as one that heard and contemned his protestations, flying from him into the grove of myrtle, and into the arms of another, whose fidelity had deserved her love.*

I have often thought our writers of tragedy have been very defective in this particular, and that they might have given great beauty to their works, by certain stops and pauses in the representation of such passions as it is not in the power of language to express. There is something like this in the last act of "Venice Preserved," where Pierre is brought to an infamous execution, and begs of his friend, as a reparation for past injuries, and the only favour he could do to him, to rescue him from the ignominy of the wheel by stabbing him. As he is going to make this dreadful request, he is not able to communicate it; but withdraws his face from his friend's ear, and bursts into tears. The melancholy Silence that follows hereupon, and continues until he has recovered himself enough to reveal his mind to his friend, raises in the spectators a grief that is inexpressible, and an idea of such a complicated distress in the actor, as words cannot utter. It would look as ridiculous to many readers, to give rules and directions, for proper Silences, as for "penning a Whisper:" but it is certain, that in the extremity of most passions, particularly surprise, admiration, astonishment; nay, rage itself, there is nothing more graceful than to see the play stand still for a few moments, and the audience fixed in an agreeable suspense, during the silence of a skilful actor.

But Silence never shows itself to so great an advantage, as when it is made the reply to calumny and defamation, provided that we give no just occasion for them. We might produce an example of it in the behaviour of one, in whom it appeared in all its majesty, and one whose Silence, as well as his person, was altogether divine. When one considers

* Sichæus.

this subject only in its sublimity, this great instance could not but occur to me; and since I only make use of it to show the highest example of it, I hope I do not offend in it. To forbear replying to an unjust reproach, and overlook it with a generous, or, if possible, with an entire neglect of it, is one of the most heroic acts of a great mind: and I must confess, when I reflect upon the behaviour of some of the greatest men in antiquity, I do not so much admire them, that they deserved the praise of the whole age they lived in, as because they contemned the envy and contraction of it.

All that is incumbent on a man of worth, who suffers under so ill a treatment, is to lie by for some time in silence and obscurity, until the prejudice of the times be over, and his reputation cleared. I have often read, with great delight and pleasure, a legacy of the famous lord Bacon, one of the greatest geniuses that our own or any country has produced. After having bequeathed his soul, body and estate, in the usual form, he adds, " My name and memory I leave to foreign nations, and to my countrymen after some time be passed over."

At the same time that I recommend this philosophy to others, I must confess I am so poor a proficient in it myself, that if in the course of my Lucubrations it happens, as it has done more than once, that my paper is duller than in conscience it ought to be, I think the time an age until I have an opportunity of putting out another, and growing famous again for two days.

I must not close my discourse upon Silence, without informing my reader, that I have by me an elaborate treatise on the Aposiopesis, called an Et cætera ; it being a figure much used by some learned authors, and particularly by the great Littleton, who, as my lord chief justice Coke observes, had a most admirable talent at an &c.

ADVERTISEMENT.

To oblige the pretty fellows, and my fair readers, I have thought fit to insert the whole passage above mentioned relating to Dido, as it is translated by Mr. Dryden.*

Not far from hence, the mournful fields appear;
So call'd from lovers that inhabit there.
The souls, whom that unhappy flame invades,
In secret solitude, and myrtle shades,
Make endless moans; and, pining with desire,
Lament, too late, their inextinguished fire.
Here Procris, Eriphyle here, he found

Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound
Made by her son. He saw Pasiphäe there,
With Phædra's ghost, a foul incestuous pair:
There Leodamia with Evadne moves:
Unhappy both; but loyal in their loves.
Coeneus, a woman once, and once a man;
But ending in the sex she first began.
Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood;
Fresh from her wound, her bosom bath'd in blood:
Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew,
Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view,
(Doubtful as he who runs thro' dusky night,
Or thinks he sees the moon's uncertain light,)
With tears he first approach'd the sullen shade,
And, as his love inspir'd him, thus he said:

Unhappy queen! then is the common breath
Of rumour true, in your reported death?
And I, alas! the cause! by Heav'n I vow,
And all the Powers that rule the realms below,
Unwilling I forsook your friendly state!
Commanded by the gods, and forc'd by fate;
Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might
Have sent me to these regions void of light,
Through the vast empire of eternal night.
Nor dar'd I to presume, that, press'd with grief,
My flight should urge you to this dire relief.
Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows:
"Tis the interview that fate allows!

In vain he thus attempts her mind to move,
With tears and prayers, and late-repenting love.
Disdainfully she look'd; then turning round,

* Æneid, book vi. 46.

But fix'd her eyes unmov'd upon the ground;
And what he says, and swears, regards no more
Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar ;
But whirl'd away, to shun his hateful sight,
Hid in the forest, and the shades of night:
Then sought Sichæus through the shady grove,
Who answer'd all her cares, and equall'd all her love.

N° 134. THURSDAY, FEB. 16, 1709-10.

-Quis talia fando

Myrmidonum, Dolopumve, aut duri miles Ulyssei,

Temperet a lacrymis?

Such woes

VIRG. Æn. ii. 8.

Not even the hardest of our foes could hear,
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear.

Sheer-lane, February 11.

DRYDEN.

I WAS awakened very early this morning by the distant crowing of a cock, which I thought had the finest pipe I ever heard. He seemed to me to strain his voice more than ordinary, as if he designed to make himself heard to the remotest corner of this lane. Having entertained myself a little before I went to bed with a discourse on the transmigration of men into other animals, I could not but fancy that this was the soul of some drowsy bell-man who used to sleep upon his post, for which he was condemned to do penance in feathers, and distinguish the several watches of the night under the outside of a cock. While I was thinking of the condition of this poor bell-man in masquerade, I heard a great knocking at my door, and was soon after told by my maid, that my worthy friend the tall black gentleman, who frequents the coffee-houses thereabouts, desired to speak with me. This ancient Pythagorean, who has as much honesty as any man living, but good

nature to an excess, brought me the following petition; which I am apt to believe he penned himself, the petitioner not being able to express his mind on paper under his present form, however famous he might have been for writing verses when he was in his original shape.

"To ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, Esquire, Censor of Great Britain.

"The humble petition of Job Chanticleer, in behalf of himself, and many other poor sufferers in the same condition,

"Sheweth,

From my Coop in Clare-market,
Feb. 13, 1709.

"That whereas your petition is truly descended of the ancient family of the Chanticleers, at Cockhall, near Rumford, in Essex, it has been his misfortune to come into the mercenary hands of a certain ill-disposed person, commonly called an higgler, who, under the close confinement of a pannier, has conveyed him and many others up to London: but hearing by chance of your worship's great humanity towards Robin-red-breasts and Tom-tits, he is emboldened to beseech you to take his deplorable condition into your tender consideration, who otherwise must suffer, with many thousands more as innocent as himself, that inhuman barbarity of a Shrove-Tuesday persecuion.* We humbly hope, that our courage and vigilance may plead for us on this occasion.

"Your poor petitioner most earnestly implores your immediate protection from the insolence of the rabble, the batteries of cat-sticks, and a painful lingering death.

And your Petitioner, &c."

The original date of this paper is "From Tuesday Feb. 14, to Thursday, Feb. 16, 1709."