was unpardonable. You see, my dear, we all envy your happiness, and no person more than

"Your humble Servant

"LYDIA."

"Be not in pain, good madam, for my appearance in town; I shall frequent no public places, or make any visits where the character of a modest wife is ridiculous. As for your wild raillery on matrimony, it is all hypocrisy; you, and all the handsome young women of your acquaintance, show yourselves to no other purpose, than to gain a conquest over some man of worth, in order to bestow your charms and fortune on him. There is no indecency in the confession; the design is modest and honorable, and all your affectation cannot disguise it.

"I am married and have no other concern but to please the man I love; he is the end of every car I have; If I dress, it is for him; If I read a poem, or a play, it is to qualify myself for a conversation agreeable to his taste; he is almost the

your friend, and wish you happiness, but am sorry to see, by the air of your letter, that there are a set of women who are got into into the commonplace raillery of everything that is sober, decent, and proper matrimony and the clergy are the topics of people of little wit and no understanding. I own to you, I have learned of the vicar's wife all you tax me with. She is a discreet, ingenious, pleasant, pious woman; I wish she had the handling of you and Mrs. Modish; you would find, if you were too free with her, she would soon make you as charming as ever you were; she would make you blush as much as if you never had been fine ladies. The vicar, madam, is so kind as to visit my husband, and his agreeable conversation has brought him to enjoy many sober happy hours when even I am shut out, and my dear master is entertained only with his own thoughts. These things, dear madam, will be lasting satisfactions, when the fine ladies and the coxcombs, by whom they form themselves, are irreparably ridiculous, ridiculous in old age.

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"I am, Madam

"Your most humble Servant,
"MARY HOME."

DEAR MR. SPECTATOR,

66

You have no goodness in the world, and are not in earnest in anything you say that is serious if you do not send me a plain answer to this. I happened some days past to be at the play, where, during the time of the performance, I could not keep my eyes off from a beautiful young creature who sat just before me, and who, I have been since informed, has no fortune. It would utterly ruin my reputation for discretion to marry such a one, and by what I can learn she has a character of great modesty, so that there is nothing to be thought on any other way. My mind has ever since been so wholly bent on her, that I am much in danger of doing something very extravagant, without your speedy advice to,

"

"Sir,

'Your most humble servant."

I am sorry I cannot answer this impatient gentleman, but by another question. "DEAR CORRESPONDENT,

"Would you marry to please other people, f yourself?"-T.

No. 255.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1711.
Laudis amore tumes? sunt certa piacula, quæ te
Ter pure lecto poterunt recreare libello.

IMITATED.

HOR. Ep. 1, lib. i, ver. 36.

Know there are rhymes, which (fresh and fresh applei'd) Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride.-POPE. THE Soul, considered abstractedly from its pas. sions, is of a remiss and sedentary nature, slow in its resolves, and languishing in its executions. The use, therefore, of the passions is to stir it up, and to put it upon action, to awaken the under standing, to enforce the will, and to make the whole man more vigorous and attentive in the prosecution of his designs. As this is the end of the passions in general, so it is particularly of ambition, which pushes the soul to such actions as are apt to procure honor and reputation to the actor. But if we carry our reflections higher, we may discover further ends of Providence in implanting this passion in mankind.

vantage from the reports which others make of them. This often sets them on empty boasts and ostentations of himself, and betrays him into vain fantastical recitals of his own performances. His discourse generally leans one way, and, whatever is the subject of it, tends obliquely either to the detracting from others, or to the extolling of himself. Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambitious man, which exposes him to the secret scorn and derision of those he converses with, and ruins the character he is so industrious to advance by it. For though his actions are never so glori ous, they lose their luster when they are drawn at large, and set to show by his own hand; and as the world is more apt to find fault than to commend, the boast will probably be censured, when the great action that occasioned it is forgotten.

It was necessary for the world, that arts should lest any of his actions should be thrown away in be invented and improved, books written and private, lest his deserts should be concealed from transmitted to posterity, nations conquered and the notice of the world, or receive any disad civilized. Now, since the proper and genuine motives to these, and the like great actions, would only influence virtuous minds; there would be but small improvements in the world, were there not some common principle of action working equally with all men and such a principle is ambition, or a desire of fame, by which great endowments are not suffered to lie idle and useless to the public, and many vicious men are overreached, as it were, and engaged contrary to their natural inclinations, in a glorious and laudable course of action. For we may further observe, that men of the greatest abilities are most fired with ambition; and that, on the contrary, mean and narrow minds are the least actuated by it: whether it be that a man's sense of his own incapacities makes him despair of coming at fame, or that he has not enough range of thought to look out for any good which does not more immediately relate to his interest or convenience; or that Providence, in the very frame of his soul, would not subject him to such a passion as would be useless to the world, and a torment to himself.

Were not this desire of fame very strong, the difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it when obtained, would be sufficient to deter a man from so vain a pursuit.

How few are there who are furnished with abilities sufficient to recommend their actions to the admiration of the world, and to distinguish themselves from the rest of mankind! Providence for the most part sets us upon a level, and observes a kind of proportion in its dispensations toward us. If it renders us perfect in one accomplishment, it generally leaves us defective in another, and seems careful rather of preserving every person from being mean and deficient in his qualifications, than of making any single one eminent or extraordinary.

Among those who are the most richly endowed by nature, and accomplished by their own industry, how few are there whose virtues are not obscured by the ignorance, prejudice, or envy of their beholders! Some men cannot discern between a noble and a mean action. Others are apt to attribute them to some false end or intention; and others purposely misrepresent, or put a wrong interpretation on them. But the more to enforce this consideration, we may observe, that those are generally most unsuccessful in their pursuit after fame, who are most desirous of obtaining it. It is Sallust's remark upon Cato, that the less he coveted glory, the more he acquired it.*

Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing our inclinations, and disappointing us in what our hearts are most set upon. When therefore they have discovered the passionate desire of fame in the ambitious man (as no temper of mind is more apt to show itself), they become sparing and reserved in their commendations, they envy him the satisfaction of an applause, and look on their praises rather as a kindness done to his person, than as a tribute paid to his merit. Others who are free from this natural perverseness of temper, grow wary in their praises of one who sets too great a value on them, lest they should raise him too high in his own imagination, and by consequence remove him to a greater distance from themselves.

But, further, this desire of fame naturally be trays the ambitious man into such indecencies as are lessening to his reputation. He is still afraid

*Sal. Bel. Catil., c. 49.

Beside, this very desire of fame is looked on as a meanness and imperfection in the greatest character. A solid and substantial greatness of soul looks down with a generous neglect on the censures and applauses of the multitude, and places a man beyond the little noise and strife of tongues. Accordingly, we find in ourselves a secret awe and veneration for the character of one who moves above us in a regular and illustrious course of virtue, without any regard to our good or ill opinions of him, to our reproaches or commendations. As, on the contrary, it is usual for us, when we would take off from the fame and reputation of an action, to ascribe it to vain glory and a desire of fame in the actor. Nor is this common judgment and opinion of mankind ill founded: for certainly it denotes no great bravery of mind, to be worked up to any noble action by so selfish a notive, and to do that out of a desire of fame, which we could not be prompted to by a disinterested love to mankind, or by a generous passion for the glory of him who made us.

Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by all, but particularly by those who thirst after it, since most men have so much either of ill-nature, or of wariness, as not to gratify or soothe the vanity of the ambitious man; and since this very thirst after fame naturally betrays him into such indecencies as are a lessening to his reputation, and is itself looked upon as a weakness in the greatest characters.

In the next place, fame is easily lost, and as difficult to be preserved as it was at first to be acquired. But this I shall make the subject of a following paper.-C.

No. 256.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1711. Fame is an ill you may with ease obtain, A sad oppression, to be borne with pain.-HESIOD. THERE are many passions and tempers of mind which naturally dispose us to depress and villify the merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. All those who made their entrance into the world with the same advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are apt to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their own indeserts; and will therefore take care to reproach him with the scandal of some past action, or derogate from the worth of the present, that they may still keep him on the same level with themselves. The like kind of consideration often stirs up the envy of such as were once his superiors, who think it a detraction from their ruerit to see another get ground

upon them, and overtake them in the pursuits of glory; and will therefore endeavor to sink his reputation, that they may the better preserve their own. Those who were once his equals envy and defame him, because they now see him their superior; and those who were once his superiors, be cause they look upon him as their equal.

But further, a man whose extraordinary reputation thus lifts him up to the notice and observation of mankind, draws a multitude of eyes upon him, that will narrowly inspect every part of him, consider him nicely in all views, and not be a little pleased when they have taken him in the worst and most disadvantageous light. There are many who find a pleasure in contradicting the common reports of fame, and in spreading abroad the weaknesses of an exalted character. They publish their ill-natured discoveries with a secret pride, and applaud themselves for the singularity of their judgment, which has searched deeper than others, detected what the rest of the world have overlooked, and found a flaw in what the generality of mankind admire. Others there are who proclaim the errors and infirmities of a great man with an inward satisfaction and complacency,if they discover none of the like errors and infirmities in themselves; for while they are exposing another's weaknesses, they are tacitly aiming at their own commendations, who are not subject to the like infirmities, and are apt to be transported with a secret kind of vanity, to see themselves superior, in some respects, to one of a sublime and celebrated reputation. Nay, it very often happens, that none are more industrious in publishing the blemishes of an extraordinary reputation, than such as lie open to the same censures in their own characters, as either hoping to excuse their own defects by the authority of so high an example, or to raise an imaginary applause to themselves, for resembling a person of an exalted reputation, though in the blamable parts of his character. If all these secret springs of detraction fail, yet very often a vain ostentation of wit sets a man on attacking an established name, and sacrificing it to the mirth and laughter of those about him. A satire or a libel on one of the common stamp, never meets with that reception and approbation among its readers, as what is aimed at a person whose merit places him upon an eminence, and gives him a more conspicuous figure among men. Whether it be, that we think it shows greater art to expose and turn to ridicule a man whose character seems so improper a subject for it, or that we are pleased, by some implicit kind of revenge, to see him taken down and humbled in his reputation, and in some measure reduced to our own rank, who had so far raised himself above us, in the reports and opinions of mankind.

per of mind which inclines us to a desire of fame, naturally betrays us into such slips and unwarinesses, as are not incident to men of a contrary disposition.

After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and triumphant merit often breaks through and dissipates these little spots and sullies in its reputa tion; but if by a mistaken pursuit after fame, or through human infirmity, any false step be made in the more momentous concerns of life, the whole scheme of ambitious designs is broken and disappointed. The smaller stains and blemishes may die away, and disappear amidst the brightness that surrounds them: but a blot of a deeper nature casts a shade on all the other beauties, and darkens the whole character. How difficult, therefore, is it to preserve a great name, when he that has acquired it is so obnoxious to such little weaknesses and infirmities as are no small diminution to it when discovered; especially when they are so industriously proclaimed, and aggra vated by such as were once his superiors ot equals; by such as would set to show their judg ment, or their wit, and by such as are guilty, or innocent of the same slips or misconducts in theit own behavior.

But were there none of these dispositions in others to censure a famous man, nor any such miscarriages in himself, yet would he meet with no small trouble in keeping up his reputation, in all its height and splendor. There must be always a noble train of actions to preserve his fame in life and motion. For when it is once at a stand, it naturally flags and languishes. Admiration is a very short-lived passion, that immediately decays upon growing familiar with its object, unless it be still fed with fresh discoveries, and kept alive by a new perpetual succession of miracles rising up to its view. And even the greatest actions of a celebrated person labor under this disadvantage, that, however surprising and extraordinary they may be, they are no more than what are expected from him; but, on the contrary, if they fall anything below the opinion that is conceived of him, though they might raise the reputation of another, they are a diminution to his.

One would think there should be something wonderfully pleasing in the possession of fame, that, notwithstanding all these mortifying considerations, can engage a man in so desperate a pursuit; and yet if we consider the little happiness that attends a great character, and the mul titude of disquietudes to which the desire of it subjects an ambitious mind, one would be still the more surprised to see so many restless candidates for glory.

Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul; it inflames the mind, and puts it into a violent Thus we see how many dark and intricate mo- hurry of thought. It is still reaching after an tives there are to detraction and defamation, and empty, imaginary good, that has not in it the how many malicious spies are searching into the power to abate or satisfy it. Most other things actions of a great man, who is not always the we long for, can allay the cravings of their proper best prepared for so narrow an inspection. For sense, and for a while set the appetite at rest; but we may generally observe, that our admiration of fame is a good so wholly foreign to our natures, a famous man lessens upon our nearer acquaint- that we have no faculty in the soul adapted to ance with him and that we seldom hear the de- it, nor any organ in the body to relish it; an ob scription of a celebrated person, without a cata-ject of desire, placed out of the possibility of fruilogue of some notorious weaknesses and infirmities. The reason may be, because any little slip is more conspicuous and observable in his conduct than in another's, as it is not of a piece with the rest of his character; or because it is impossible for a man at the same time to be attentive to the more important part of his life, and to keep a watchful eye over all the inconsiderable circumstances of his behavior and conversation; or because, as we have before observed, the same tem

tion. It may indeed fill the mind for awhile with a giddy kind of pleasure, but it is such a pleasure as makes a man restless and uneasy under it; and which does not much satisfy the present thirst, as it excites fresh desires, and sets the soul on new enterprises. For how few ambitious men are there who have got as much fame as they desired, and whose thirst after it has not been as eager in the very height of their reputa tion, as it was before they became known and

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