fuperiority over us, and can have no other reafon for it, but that in comparing us with himself, he thinks us defective either in our conduct or our underftanding. For thefe reafons, there is nothing fo difficult as the art of making advice agreeable; and indeed all the writers, both ancient and modern, have distinguished themselves among one another, according to the perfection at which they have arrived in this art. How many devices have been made ufe of, to render this bitter potion palatable? Some convey their inftructions to us in the best chofen words, others in the most harmonious numbers, fome in points of wit, and others in fhort proverbs.

But among all the different ways of giving counfel, I think the finest, and that which pleafes the most univerfally, is fable, in whatfoever fhape it appears. If we confider this way of inftructing or giving advice, it excels all others, because it is the least shocking, and the leaft fubject to thofe exceptions which I have before mentioned.

This will appear to us, if we reflect in the first place, that upon the reading of a fable we are made to believe we advife ourfelves. We perufe the author for the fake of the ftory, and confider the precepts rather as our own conclufions than his instructions. The moral infinuates itself imperceptibly, we are taught by furprize, and become wifer and better unawares. In fhort, by this method a man is fo far over-reached as to think he is directing himself, while he is following the dictates of another, and confequently is not fenfible of that which is the most unpleafing circumftance in advice.

In the next place, if we look into human nature, we shall find that the mind is never fo much pleated, as when the exerts herself in any action that gives her an idea of her own perfections and abilities. This natural pride and ambition of the foul is very much gratified in the reading of a fable: for in writings of this kind, the reader comes in for half of the performance; every thing appears to him like a difcovery of his own; he is bufied all the while in applying characters and circumstances, and is in this refpect both a reader and a compofer. It is no wonder therefore that on fuch occafions, when the mind is thus pleafed with itself, and amufed with it's own difcoveries, that it is high

ly delighted with the writing which is the occafion of it. For this reafon the Abfalom and Achitophel was one of the most popular poems that ever appeared in English. The poetry is indeed very fine, but had it been much finer, it would not have fo much pleased, without a plan which gave the reader an opportunity of exerting his own talents.

This oblique manner of giving advice is fo inoffenfive, that if we look into ancient hiftories, we find the wife men of old very often chose to give count to their kings in fables. To omit many which will occur to every one's memory, there is a pretty inftance of this nature in a Turkish tale, which I do not like the worfe for that little oriental extravagance which is mixed with it.

We are told that the Sultan Mahmoud, by his perpetual wars abroad, and his tyranny at home, had filed his dominions with ruin and defolation, and half unpeopled the Persian empire. The Vifier to this great Sultan (whether an humourist or an enthufiaft, we are not informed) pretended to have learned of a certain Dervife to understand the language of birds, fo that there was not a bird that could open his mouth, but the Vifier knew what it was he faid. As he was one evening with the Emperor, in their return from hunting, they faw a couple of owls upon a tree that grew near an old wall out of an heap of rubbish. I would fain know,' fays the Sultan, what those two owls are faying to one another; liften to their difcourfe and give me an account of it. The Vifier approached the tree, pretending to be very attentive to the two owls. Upon his return to the Sultan- Sir,' fays he, I have heard part of their converfation, but dare not tell you what it is.' The Sultan would not be fatisfied with fuch an anfwer, but forced him to repeat word for word every thing the owls had faid.

You must know then,' faid the Vifier, that one of thefe owls has a fon, and the other a daughter, between whom they are now upon a treaty of marriage. The father of the fon said to the father of the daughter, in my hearing" Brother, I confent to this "marriage, provided you will fettle upon your daughter fifty ruined vil"lages for her portion." To which the father of the daughter replied"Inftead of fifty I will give her five

"hundred,

"hundred, if you pleafe. God grant a long life to Sultan Mahmoud; "whilft he reigns over us, we shall never want ruined villages.”

The story fays, the Sultan was fo touched with the fable, that he rebuilt the towns and villages which had been deftroyed, and from that time forward confulted the good of his people.

To fill up my paper, I fhall add a moft ridiculous piece of natural magic, which was taught by no less a philofo

TH

pher than Democritus, namely, that if the blood of certain birds, which he mentioned, were mixed together, it would produce a ferpent of such a won derful virtue, that whoever did eat it fhould be killed in the language of birds, and understand every thing they faid to one another. Whether the Der vife above-mentioned might not have eaten fuch a ferpent, I fhall leave to the determinations of the learned.

VIRG. EN. VI. VER. 50.

HE following letter comes to me from that excellent man in holy orders, whom I have mentioned more than once as one of that fociety who affifts me in my fpeculations. It is a thought in ficknefs, and of a very ferious nature, for which reason I give it a place in the paper of this day.

SIR,

THE indifpofition which has long hung upon me, is at laft grown to fuch a head, that it muft quickly make an end of me, or of itself. You may imagine, that whilft I am in this bad ftate of health, there are none of your works which I read with greater pleafure than your Saturday's papers. I fhould be very glad if I could furnish you with any hints for that day's entertainment. Were I able to diefs up feveral thoughts, of a ferious nature, which have made great impreffions on my mind during a long fit of ficknefs, they might not be an improper entertainment for that occafion.

Among all the reflections which usually rife in the mind of a fick man, who has time and inclination to confider his approaching end, there is none more natural than that of his going to appear nakedandunbodied before him who made him. When a man confiders, that as foon as the vital union is diffolved, he fhall fee that Supreme Being, whom he now contemplates at a distance, and only in his works; or, to fpeak more philofophically, when by fome faculty in the

DRYDEN.

0

foul he hall apprehend the Divine Be ing, and be more fenfible of his prefence, than we are now of the prefence of any object which the eye beholds, a man must be loft in careleffness and ftupidity, who is not alarmed at fuch a thought. Dr. Sherlock, in his excellent Treatife upon Death, has repre fented, in very ftrong and lively colours, the fate of the foul in it's first fe paration from the body, with regard to that invifible world which every where furrounds us, though we are not able to difcover it through this groffer world of matter, which is accommodated to our fenfes in this life. His words are as follow:

That death, which is our leaving this world, is nothing else but our putting off thefe bodies, teaches us, that it is only our union to these bodies which intercepts the fight of the other world: the other world is not at fuch a distance from us as we may ima gine; the throne of God indeed is at a great remove from this earth, above the third heavens, where he displays his glory to thofe bleffed fpirits which encompass his throne; but as foon as we step out of thefe bodies, we step into the other world, which is not fo properly another world, (for there is the fame heaven and earth ftill) as a < new ftate of life. To live in these bodies is to live in this world; to live, out of them is to remove into the next: for while our fouls are confined to thefe bodies, and can look only through

thefe

thefe material cafements, nothing but what is material can affect us; nay, nothing but what is fo grofs, that it can reflect light and convey the shapes and colours of things with it to the " eye: fo that though within this vifible world, there be a more glorious ⚫fcene of things than what appears to us, we perceive nothing at all of it; for this veil of flesh parts the vifible and invifible world; but when we put off thefe bodies, there are new and furprifing wonders prefent themselves to our views; when thefe material fpectacles are taken off, the foul, with it's own naked eyes, fees what was invisible before: and then we are in the other world, when we can see it, and converfe with it. Thus St. Paul tells us, that when we are at home in the body, we are abfent from the Lord; but when we are abfent from the body, we are prefent with the • Lord, 2 Cor. v. 6, 8. And methinks this is enough to cure us of our • fondness for thefe bodies, unless we think it more defirable to be confined to a prison, and to look through a < grate all our lives, which gives us but a very narrow profpe&t, and that none of the belt neither, than to be fet at liberty to view all the glories of the world. What would we give now for the leaft glimpfe of that invifible world, which the firit ftep we take out of thefe bodies will prefent us with? There are fuch things as eye hath not feen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive: death opens our eyes, enlarges our profpect, prefents us with a new and more glorious world, which we ⚫ can never see while we are fhut up in flesh; which fhould make us as willing to part with this veil, as to take the film off of our eyes, which hinders • our fight.'

As a thinking man cannot but be very much affected with the idea of his appearing in the prefence of that Being whom none can fee and live;' he muit be much more affected when he confiders that this Being whom he appears before, will examine all the actions of his part lite, and reward or punish him accordingly. I must confefs that I think there is no fcheme of religion, befides that of Chriftianity, which can poffibly fupport the moit virtuous perfon under this thought. Let a man's in

nocence be what it will, let his virtues rife to the highest pitch of perfection attainable in this life, there will be ftill in him fo many fecret fins, fo many human frailties, fo many offences of ig. norance, paflion, and prejudice, fo many unguarded words and thoughts, and in fhort, fo many defects in his best actions, that, without the advantages of fuch an expiation and atonement as Christianity has revealed to us, it is impoffible that he fhould be cleared before his fovereign Judge, or that he fhould be able to ftand in his fight.' Our ho ly religion fuggefts to us the only means whereby our guilt may be taken away, and our imperfect obedience accepted.

It is this feries of thought that I have endeavoured to exprefs in the following hymn, which I have compofed during this my fickness.

MR. SPECTATOR,

Came home a little later than ufual the other night, and not finding my felf inclined to fleep, I took up Virgil to divert me until I should be more difpofed to reft. He is the author whom I always chufe on fuch occafions, no one writing in fo divine, fo harmonious, nor fo equal a ftrain, which leaves the mind compofed and foftened into an agree able melancholy; the temper in which, of all others, I chufe to clofe the day. The paffages I turned to were thofe beautiful raptures in his Georgics, where he profeffes himself intirely given up to the mufes, and fmit with the love of poetry, paffionately wishing to be tranfported to the cool fhades and retirements of the mountain Hamus. I clofed the book and went to-bed. What I had just before been reading made fo ftrong an impreflion on my mind, that fancy feemed almoft to fulfil to me the wish of Virgil, in presenting to me the following vilion.

Methought I was on a fudden placed in the plains of Boeotia, where at the end of the horizon I faw the mountain Parnaffus rifing before me.

The pro

fpect was of fo large an extent, that I had long wandered about to find a path which fhould directly lead me to it, had

DRYDEN.

I not seen at some distance a grove of trees, which in a plain that had nothing elfe remarkable enough in it to fix my fight, immediately determined me to go thither. When I arrived at it, I found it parted out into a great number of walks and alleys, which often widened into beautiful openings, as circles or ovals, fet round with yews and cypreffes, with niches, grottoes, and caves placed on the fides, encompaffed with ivy There was no found to be heard in the whole place, but only that of a gentie breeze paffing over the leaves of the foreft; every thing befide was buried in a profound filence. I was captivated with the beauty and retirement of the place, and never fo much, before that hour, was pleased with the enjoyment of myself. I indulged the humour, and fuffered myself to wander without choice or defign. At length at the end of a range of trees, I faw three figures feated on a bank of mofs, with a filent brook creeping at their feet. I adored them as the tutelar divinities of the place, and food ftill to take a particular view of each of them. The middlemoft, whose name was Solitude, fat with her arms across each other, and feemed rather penfive and wholly taken up with her own thoughts, than any ways grieved