long-bow: by which means our ancestors excelled In these great articles of life, therefore, a man's all other nations in the use of that weapon, and we conviction ought to be very strong, and if possible had all the real advantages, without the inconve- so well timed, that worldly advantages may seem nience of a standing army; and that I once met to have no share in it, or mankind will be illwith a book of projects, in which the author con-natured enough to think he does not change sides sidering to what noble ends that spirit of emula-out of principle, but either out of levity of temper, tion, which so remarkably shews itself among our or prospects of interest. Converts and renegadoes common people in these wakes, might be directed, of all kinds should take particular care to let the proposes that for the improvement of all our handi-world see they act upon honourable motives: or, craft trades there should be annual prizes set up whatever approbations they may receive from for such persons as were most excellent in their themselves, and applauses from those they converse several arts. But laying aside all these political with, they may be very well assured that they are considerations, which might tempt me to pass the the scorn of all good men, and the public marks of limits of my paper, I confess the greatest benefit infamy and derision. and convenience that I can observe in these country Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer festivals, is the bringing young people together, themselves to our choice, and inconstancy in purand giving them an opportunity of shewing them-suing them, are the greatest and most universal selves in the most advantageous light. A country causes of all our disquiet and unhappiness. When fellow that throws his rival upon his back, has ge- ambition pulls one way, interest another, inclinanerally as good success with their common mistress; tion a third, and perhaps reason contrary to all, a as nothing is more usual than for a nimble-footed man is likely to pass his time but ill who has so wench to get a husband at the same time that she many different parties to please. When the mind wins a smock. Love and marriages are the natural hovers among such a variety of allurements, one effects of these anniversary assemblies. I must had better settle on a way of life that is not the therefore very much approve the method by which very best we might have chosen, than grow old my correspondent tells me each sex endeavours to without determining our choice, and go out of the recommend itself to the other, since nothing seems world as the greatest part of mankind do, before more likely to promise a healthy offspring, or a we have resolved how to live in it. There is but happy cohabitation. And I believe I may assure one method of setting ourselves at rest in this parmy country friend, that there has been many a ticular, and that is by adhering steadfastly to one court lady who would be contented to exchange her great end as the chief and ultimate aim of all our crazy young husband for Tom Short, and several pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to men of quality who would have parted with a ten- the dictates of reason, without any regard to wealth, der yoke-fellow for Black Kate. reputation, or the like considerations, any more than as they fall in with our principal design, we may go through life with steadiness and pleasure; but if we act by several broken views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy, popular, and every thing that has a value set upon it by the world, we shall live and die in misery and repentance. I am the more pleased with having love made the principal end and design of these meetings, as it seems to be most agreeable to the intent for which they were at first instituted, as we are informed by the learned Dr. Kennet, with whose words I shall conclude my present paper. "These wakes," says he, were in imitation of the ancient love-feasts; and were first established in England by Pope Gregory the Great, who, in an epistle to Melitus the abbot, gave orders that they should be kept in sheds or arbories made up with the branches or boughs of trees round the church." No. 162.1 WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1711. Servetur ad imum, appear so contemptible and little in the eyes of the comes over to. In his Parochial Antiquities, 4to. 1695. p. 610, 614 One would take more than ordinary care to guard one's self against this particular imperfection, because it is that which our nature very strongly inclines us to; for if we examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find that we are the most changeable beings in the universe. In respect of our understanding, we often embrace and reject the very same opinions; whereas beings above and beneath us have probably no opinions at all, or, at least, no wavering and uncertainties in those they have. Our superiors are guided by intuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In respect of our wills, we fall into crimes and recover out of them, are amiable or odious in the eyes of our great Judge, and pass our whole life in offending and asking pardon. On the contrary, the beings underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those above us of repenting. The one is out of the possibilities of duty, and the other fixed in an eternal course of sin, or an eternal course of virtue. There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it, which does not produce changes and revolutions in the mind of man. Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost in those of youth; these too take a different turn in manhood, until old age often leads us back into our former infancy. A new title or an unexpected success throws us out of ourselves, and in a manner destroys our identity. A cloudy day, or a little sunshine, have as great an influence on many constitutions, as the most real blessing or misfortunes. A dream varies our being, and changes our condition while it lasts; and every passion, not to mention health and sickness, and the greater alterations in body and mind, makes us appear almost different creatures. If a man is so distinguished among other beings by this infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves remarkable for it even among their own species? It is a very trifling character to be one of the most variable beings of the most variable kind, especially if we consider that he who is the great standard of perfection has in him no shadow of change, but "is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." As this mutability of temper and inconsistency with ourselves is the greatest weakness of human nature, so it makes the person who is remarkable for it in a very particular manner, more ridiculous than any other infirmity whatsoever, as it sets him in a greater variety of foolish lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an opposition of party-coloured characters. The most humorous character in Horace is founded upon this unevenness of temper, and irregularity of conduct : -Sardus habebat Ille Tigelhus hoc: Cæsar, qui cogere posset, HOR. 1 Sat. iii. In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: C. sion of any single man, it would not make a very happy being. Though, on the contrary, if the miseries of the whole species were fixed in a single person, they would make a very miserable one. I am engaged in this subject by the following live up to your rules, which I hope will incline you No. 163.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1711. throw it into the fire, and think no more of it; but -Si quid ego adjuero, curamve levasso Que nunc te coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa, Ecquid erit pretii?-ENN. apud TULLIUM. Say, will you thank me if I bring you rest, And ease the torture of your troubled breast? INQUIRIES after happiness, and rules for attaining it, are not so necessary and useful to mankind as the arts of consolation, and supporting one's self under affliction. The utmost we can hope for in this world is contentment; if we aim at any thing higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and disappointment. A man should direct all his studies and endeavours at making himself easy now, and happy bereafter. The truth of it is, if all the happiness that is dispersed through the whole race of mankind in this world were drawn together, and put into the posses From Dryden's" Absalom and Achitophel." Perhaps it is needless to mention, that this character was meant for George Villers, duke of Buckingham, author of the Rehearsal. if you are touched with my misfortune, which is A disappointment in love is more hard to get over than any other; the passion itself so softens and subdues the heart, that it disables it from struggling or bearing up against the woes and distresses which befal it. The mind meets with other misfortunes in her whole strength; she stands collected within herself, and sustains the shock with all the force which is natural to her; but a heart in love has its foundation sapped, and immediately sinks under the weight of accidents that are disagreeable to its favourite passion. In afflictions men generally draw their consolations out of books of morality, which indeed are of great use to fortify and strengthen the mind against the impressions of sorrow. Monsieur St. Evremont, who does not approve of this method, recommends authors who are apt to stir up mirth in the mind of the readers, and fancies Don Quixote can give more relief to a heavy heart than Plutarch or Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief than to conquer it. This doubtless may have its effects on some tempers. I should rather have recourse to authors of a quite contrary kind, that give us instances of calamities and misfortunes, and show human nature in its greatest distresses. If the afflictions we groan under be very heavy, we shall find some consolation in the society of as great sufferers as ourselves, especially when we find our companions men of virtue and merit. If our afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the comparison we make between ourselves and our fellow-sufferers. A loss at sea, a fit of sickness, or the death of a friend, are such trifles, when we consider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, families put to the sword, wretches shut up in dungeons, and the like calamities of mankind, that we are out of countenance for our own weakness, if we sink under such little strokes of fortune. having arrived at great riches by his own industry, took delight in nothing but his money. Theodosius was the younger son of a decayed family, of great parts and learning improved by a genteel and virtuous education. When he was in the twentieth year of his age he became acquainted with Constantia, who had not then passed her fifteenth. As he lived but a few miles distant from her father's house, he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the advantages of a good person and pleasing conversation, made such an impression on her heart as it was impossible for time to efface. He was himself no less smitten with Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still discover new beauties in each other, and by degrees raised in them that mutual passion which had an influence on their following lives. It unfortunately hap pened, that in the midst of this intercourse of love and friendship between Theodosius and Constantia, there broke out an irreparable quarrel between their parents, the one valuing himself too much upon his birth, and the other upon his possessions. Let the disconsolate Leonora consider, that at The father of Constantia was so incensed at the the very time in which she languishes for the loss father of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreaof her deceased lover, there are persons in several sonable aversion towards his son, insomuch that he parts of the world just perishing in shipwreck; forbade him his house, and charged his daughter, others crying out for mercy in the terrors of a death-upon her duty, never to see him more. In the mean bed repentance; others lying under the tortures of time, to break off all communication between the an infamous execution, or the like dreadful cala-two lovers, whom he knew entertained secret hopes mities; and she will find her sorrows vanish at the appearance of those which are so much greater and more astonishing. I would farther propose to the consideration of my afflicted disciple, that possibly what she now looks upon as the greatest misfortune, is not really such in itself. For my own part, I question not but our souls in a separate state will look back on their lives in quite another view, than what they had of them in the body; and what they now consider as misfortunes and disappointments, will very often appear to have been escapes and blessings. The mind that hath any cast towards devotion, naturally flies to it in its afflictions. of some favourable opportunity that should bring them together, he found out a young gentleman of good fortune and an agreeable person, whom he pitched upon as a husband for his daughter. He soon concerted this affair so well, that he told Constantia it was his design to marry her to such a gentleman, and that her wedding should be celebrated on such a day. Constantia, who was overawed with the authority of her father, and unable to object any thing against so advantageous a match, received the proposal with a profound silence, which her father commended in her, as the most decent manner of a virgin's giving her consent to an overture of that kind. The noise of this intended marriage soon reached Theodosius, who, after a long tumult of passions, which naturally rise in a lover's heart on such an occasion, writ the fol When I was in France I heard a very remarkable story of two lovers, which I shall relate at length in my to-morrow's paper, not only because the circumstances of it are extraordinary, but be-lowing letter to Constantia : cause it may serve as an illustration to all that can "The thought of my Constantia, which for some years has been my only happiness, is now become a No. 164.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1711. In vain I reach my feeble hands to join This letter was conveyed to Constantia that very evening, who fainted at the reading of it; and the next morning she was much more alarmed by two or three messengers, that came to her father's house, one after another, to inquire if they had heard any thing of Theodosius, who it seems had left his chamber about midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deep melancholy which had hung upon his mind some time before, made them apprehend the worst that could befal him. Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was not to be comforted. She now accused * The Theodosius and Constantia of Dr. Langhorne, a col lection of letters, in 2 vols. 12mo., takes its rise from this paper herself for having so tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of her father's displeasure, rather than comply with a marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror. The father seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep a considerable portion in his family, was not very much concerned at the obstinate refusal of his daughter; and did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that account to his intended son-in-law, who had all along regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of convenience than of love. Constantia had now no relief but in her devotions and exercises of religion, to which her afflictions had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settled her thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass the re mainder of her days in a convent. Her father was not displeased with a resolution which would save money in his family, and readily complied with his daughter's intentions. Accordingly, in the twentyfifth year of her age, while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom, he carried her to a neighbouring city, in order to look out a sisterhood of nuns among whom to place his daughter. There was in this place a father of a convent who was very much renowned for his piety and exemplary life; and as it is usual in the Romish church for those who are under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to apply themselves to the most eminent confessors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful votary took the opportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated father. She here paused, and lifted up her eyes that streamed with tears towards the father; who was so moved with the sense of her sorrows, that he could only command his voice, which was broke with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. She followed his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out her heart before him. The father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that in the agonies of his grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion towards her, and by the horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquaint him with that vow of virginity in which she was going to engage herself, as the proper atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice she could make to the memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this time had pretty well composed himself, burst out again in tears upon hearing that name to which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving this instance of an unparalleled fidelity from one who he thought had several years since given herself up to the possession of another. Amidst the interruptions of his sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted; to tell her that her sins were forgiven her-that her guilt was not so great as she apprehended-that she should not suffer herself to be afflicted above measure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her the absolution in form; directing her at the same time to repair to him again the next day, that he might encourage her in the pious resolution she had taken, and give her suitable exhortations for her behaviour in it. Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed her applications. TheoWe must now return to Theodosius, who, the very dosius, having manned his soul with proper thoughts morning that the above-mentioned inquiries had and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in been made after him, arrived at a religious house in the best manner he could to animate his penitent in the city where now Constantia resided; and desir- the course of life she was entering upon, and wear ing that secrecy and concealment of the fathers of out of her mind those groundless fears and apprehenthe convent, which is very usual upon any extra-sions which had taken possession of it; concluding ordinary occasion, he made himself one of the order, with a private vow never to inquire after Constantia; whom he looked upon as given away to his rival upon the day on which, according to common fame, their marriage was to have been solemnized. Having in his youth made a good progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to religion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renowned for his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired into all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom Constantia had determined to apply herself in confession, though neither she nor any other, besides the prior of the convent, knew any thing of his name or family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had now taken upon him the name of Father Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shaven head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the man of the world in the venerable conventual. with a promise to her that he would from time to time continue his admonitions when she should have taken upon her the holy veil. "The rules of our respective orders," says he, "will not permit that I should see you, but you may assure yourself not only of having a place in my prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructions as I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the glorious course you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a peace and satisfaction in your mind, which it is not in the power of the world to give." Constantia's heart was so elevated with the discourse of Father Francis, that the very next day she entered upon her vow. As soon as the solemnities of her reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, with the abbess into her own apartment. The abbess had been informed the night before of all that had passed between her novitiate and Father Francis: from whom she now delivered to her the following letter: As he was one morning shut up in his confes- "As the first fruits of those joys and consolations sional, Constantia, kneeling by him, opened the which you may expect from the life you are now enstate of her soul to him; and after having given gaged in, I must acquaint you that Theodosius, him the history of a life full of innocence, she burst whose death sits so heavy upon your thoughts, is still out into tears, and entered upon that part of her alive; and that the father, to whom you have constory in which he himself had so great a share. "My fessed yourself, was once that Theodosius whom you behaviour," says she, "has, I fear, been the death so much lament. The love which we have had for of a man who had no other fault but that of loving one another will make us more happy in its disapme too much. Heaven only knows how dear he pointment than it could have done in its success. was to me whilst he lived, and how bitter the re-Providence has disposed of us for our advantage, membrance of him has been to me since his death." though not according to our wishes. Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure yourself of one story for them in plain English, and to let us know who will not cease to pray for you in Father "FRANCIS." Constantia saw that the hand-writing agreed with the contents of the letter: and upon reflecting on the voice of the person, the behaviour, and above all, the extreme sorrow of the father during her confession, she discovered Theodosius in every particular. After having wept with tears of joy, "It is enough," says she, "Theodosius is still in being: I shall live with comfort and die in peace." The letters which the father sent her afterward are yet extant in the nunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young religious, in order to inspire them with good resolutions and sentiments of virtue. It so happened, that after Constantia had lived about ten years in the cloister, a violent fever broke out in the place, which swept away great multitudes, and among others Theodosius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at that time was so far gone in the same fatal distemper, that she lay delirious. Upon the interval which generally precedes death in sickness of this nature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had given her over, told her that Theodosius was just gone before her, and that he had sent her his benediction in his last moments. Constantia received it with pleasure. "And now," says she, "if I do not ask any thing improper, let me be buried by Theodosius. My vow reaches no farther than the grave; what I ask is, I hope, no violation of it."-She died soon after, and was interred according to her request. Their tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin inscription over them to the following purpose: "Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided."-C. in our mother tongue what it is our brave countrymen are about. The French would indeed be in the right to publish the news of the present war in the English phrases, and make their campaigns unintelligible. Their people might flatter themselves that things are not so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with foreign terms, and thrown into shades and obscurity; but the English cannot be too clear in their narrative of those actions which have raised their country to a higher pitch of glory than it ever yet arrived at, and which will be still the more admired the better they are explained. For my part, by that time a siege is carried on two or three days, I am altogether lost and bewildered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable difficulties, that I scarce know which side has the better of it, until I am informed by the Tower guns that the place is surrendered. I do indeed make some allowances for this part of the war: fortifications have been foreign inventions, and upon that account abound in foreign terms. But when we have won battles which may be described in our own language, why are our papers filled with so many unintelligible exploits, and the French obliged to lend us a part of their tongue before we can know how they are conquered? They must be made accessory to their own disgrace, as the Britons were formerly so artificially wrought in the curtain of the Roman theatre, that they seemed to draw it up in order to give the spectators an opportunity of seeing their own defeat celebrated upon the stage: for so Mr. Dryden has translated that verse in Virgil: 6 Purpurea intexti tollunt aulæa Britanni.-GEORG. iii. 25. Which interwoven Britons seem to raise, And shew the triumph that their shame displays. The histories of all our former wars are trans: mitted to us in our vernacular idiom, to use the phrase of a great modern critic.* I do not find in any of our chronicles, that Edward the Third ever No. 165.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1711. reconnoitred' the enemy, though he often discovered Si forte necesse est, Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis -If you would unheard-of things express, the posture of the French, and as often vanquished country was delivered from the greatest fears and I HAVE often wished, that as in our constitution there are several persons whose business is to watch over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, certain men might be set apart as superintendents of our language, to hinder any words of a foreign coin from passing among us; and in particular to prohibit any French phrases from becoming current in this kingdom, when those of our own stamp are altogether as valuable. The present war has so adulterated our tongue with strange words, that it would be impossible for one of our great-grandfathers to know what his posterity have been doing, were he to read their exploits in a modern newspaper. Our warriors are very industrious in propagating the French language, at the same time that they are so gloriously successful in beating down their power. Our soldiers are men of strong heads for action, and zerform such feats as they are not able to express. "Upon the junction of the French and Bavarian They want words in their own tongue to tell us what armies, they took post behind a great morass, which t is they achieve, and therefore send us over ac- day sent a party of horse to 'reconnoitre' them from they thought impracticable. Our general the next Tounts of their performances in a jargon of phrases, which they learn among their conquered enemies. little hauteur,' at about a quarter of an hour's They ought however to be provided with secretaries, distance from the army, who returned again to the and assisted by our foreign ministers, to tell their | copy a 66 of it. SIR, * Dr. Richard Bentley. |