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He sung the secret seeds of nature's frame,
How seas, and earth, and air, and active flame,
Fell through the mighty void, and in their fall,
Were blindly gather'd in this goodly ball.
The tender soil then stiff'ning by degrees,
Shut from the bounded earth the bounding seas;
The earth and ocean various forms disclose,
And a new sun to the new world arose.-DRYDEN.

LONGINUS has observed, that there may be a loftiness in sentiments where there is no passion, and brings instances out of ancient authors to support this his opinion. The pathetic, as that great critic observes, may animate and inflame the sublime, but is not essential to it. Accordingly, as he further remarks, we very often find that those who excel most in stirring up the passions very often want the talent of writing in the great and sublime manner, and so on the contrary. Milton has shown himself a master in both these ways of writing. The seventh book, which we are now entering upon, is an instance of that sublime which is not mixed and worked up with passion. The author appears in a kind of composed and sedate majesty; and though the sentiments do not give so great an emotion as those in the former book, they abound with as magnificent ideas. The sixth book, like a troubled ocean, represents greatness in confusion; the seventh affects the imagination like the ocean in a calm, and fills the mind of the reader, without producing in it anything like tumult or agitation.

The critic above-mentioned, among the rules which he lays down for succeeding in the sublime way of writing, proposes to his reader, that he should imitate the most celebrated authors who have gone before him, and have been engaged in works of the same nature; as in particular that, if he writes on a poetical subject, he should consider how Homer would have spoken on such an occasion. By this means one great genius often catches the flame from another, and writes in his spirit, without copying servilely after him. There are a thousand shining passages in Virgil, which have been lighted up by Homer.

Milton, though his own natural strength of genius was capable of furnishing out a perfect work, has doubtless very much raised and ennobled his conceptions by such an imitation as that which Longinus has recommended.

In this book, which gives us an account of the six days' works, the poet received but very few assistances from heathen writers, who are strangers to the wonders of creation. But as there are

*Paul Lorrain was the ordinary of Newgate at this time, which place he held for many years: he died October 7, 1719. In bis accounts of the convicts executed at Tyburn, P. Lorrain generally represented them as true penitents, and dying very well, after having lived for the most part very ill: they are humorously styled Paul Lorrain's saints in the Tatler, No. 63.

many glorious strokes of poetry upon this subject in holy writ, the author has numberless allusions to them through the whole course of this book The great critic I have before mentioned, though a heathen, has taken notice of the sublime manner in which the lawgiver of the Jews has described the creation in the first chapter of Genesis; and there are many other passages in Scripture which rise up to the same majesty, where the subject is touched upon. Milton has shown his judgment very remarkably, in making use of such of these as were proper for his poem, and in duly qualifying those strains of eastern poetry which were suited to readers whose imaginations were set to a higher pitch than those of colder climates.

Adam's speech to the angel, wherein he desires an account of what had passed within the regions of nature before the creation, is very great and solemn. The following lines, in which he tells him, that the day is not too far spent for him to enter upon such a subject, are exquisite in their kind:

And the great light of day yet wants to run
Much of his race, though steep; suspense in heav'n
Held by thy voice, thy potent voice he hears,
And longer will delay to hear thee tell
His generation, etc.

The angel's encouraging our first parents in a modest pursuit after knowledge, with the causes which he assigns for the creation of the world, are very just and beautiful. The Messiah, by whom, as we are told in Scripture, the heavens were made, goes forth in the power of his Father, surrounded with a host of angels, and clothed with such a majesty as becomes his entering upon a work which, according to our conceptions, appears the utmost exertion of Omnipotence. What a beautiful description has our author raised upon that hint in one of the prophets! And behold there came four chariots out from between two mountains, and the mountains were mountains of

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About his chariot numberless were pour'd
Cherub and seraph, potentates and thrones,
And virtues, winged spirits, and chariots wing'd
From the armory of God, where stand of old
Myriads between two brazen mountains lodg'd
Against a solemn day, harness'd at hand,
Celestial equipage! and now came forth
Spontaneous, for within them spirit liv'd,
Attendant on the Lord: Heav'n open'd wide
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound!
On golden hinges moving-

I have before taken notice of these chariots of God, and of these gates of heaven; and shall here only add, that Homer gives us the same idea of the latter, as opening of themselves; though he afterward takes off from it, by telling us that the hours first of all removed those prodigious heaps of clouds which lay as a barrier before them.

I do not know anything in the whole poem more sublime than the description which follows, where the Messiah is represented at the head of his angels, as looking down into the chaos, calm. ing its confusion, riding into the midst of it, and drawing the first outline of the creation:

On heav'nly ground they stood. and from the shore
They view'd the vast immeasurable abyss
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild,
Up from the bottom turn'd by furious winds
And surging waves, as mountains to assault
Heav'n's height, and with the center mix the pole.
"Silence, ye troubled waves; and thou, deep, peace!"
Said then th' omnific Word, "Your discord end!"
Nor staid, but on the wings of cherubim
Up-lifted, in paternal glory rode

Far into Chaos, and the world unborn;
For Chaos heard his voice. Him all his train
Follow'd in bright procession, to behold

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Invested with bright rays, jocund to run

His longitude through heaven's high road; the gray
Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danc'd,
Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon,
But opposite in level'd west was set

His mirror, with full face borrowing her light
From him, for other lights she needed none
In that aspect, and still that distance keeps
Till night; then in the east her turn she shines,
Revolv'd on heaven's great axle, and her reign
With thousand lesser lights dividual holds,
With thousand thousand stars, that then appear'd
Spangling the hemisphere-

One would wonder how the poet could be so concise in his description of the six days' works, as to comprehend them within the bounds of an episode, and at the same time, so particular, as to give us a lively idea of them. This is still more remarkable in his account of the fifth and sixth days, in which he has drawn out to our view the whole animal creation, from the reptile to the behemoth. As the lion and the leviathan are two of the noblest productions in the world of living creatures, the reader will find a most exquisite spirit of poetry in the account which our author gives us of them. The sixth day concludes with the formation of man, upon which the angel takes occasion, as he did after the battle in heaven, to remind Adam of his obedience, which was the principal design of this his visit.

The thought of the golden compasses is conceived altogether in Homer's spirit, and is a very noble incident in this wonderful description. Homer, when he speaks of the gods, ascribes to them several arms and instruments with the same greatness of imagination. Let the reader only peruse the description of Minerva's ægis or buckfer, in the fifth book of the Iliad, with her spear, which would overturn whole squadrons, and her helmet that was sufficient to cover an army drawn out of a hundred cities. The golden compasses, in the above-mentioned passage, appear a very natural instrument in the hand of him whom Plato somewhere calls the Divine Geometrician. As poetry delights in clothing abstracted ideas in allegories and sensible images, we find a magnificent description of the creation formed after the same manner in one of the prophets, wherein he describes the Almighty Architect as measuring the waters in the hollow of his hand, meting out the heavens with his span, comprehending the dust of the earth in a measure, weighing the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance. turning into heaven, and taking a survey of his The poet afterward represents the Messiah reAnother of them describing the Supreme Being in great work. There is something inexpressibly this great work of creation, represents him as sublime in this part of the poem, where the laying the foundations of the earth, and stretch-author describes that great period of time, filled ing a line upon it; and, in another place, as gar-with so many glorious circumstances; when the nishing the heavens, stretching out the north over heavens and earth were finished; when the Mesthe empty place, and hanging the earth upon siah ascended up in triumph through the evernothing. This last noble thought Milton has ex-lasting gates; when he looked down with pleasure pressed in the following verse:

And earth self-balanc'd on her center hung.

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The beauties of description in this book lie so very thick, that it is impossible to enumerate them in this paper. The poet has employed on them the whole energy of our tongue. The eral great scenes of the creation rise up to view one after another, in such a manner, that the reader seems present at this wonderful work, and to assist among the choirs of angels who are the spectators of it. How glorious is the conclusion of the first day!

Thus was the first day ev'n and morn:
Nor past uncelebrated, nor unsung,

By the celestial choirs, when orient light
Exhaling first from darkness they beheld;

Birth-day of heav'n and earth! with joy and shout
The hollow universal orb they fill'd.

We have the same elevation of thought in the third day, when the mountains were brought forth and the deep was made:

Immediately the mountains huge appear
Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave
Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky:
So high as heav'n the tumid hills, so low
Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep,
Capacious bed of waters-

We have also the rising of the whole vegetable world described in this day's work, which is filled with all the graces that other poets have lavished on their description of the spring, and leads the reader's imagination into a theater equally surprising and beautiful.

The several glories of the heavens make their appearance on the fourth day:

First in his east the glorious lamp was seen,
Regent of day, and all the horizon round

upon his new creation; when every part of nature
seemed to rejoice in its existence, when the morn-
ing-stars sang together, and all the sons of God
shouted for joy.

So ev'n and morn accomplish'd the sixth day:
Yet not till the Creator from his work
Desisting, though unwearied, up return'd.
Up to the heaven of heavens, his high abode;
Thence to behold his new created world
Th' addition of his empire, how it show'd
In prospect from his throne, how good, how fair,
Answering his great idea. Up he rode,
Follow'd with acclamation and the sound
Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tun'd
Angelic harmonies: the earth, the air
Resounded (thou rememberest, for thou heard'st)
The heavens and all the constellations rung,
The planets in their station list'ning stood,
While the bright pomp ascended jubilant.
"Open, ye everlasting gates!" they sung,

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Open, ye heavens, your living doors! let in
The great Creator from his work return'd
Magnificent, his six days' work-a world."

I cannot conclude this book upon the creation,
without mentioning a poem which has lately ap
peared under that title. The work was under-
taken with so good an intention, and is executed
with so great a mastery, that it deserves to be
looked upon as one of the most useful and noble
productions in our English verse. The reader
cannot but be pleased to find the depths of philo-
sophy enlivened with all the charins of poetry,
and to see so great a strength of reason amid so.
beautiful a redundancy of the imagination.
author has shown us that design in all the works
of nature which necessarily leads us to the know-
ledge of the first cause. In short, he has illus-

The

*Creation, a philosophical poem; demonstratmg the exist ence and providence of God. In seven books. By Sir Richard Blackmore, Knt. M. D., and fellow of the college of physi cians in London.

trated, by numberless and incontestable instances, that divine wisdom which the son of Sirach has so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his formation of the world, when he tells us, that "He created her, he saw her, and numbered her, and poured her out upon all his works."-L.

No. 340.] MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1712.
Quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus hospes ?
Quem sese ore fereus! quam forti pectore et armis!
VIRG., n. iv, 10.

What chief is this that visits us from far, Whose gallant mien bespeaks him train'd to war? I TAKE it to be the highest instance of a noble mind, to bear great qualities without discovering in a man's behavior any consciousness that he is superior to the rest of the world. Or, to say it otherwise, it is the duty of a great person so to demean himself, as that whatever endowments he may have, he may appear to value himself upon no qualities but such as any man may arrive at. He ought to think no man valuable but for his public spirit, justice, and integrity: and all other endowments to be esteemed only as they coutribute to the exerting those virtues. Such a man, if he is wise or valiant, knows it is of no consid eration to other men that he is so, but as he employs those high talents for their use and service. He who affects the applauses and addresses of a multitude, or assumes to himself a pre-eminence upon any other consideration, must soon turn adiration into contempt. It is certain that there can be no merit in any man who is not conscious of it; but the sense that it is valuable only according to the application of it, makes that superiority amiable, which would otherwise be invidious. In this light it is considered as a thing in which every man bears a share. It annexes the ideas of dignity, power, and fame, in an agreeable and familiar manner, to him who is possessor of it; and all men who are strangers to him are naturally incited to indulge a curiosity in beholding the person, behavior, feature, and shape of him in whose character, perhaps, each man had formed something in common with himself.

Whether such, or any other, are the causes, all men have a yearning curiosity to behold a man of heroic worth; and I have had many letters from all parts of this kingdom, that request I would give them an exact account of the stature, the mien, the aspect of the prince who lately visited England, and has done such wonders for the liberty of Europe. It would puzzle the most curious to form to himself the sort of man my several correspondents expect to hear of by the action mentioned, when they desire a description of him. There is always something that concerns themselves, and growing out of their own circumstances, in all their inquiries. A friend of mine in Wales beseeches me to be very exact in my account of that wonderful man, who had marched an army and all its baggage over the Alps; and if possible, to learn whether the peasant who showed him the way, and is drawn in the map, be yet living. A gentleman from the university, who is deeply intent on the study of humanity, desires me to be as particular, if I had opportunity, in observing the whole interview between his highness and our late general. Thus do men's fancies work according to their several educations and circumstances; but all pay a respect, mixed with admiration, to this illustrions character. I have waited for his arrival in Holland, before I

would let my correspondents know that I have not been so incurious a Spectator as not to have scen Prince Eugene.* It would be very difficult, as I said just now, to answer every expectation of those who have written to me on that head; nor is it possible for me to find words to let one know what an artful glance there is in his countenance who surprised Cremona; how daring he appears who forced the trenches of Turin ; but in general I can say that he who beholds him will easily expect from him anything that is to be imagined or executed, by the wit or force of man. The prince is of that stature which makes a man most easily become all parts of exercise; has height to be graceful on occasions of state and ceremony, and no less adapted for agility and dispatch: his aspect is erect and composed: his eye lively and thoughtful, yet rather vigilant than sparkling; his action and address the most easy imaginable, and his behavior in an assembly peculiarly graceful in a certain art of mixing insensibly with the rest and becoming one of the company, instead of receiving the courtship of it. The shape of his person and composure of his limbs, are remarkably exact and beautiful. There is in his looks something sublime, which does not seem to arise from his quality or character, but the innate disposition of his mind. It is apparent that he suffers the presence of much company, instead of taking delight in it; and he appeared in public, while with us, rather to return good-will, or satisfy curiosity, than to gratify any taste he himself had of being popular. As his thoughts are never tumultuous in danger, they are as little discomposed ou occasions of pomp and magnificence. A great soul is affected, in either case, no farther than in considering the properest methods to extricate itself from them. If this hero has the strong incentives to uncommon enterprises that were remarkable in Alexander, he prosecutes and enjoys the fame of them with the justness, propriety, and good sense of Cæsar. It is easy to observe in him a mind as capable of being entertained with contemplation as enterprise; a mind ready for great exploits, but not impatient for occasions to exert itself. The prince has wisdom, and valor in as high perfection as man can enjoy it; which noble faculties, in conjunction, bauish all vain glory, ostentation, ambition, and all other vices which might intrude upon his mind, to make it unequal. These habits and qualities of soul and body, render this personage so extraordinary, that he appears to have nothing in him but what every man should have in him, the exertion of his very self, abstracted from the circumstances in which fortune has placed him. Thus, were you to see Prince Eugene, and were told he was a private gentleman, you would say he is a man of modesty and merit. Should you be told that was Prince. Eugene, he would be diminished no otherwise, than that part of your distant admiration would turn into a familiar good-will.

This I thought fit to entertain my reader with, concerning a hero who never was equaled but by one man t over whom also he has this advantage, that he has had an opportunity to manifest an esteem for him in his adversity.-T.

*He stood godfather to Steele's second son, who was named Eugene after this prince.

†The Duke of Marlborough, who was at this time turned out of all his public employments.

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"I am amazed to find an epilogue attacked in your last Friday's paper, which has been so generally applauded by the town, and received such honors as were never before given to any in an English theater.

The audience would not permit Mrs. Oldfield to go off the stage the first night till she had repeated it twice; the second night the noise of encores was as loud as before, and she was again obliged to speak it twice; the third night it was still called for a second time; and, in short, contrary to all other epilogues, which are dropped after the third representation of the play, this has already been repeated nine times.

"I must own, I am the more surprised to find this censure in opposition to the whole town, in a paper which has been hitherto famous for the candor of its criticisms.

"I can by no means allow your melancholy correspondent, that the new epilogue is unnatural Decause it is gay. If I had a mind to be learned, I could tell him that the prologue and epilogue were real parts of the ancient tragedy; but every one knows, that, on the British stage, they are aistinct performances by themselves, pieces entirely detached from the play, and no way essential to it.

"The moment the play ends, Mrs. Oldfield is no more Andromache, but Mrs. Oldfield; and though the poet had left Andromache stone-dead upon he stage, as your ingenious correspondent phrases It, Mrs. Oldfield might still have spoken a merry epilogue. We have an instance of this in a tragedy whare there is not only a death, but a martyrdom. St. Catharine was there personated oy Nell Gwynne; she lies stone dead upon the stage, but, upon those gentlemen's offering to remove her body, whose business it is to carry off the slain in our English tragedies, she breaks out into that abrupt beginning, of what was very .udicrous, but at the same time thought a very good epilogue:

Hold! are you mad? you damn'd confounded dog
I am to rise and speak the epilogue.

"This diverting manner was always practiced by Mr. Dryden, who, if he was not the best writer of tragedies in his time, was allowed by every one to have the happiest turn for a prologue or an epilogue. The epilogues to Cleomenes, Don Sebastian, The Duke of Guise, Aurengzebe, and Love Triumphant, are all precedents of this

nature.

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authors have endeavored to make the audience merry. If they have not all succeeded so well as the writer of this, they have however shown that it was not for want of good-will.

"I must further observe that the gayety of it may be still the more proper, as it is at the end of a French play; since every one knows that nation, who are generally esteemed to have as polite a taste as any in Europe, always close their tragic entertainments with what they call a petite piece, which is purposely designed to raise mirth, and send away the audience well pleased. The same person who has supported the chief character in the tragedy very often plays the principal part in the petite piece; so that I have myself seen, at Paris, Orestes and Lubin acted the same night by the same man.

"Tragi-comedy, indeed, you have yourself, in a former speculation, found fault with very justly, because it breaks the tide of the passions while they are yet flowing; but this is nothing at all to the present case, where they have had already their full course.

"As the new epilogue is written conformably to the practice of our best poets, so it is not such a one, which, as the Duke of Buckingham says in his Rehearsal, might serve for any other play; but wholly rises out of the occurrences of the piece it was composed for.

"The only reason your mournful correspondent gives against the facetious epilogue, as he calls it, is, that he has a mind to go home melancholy. I wish the gentleman may not be more grave than wise. For my own part, I must confess, I think it very sufficient to have the anguish of a fictitious piece remain upon me while it is representing; but I love to be sent home to bed in a good humor. If Physibulus is, however, resolved to be inconsolable, and not to have his tears dried up, he need only continue his old custom, and, when he has had his half-crown's worth of sorrow, slink out before the epilogue begins.

"It is pleasant enough to hear this tragical genius complaining of the great mischief Andromache had done him. What was that? Why, she made him laugh. The poor gentleman's sufferings put me in mind of Harlequin's case, who was tickled to death. He tells us soon after, through a small mistake of sorrow for rage, that during the whole action he was so very sorry that he thinks he could have attacked half a score of the fiercest Mohocks in the excess of his grief. I cannot but look upon it as a happy accident, that a man who is so bloody-minded in his affliction was diverted from this fit of outrageous melancholy. The valor of this gentleman in his distress brings to one's memory the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, who lays about him at such an unmerciful rate in an old romance. I shall readily grant him that his soul, as he himself says, would have made a very ridiculous figure, had it quitted the body, and descended to the poetical shades, in such an encounter.

"As to his conceit of tacking a tragic head with a comic tail, in order to refresh the audience, it is such a piece of jargon, that I don't know what to

make of it.

"The elegant writer makes a very sudden transition from the play-house to the church, and from thence to the gallows.

"As for what relates to the church, he is of opinion that the epilogues have given occasion to those merry jigs from the organ-loft, which have dissipated those good thoughts and dispositions he has found in himself, and the rest of the pew, upon the singing of two staves culled out by the judicious and diligent clerk.

No. 342.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 1712. Justicia partes sunt non violare homines; verecundiæ non offendere.-TULL

"He fetches his next thought from Tyburn; and | for her to the circumstances of her fortune, but seems very apprehensive lest there should happen considered his wife as his darling, his pride, any innovations in the tragedies of his friend Paul and his vanity; or, rather, that it was in the woLorrain. man he had chosen that a man of sense could "In the meantime. Sir, this gloomy writer, who show pride or vanity with an excuse, and thereis so mightily scandalized at a gay epilogue after fore adorned her with rich habits and valuable a serious play, speaking of the fate of those un-jewels. He did not, however, omit to admonish happy wretches who are condemned to suffer an her, that he did his very utmost in this; that it ignominious death by the justice of our laws, en- was an ostentation he could not be guilty of but deavors to make the reader merry on so improper to a woman he had so much pleasure in, desiring an occasion, by those poor burlesque expressions her to consider it as such; and begged of her also of tragical dramas and monthly performances. to take these matters rightly and believe the gems, "I am, Sir, with great respect, the gowns, the laces, would still become her better, "Your most obedient, most humble Servant, if her air and behavior was such, that it might X. "PHILOMEDES." appear she dressed thus rather in compliance to his humor that way, than out of any value she herself had for the trifles. To this lesson, too hard for a woman, Hortensius added, that she must be sure to stay with her friends in the country till his return. As soon as Hortensius the love he conceived for her was wholly owing departed, Sylvana saw, in her looking-glass, that to the accident of seeing her; and she was convinced it was only her misfortune the rest of mankind had not beheld her, or men of much greater quality and merit had contended for one so genteel, though bred in obscurity; so very witty, though never acquainted with court or town. She therefore resolved not to hide so much excellence from the world; but, without any regard to the absence of the most generous man alive, she is now the gayest lady about this town, and has shut out the thoughts of her husband, by a constant retinue of the vainest young fellows this age has produced; to entertain whom she squanders away all Hortensius is able to support her with, though that supply is purchased with no less difficulty than the hazard of life."

Justice consists in doing no injury to men; decency, in giving

then no offense.

As regard to decency is a great rule of life in general, but more especially to be consulted by the female world, I cannot overlook the following letter, which describes an egregious offender.

"MR. SPECTATOR,

"I was this day looking over your papers; and reading in that of December the 6th, with great delight, the amiable grief of Asteria for the absence of her husband, it threw me into a great deal of reflection. I cannot say but this arose very much from the circumstances of my own life, who am a soldier, and expect every day to receive orders, which will oblige me to leave behind me a wife that is very dear to me, and that very deservedly. She is at present, I am sure, no way below your Asteria for conjugal affection: but I see the behavior of some women so little suited to the circumstance wherein my wife and I shall soon be, that it is with a reluctance, I never knew before, I am going to my duty. What puts me to present pain is, the example of a young lady, whose story you shall have as well as I can give it you. Hortensius, an officer of good rank in her Majesty's service, happened, in a certain part of England, to be brought to a country gentleman's house, where he was received with that more than ordinary welcome with which men of domestic lives entertain such few soldiers whom a military life, from the variety of adventures, has not rendered overbearing, but humane, easy, and agreeable. Hortensius stayed here some time, and had easy access at all hours, as well as unavoidable conversation at some parts of the day, with the beautiful Sylvana, the gentleman's daughter. People who ive in the cities are wonderfully struck with every little country abode they see when they take the air; and it is natural to fancy they could live in every neat cottage (by which they pass) much happier than in their present circumstances. The turbulent way of life which Hortensius was used to made him reflect with much satisfaction on all the advantages of a sweet retreat one day; and among the rest, you will think it not improbable it might enter into his thought, that such a woman as Sylvana would consummate the happiness. The world is so debauched with mean considerations, that Hortensius knew it would be received as an act of generosity, if he asked for a woman of the highest merit, without further questions, of a parent who had nothing to add to her personal qualifications. The wedding was celebrated at her father's house. When that was over, the generous husband did not proportion his provision

"Now, Mr. Spectator, would it not be a work becoming your office, to treat this criminal as she deserves? You should give it the severest reflections you can. You should tell women that they are more accountable for behavior in absence, than after death. The dead are not dishonored by their levities; the living may return, and be laughed at by empty fops, who will not fail to turn into ridicule the good man, who is so unreasonable as to be still alive, and come and spoil good company.

"I am, Sir,

"Your most obedient, humble Servant."

All strictness of behavior is so unmercifully laughed at in our age, that the other much worse extreme is the more common folly. But let any woman consider, which of the two offenses a husband would the more easily forgive, that of being less entertaining than she could to please company, or raising the desires of the whole room to his disadvantage, and she will easily be able to form her conduct. We have indeed carried womeu's characters too much into public life, and you shall see them now-a-days affect a sort of fame: but I cannot help venturing to disoblige them for their service, by telling them, that the utmost of a woman's character is contained in domestic life; she is blamable or praiseworthy according as her carriage affects the house of her father or husband. All she has to do in this world: is contained within the duties of a daughter, a sister, a wife, and a mother. All these may be well performed, though a lady should not be the very finest woman at an opera or an assembly. They are likewise consistent with a moderate share of wit, a plain dress, and a modest air. when the very brains of the sex are turned, and they place their ambition on circumstr ces, where

But.

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