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ing objects of pity. In short, I have seen more
eloquence in a look from one of these despicable
creatures than in the eye of the fairest she I ever
saw, yet no one is a greater admirer of that sex than
myself. What I have to desire of you is, to lay down
some directions in order to guard against these power-
ful orators, or else I know nothing to the contrary
but I must myself be forced to leave the profession
of the law, and endeavour to get the qualifications
necessary to that more profitable one of begging.
But, in whichsoever of these two capacities I shine,
I shall always desire to be your constant reader,
and ever will be
"Your most humble Servant,

SIR,

"J. B.

"Upon reading a Spectator last week, where Mrs. Fanny Fickle submitted the choice of a lover for life to your decisive determination, and imagining I might claim the favour of your advice in an affair of the like, but much more difficult nature, I called for pen and ink, in order to draw the characters of seven humble servants, whom I have equally encouraged for some time. But alas! while I was reflecting on the agreeable subject, and contriving an advantageous description of the dear person I was most inclined to favour, I happened to look into my giass. The sight of the small-pox, out of which I am just recovered, tormented me at once with the loss of my captivating arts and my captives. The confusion I was in, on this unhappy, unseasonable discovery, is inexpressible. Believe me, Sir, I was so taken up with the thoughts of your fair correspondent's case, and so intent on my own design, that I fancied myself as triumphant in my conquests

as ever.

"Now, Sir, finding I was incapacitated to amuse myself on that pleasing subject, I resolved to apply myself to you or your casuistical agent, for advice in my present circumstances. I am sensible the tincture of my skin, and the regularity of my features, which the malice of my late illness has altered, are irrecoverable; yet do not despair but that loss, by your assistance, may in some measure be reparable, if you will please to propose a way for the recovery of one only of my fugitives.

though I am very sensible of the blessing, yet I cannot but dislike, because such advice from them rather seems to insult than comfort me, and reminds me too much of what I was: which melancholy con sideration I cannot yet perfectly surmount, but hope your sentiments on this head will make it supportable.

"To show you what a value I have for your dic tates, these are to certify the persons concerned, that unless one of them returns to his colours, if I may so call them now, before the winter is over, I will vo luntarily confine myself to a retirement, where I will punish them all with my needle. I will be revenged on them by deciphering them on a carpet, humbly begging admittance, myself scornfully refusing it. If you disapprove of this, as savouring too much of malice, be pleased to acquaint me with a draught you like better, and it shall be faithfully performed by the unfortunate. "MONIMIA."

No. 614.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER, 1, 1714
Si mihi non animo fixum immotumque sederet
Ne cui me vinclo vellem sociare jugali.
Postquam primus amor deceptam morte fefellit;
Si non pertæsum thalami tædæque fuisset,
Huic uni forsan potui succumbere culpæ.

VIRG. En. iv. 15.
--Were I not resolv'd against the yoke
Of hapless marriage; never to be curs'd
With second love, so fatal was the first,
To this one error I might yield again-DSYDEN
THE following account hath been transmitted to
me by the love-casuist:-

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Q. Whether Amoret be bound by a promise of marriage to Philander, made during her husband's life?

"Q. Whether Sempronia, having faithfully given sickness of her husband, is not thereby left at lia promise to two several persons during the last berty to choose which of them she pleases, or to reject them both for the sake of a new lover?

"One of them is in a more particular manner beholden to me than the rest; he, for some private reasons, being desirous to be a lover incognito, always addressed me with billets-doux, which I was so careful of in my sickness that I secured the key tinue single according to a vow made to her husband "Cleora asks me, whether she be obliged to con of my love-magazine under my head, and, hearing a noise of opening a lock in my chamber, endan-necklace; she being informed by a very pretty young at the time of his presenting her with a diamond gered my life by getting out of bed, to prevent, if it had been attempted, the discovery of that amour.

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I have formerly made use of all those artifices. which our sex daily practises over yours, to draw, as it were undesignedly, the eyes of a whole congregation to my pew; I have taken a pride in the number of admirers at my afternoon levee; but am now quite another creature. I think, could I regain the attractive influence I once had, if I had a legion of suitors I should never be ambitious of entertaining more than one. I have almost contracted an antipathy to the trifling discourses of impertinent lovers; though I must needs own I have thought it very odd of late to hear gentlemen, instead of their usual complaisances, fall into disputes before me of politics, or else weary me with the tedious repetition of how thankful I ought to be, and satisfied with my recovery but of so dangerous e distemper; this,

fellow, of a good conscience, that such vows are in their nature sinful?

of widowhood, to dispose of herself to a gentleman of "Another inquires, whether she hath not the right great merit, who presses very hard; her husband being irrecoverably gone in a consumption?

"An unreasonable creature hath the confidence to ask, whether it be proper for her to marry a man who is younger than her eldest son?

me a great many good words, only doubts, whether "A scrupulous well-spoken matron, who gives she is not obliged in conscience to shut up her two marriageable daughters, until such time as she bath comfortably disposed of herself?

to be a person of condition, sets forth, that whereas Sophronia, who seems by her phrase and spelling she hath a great estate, and is but a woman, she desires to be informed, whether she would not do pru

dently to marry Camillus, a very idle tall young fellow, who hath no fortune of his own, and consequently hath nothing else to do but to manage hers?"

Before I speak of widows, I cannot but observe one thing, which I do not know how to account for; a widow is always more sought after than an old maid of the same age. It is common enough among ordinary people, for a stale virgin to set up a shop in a place where she is not known; where the large thumb-ring, supposed to be given her by her husband, quickly recommends her to some wealthy neighbour, who takes a liking to the jolly, widow, that would have overlooked the venerable spinster.

The truth of it is, if we look into this set of women, we find, according to the different characters or circumstances wherein they are left, that widows may be divided into those who raise love and those who raise compassion.

But, not to ramble from this subject, there are two things in which consists chiefly the glory of the widow-the love of her deceased husband, and the care of her children; to which may be added a third, arising out of the former, such a prudent conduct as inay do honour to both.

A widow possessed of all these three qualities makes not only a virtuous but a sublime character. There is something so great and so generous in this state of life, when it is accompanied with all its virtues, that it is the subject of one of the finest among our modern tragedies in the person of Andromache, and hath met with a universal and deserved applause, when introduced upon our English stage by Mr. Phillips.

The most memorable widow in history is Queen Artemisia, who not only erected the famous mausoleum, but drank up the ashes of her dead lord; thereby enclosing them in a nobler monument than that which she had built, though deservedly esteemed one of the wonders of architecture.

This last lady seems to have had a better title to a second husband than any I have read of, since not one dust of her first was remaining. Our modern heroines might think a husband a very bitter draught, and would have good reason to complain, if they might not accept of a second partner until they had taken such a troublesome method-of losing the memory of the first.

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The like custom there is in the manor of Torre in Devonshire, and other parts of the West.

It is not impossible but I may in a little time present you with a register of Berkshire ladies, and other western dames, who rode publicly upon this occasion; and I hope the town will be entertained with a cavalcade of widows.

No. 615.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1714.

Qui Deorum

Muneribus sapienter uti,

Duramque callet pauperiem pati,
Pejusque letho flagitium timet:
Non ille pro caris amicis

Aut patria timidus perire.-Hon. 4 Od. ix. 47.
Who spend their treasure freely, as 'twas giv'n
By the large bounty of indulgent Heav'n:
Who in a fixt unalterable state

Smile at the doubtful tide of fate,

And scorn alike her friendship and her hate:
Who poison less than falsehood fear,
Loath to purchase life so dear;

But kindly for their friend embrace cold death,
And seal their country's love with their departing breath.
STEPNEY.

Ir must be owned that fear is a very powerful passion, since it is esteemed one of the greatest of virtues to subdue it. It being implanted in us for our preservation, it is no wonder that it sticks close to us as long as we have any thing we are willing to preserve. But as life, and all its enjoyments, would be scarce worth the keeping if we were under a perpetual dread of losing them, it is the business of religion and philosophy to free us from all unnecessary anxieties, and direct our fear to its proper object.

If we consider the painfulness of this passion, and the violent effects it produces, we shall see how dangerous it is to give way to it upon slight occasions. Some have frightened themselves into madness, others have given up their lives to these apprehensions. The story of a man who grew grey in the space of one night's anxiety is very famous.. O! nox quam longa es, quæ facit una senem!

tormented with the plague of darkness, in the apocryphal book of Wisdom, ascribed to Solomon.

A tedious night indeed, that makes a young man old These apprehensions, if they proceed from a con sciousness of guilt, are the sad warnings of reason; and may excite our pity, but admit of no remedy. When the hand of the Almighty is visibly lifted I shall add to these illustrious examples out of against the impious, the heart of mortal man cannot ancient story, a remarkable instance of the delicacy withstand him. We have this passion sublimely of our ancestors in relation to the state of widow-represented in the punishment of the Egyptians, hood, as I find it recorded in Cowell's Interpreter. "At East and West Euborne, in the county of Berks, if a customary tenant die, the widow shall have what the law calls her freebench in all his copyhold lands, dum sola et casta fuerit, that is, while she lives single and chaste; but if she commst inconLineney she forfeits her estate; yet if she will come into the court riding backward upon a black ram, with his tail in her hand, and say the words follow ing, the steward is bound by the custom to readmit her to her freebench.

"Here I am,

Riding upon a black ram,
Like a whore as I am;

And for my crinoum cranoum
Have lost my bincum bancum ;

And for my tail's game

Have done this wordly shame;

"For when unrighteous men thought to oppress the holy nation; they being shut up in their houses, the prisoners of darkness, and fettered with the bonds of a long night, lay there exiled from the eternal Providence. For while they supposed to lie hid in their secret sins, they were scattered under a dark veil of forgetfulness, being horribly astonished and troubled with strange apparitions. For wickedness, condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and, being oppressed with conscience, always forecasteth grievous things. For fear is nothing else but a betraying of the succours which reason offereth.-For the whole world shined with clear light, and none were hindered in their labour. Over them only was spread a heavy night, an image

Therefore I pray you, Mr. Steward, let me have my of that darkness which should afterwards receive

land again.*

No record of this kind is to be found in the edition of Cowell's Interpreter of 1637, 4to

them; but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness."

• Wisd. xvii. passim

strength, is often pleased, in his tender severity, to separate the soul from its body and miseries together. If we look forward to him for help, we shall never be in danger of falling down those precipices which our imagination is apt to create. Like those who walk upon a line, if we keep our eye fixed upon one point, we may step forward securely; whereas an imprudent or cowardly glance on either side will infallibly destroy us.

To fear so justly grounded no remedy can be proposed; but a man (who hath no great guilt hanging upon his mind, who walks in the plain path of justice and integrity, and yet, either by natural complexion, or confirmed prejudices, or neglect of serious reflection, suffers himself to be moved by this abject and unmanly passion) would do well to consider that there is nothing which deserves his fear, but that beneficent Being who is his friend, his protector, his father. Were this one thought strongly fixed in the mind, what calamity would be dreadful? What load can infamy lay No. 616.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1714 upon us when we are sure of the approbation of him who will repay the disgrace of a moment with the glory of eternity? What sharpness is there in pain and diseases, when they only hasten us on to the pleasures that will never fade? What sting is in death, when we are assured that it is only the beginning of life?-A man who lives so as not to fear to die, is inconsistent with himself if he delivers himself up to any incidental anxiety.

The intrepidity of a just good man is so nobly set forth by Horace, that it cannot be too often repeated:

The man resolv'd and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,
May the rude rabble's insolence despise,
Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries
The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,

And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.

Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms
Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms,
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move;

Not the red arm of angry Jove,

That flings the thunde: from the sky,

And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly.
Should the whole frame of nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurl'd,

He, unconcern'd, would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.

The vanity of fear may be yet further illustrated

if we reflect,

First, What we fear may not come to pass. No human scheme can be so accurately projected but some little circumstance intervening may spoil it. He who directs the heart of man at his pleasure, and understands the thoughts long before, may, by ten thousand accidents, or an immediate change in the inclinations of men, disconcert the most subtle project, and turn it to the benefit of his own servants. In the next place we should consider, though the evil we imagine should come to pass, it may be much more supportable than it appeared to be. As there is no prosperous state of life without its calamities, so there is no adversity without its benefits. Ask the great and powerful, if they do not feel the pangs of envy and ambition. Inquire of the poor and needy, if they have not tasted the sweets of quiet and contentment. Even under the pains of body, the infidelity of friends, or the misconstructions put upon our laudable actions; our minds, when for some time accustomed to these pressures, are sensible of secret flowings of comfort, the present reward of a pious resignation. The evils of this life appear like rocks and precipices, rugged and barren at a distance; but at our nearer approach we find little fruitful spots, and refreshing springs, mixed with the harshness and deformities of nature.

In the last place we may comfort ourselves with this consideration, that, as the thing feared may not reach us, so we may not reach what we fear. Our lives may not extend to that dreadful point which we have in view. He who knows all our failings, and will not suffer us to be tempted beyond our

Qui bellus homo est, Cotta, pusillus homo est MART. Epig. i. 10 A pretty fellow is but half a man. CICERO hath observed that a jest is never uttered with a better grace than when it is accompanied with a serious countenance. When a pleasant thought plays in the features before it discovers itself in words, it raises too great an expectation, and loses

the advantage of giving surprise. Wit and humour and that kind of language which may be distin are no less poorly recommended by a levity of phrase, guished by the name of Cant. Ridicule is never more strong than when it is concealed in gravity. True humour lies in the thought, and arises from the representation of images in odd circumstances and uncommon lights. A pleasant thought strikes us by the force of its natural beauty; and the mirth of it is generally rather palled than heightened by that ridiculous phraseology which is so much in fashion among the pretenders to humour and pleasantry. This tribe of men are like our mountebanks; they make a man a wit by putting him in a fantastic habit.

Our little burlesque authors, who are the delight of ordinary readers, generally abound in these pert phrases, which have in them more vivacity than wit

I lately saw an instance of this kind of writing, which gave me so lively an idea of it, that I could not forbear begging a copy of the letter from the gentleman who showed it to me. It is written by a country wit, upon the occasion of the rejoicings on the day of the king's coronation.

"Past two o'clock, and a frosty morning. "DEAR JACK,

“I have just left the right worshipful and his myrmidons about a sneaker of five gallons. The whole magistracy was pretty well disguised before I gave them the slip. Our friend the alderman was half-seas over before the bonfire was out. We had with us the attorney, and two or three other bright fellows. The doctor plays least in sight.

“At nine o'clock in the evening we set fire to the whore of Babylon. The devil acted his part to a miracle. He has made his fortune by it. We equip ped the young dog with a tester apiece. Honest old Brown of England was very drunk, and showed his loyalty to the tune of a hundred rockets. The mob drank the king's health, on their marrow-bones, in mother Day's double. They whipped us half a dozen hogsheads. Poor Tom Tyler had like to have been demolished with the end of a skyrocket, that fell upon the bridge of his nose as he was drinking the king's health, and spoiled his tip. The mob were very loyal till about midnight, when they grew a little mutinous for more liquor. They had like to have dumbfounded the justice; and his clerk came in to his assistance, and took them all down in black and white.

When I had been huzzaed out of my seven our own making; and all the High-street lighted up senses, I made a visit to the women, who were guz-from one end to another with a galaxy of candles. thing very comfortably. Mrs. Mayoress clipped the king's English. Clack was the word.

I forgot to tell thee that every one of the posse had his hat cocked with a distich; the senators sent us down a cargo of riband and metre for the occasion.

"Sir Richard, to show his zeal for the Protestant religion, is at the expense of a tar-barrel and a ball. I peeped into the knight's great hall, and saw a very pretty bevy of spinsters. My dear relict was amongst them, and ambled in a country dance as notably as the best of them.

"May all his majesty's liege subjects love him as well as his good people of this his ancient borough! Adieu!"

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Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew
With biasts inspir'd; and Bassaris, who slew
The scornful calf, with sword advanced on high,
Made from his neck his haughty head to fly.
And Manas, when, with ivy-bridles bound,
She led the spotted lynx, then Evion rang around.
Evion from woods and floods repeating Echo's sound.
DRYDEN.

THERE are two extremes in the style of humour, one of which consists in the use of that little pert phraseology which I took notice of in my last paper; the other in the affectation of strained and pompous expressions, fetched from the learned languages. The first sa yours too much of the town; the other of the college.

As nothing illustrates better than example, I shall here present my reader with a letter of pedantic bumour, which was written by a young gentleman of the university to his friend, on the same occasion, and from the same place, as the lively epistle published in my last Spectator.

"DEAR CHUM,*

"It is now the third watch of the night, the greatest part of which I have spent round a capacious bowl of china, filled with the choicest products of both the Indies. I was placed at a quadrangular table, diametrically opposite to the mace-bearer. The visage of that venerable herald was, according to custom, most gloriously illuminated on this joyful occasion. The mayor and aldermen, those pillars of our constitution, began to totter; and if any one at the board could have so far articulated, as to have demanded intelligibly a reinforcement of liquor, the whole assembly had been by this time extended under the table.

"The celebration of this night's solemnity was opened by the obstreperous joy of drummers, who, with their parchment thunder, gave a signal for the appearance of the mob under their several classes and denominations. They were quickly joined by the melodious clank of marrowbones and cleavers, whilst a chorus of bells filled up the concert. A pyramid of stack-fagots cheered the hearts of the populace with the promise of a blaze; the guns had no sooner uttered the prologue, but the heavens were brightened with artificial meteors and stars of

A cant word for a chamber-companion and bed-fellow at college.

We collected a largess for the multitude, who tippled eleemosynary until they grew exceeding vociferous. There was a pasteboard pontiff, with a little swarthy demon at his elbow, who, by his diabolical whispers and insinuations, tempted his holiness into the fire, and then left him to shift for himself. The mobile were very sarcastic with their clubs, and gave the old gentleman several thumps upon his triple head-piece. Tom Tyler's phiz is something damaged by the fall of a rocket, which hath almost spoiled the gnomon of his countenance. The mirth of the commons grew so very outrageous, that it found work for our friend of the quorum, who, by the help of his amanuensis, took down all their names and their crimes, with a design to produce his manuscript at the next quarter sessions," &c. &c. &c.

I shall subjoin to the foregoing piece of a letter the following copy of verses translated from an Italian poet, who was the Cleveland of his age, and had multitudes of admirers. The subject is an accident that happened under the reign of Pope Leo, when a firelock, that had been prepared upon the castle of St. Angelo, began to play before its time, being kindled by a flash of lightning. The author hath written his poem in the same kind of style as that I have already exemplified in prose. Every line in it is a riddle, and the reader must be forced to consider it twice or thrice, before he will know cast-coat a hogshead, &c. that the Cynic's tenement is a tub, and Bacchus's

'Twas night, and heaven, a Cyclops all the day,
An Argus now, did countless eyes display;
In every window Rome her joy declares,
All bright and studded with terrestrial stars.

A blazing chain of lights her roofs entwines,
And round her neck the mingled lustre shines:
The Cynic's rolling tenement conspires
With Bacchus his cast-coat to feed the fires.

The pile, still big with undiscover'd shows,
The Tuscan pile, did last its freight disclose;
Where the proud tops of Rome's new Ætna rise,
Whence giants sally, and invade the skies.

Whilst now the multitude expect the time,
And their tir'd eyes the lofty mountain climb,
A thousand iron mouths their voices try,
And thunder out a dreadful harmony:
In treble notes the small artillery plays,
The deep-mouth'd cannon bellows in the bass;
The lab'ring pile now heaves, and, having given"
Proofs of its travail, sighs in flames to heaven.

The clouds envelop'd heav'n from human sight,
Quench'd ev'ry star, and put out ev'ry light;
Now real thunder grumbles in the skies,
And in disdainful murmurs Rome defies:
Nor doth its answer'd challenge Rome decline;
But, whilst both parties in full concert join,
While heav'n and earth in rival peels resound,
The doubtful cracks the hearer's sense confound;
Whether the claps of thunderbolts they hear.
Or else the burst of cannon wounds their ear;
Whether clouds rag`d by struggling metals rent,
Or struggling clouds in Roman metals pent:
But, O my Muse, the whole adventure tell,
As ev'ry accident in order fell.

Tall groves of trees the Hadrian tower surround,
Fictitious trees with paper garlands crown'd.
These know no spring, but when their bodies sprout
In fire, and shoot their gilded blossoms out;

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When blazing leaves appear above their head,
And into branching flames their bodies spread.*
Whilst real thunder splits the firmament,
And heav'n's whole roof in one vast cleft is rent,
The three-forked tongue amidst the rupture lolls,
Then drops, and on the airy turret falls.

The trees now kindle, and the garland burns,
And thousand thunderbolts for one returns:
Brigades of burning arches upward fly,

Bright spears and shining spearmen mount on high.
Flash in the clouds, and glitter in the sky.

A seven-fold shield of spheres doth heav'n defend,
And back again the blunted weapons send;
Unwillingly they fall, and dropping down,

Pour out their souls, their sulph'rous souls, and groan
With joy, great Sir, we view'd this pompous show,
While Heav'n that sat spectator still till now,
Itself turn'd actor, proud to pleasure you :
And so 'tis fit, when Leo's fires appear,
That Heav'n itself should turn an engineer
That Heav'n itself should all its wonders show,
And orbs above consent with orbs below.

No. 618.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 10, 1714.
Neque enim concludere versum
Dixeris esse satis; neque si quis scribat, uti nos
Sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam.
HOR. 1 Sat. iv. 40.

'Tis not enough the measur'd feet to close:
Nor will you give a poet's name to those
Whose humble verse, like mine, approaches prose.
"MR. SPECTATOR,

and understand the delicacies as well as the absur dities of conversation. He must have a lively turn of wit, with an easy and concise manner of expres sion; every thing he says must be in a free and disengaged manner. He must be guilty of nothing that betrays the air of a recluse, but appear a man of the world throughout. His illustrations, his comparisons, and the greatest parts of his images, must be drawn from common life. Strokes of satire and criticism, as well as panegyric, judiciously thrown in (and as it were by-the-bye), give a wonderful life and ornament to compositions of this kind. But let our poet, while he writes epistles, though never so familiar, still remember that he writes in verse, and must for that reason have a more than ordinary care not to fall into prose, and a vulgar diction, excepting where the nature and humour of the thing do necessarily require it. In this point Horace hath been thought by some critics to be sometimes careless, as well as too negligent of his versification; of which he seems to have been sensible himself.

"All I have to add is, that both these manners of writing may be made as entertaining, in their way, as any other species of poetry, if undertaken by persons duly qualified; and the latter sort may be managed so as to become in a peculiar manner instructive. "I am," &c.

I shall add an observation or two to the remarks of my ingenious correspondent; and, in the first place, take notice, that subjects of the most sublime nature are often treated in the epistolary way with advantage, as in the famous epistle of Horace to Augustus. The poet surprises us with his pomp, and seems rather betrayed into his subject than to have aimed at it by design. He appears, like the visit of a king incognito, with a mixture of fami liarity and grandeur. In works of this kind, when the dignity of the subject hurries the poet into descriptions and sentiments seemingly unpremedi tated, by a sort of inspiration, it is usual for him to recollect himself, and fall back gracefully into the natural style of a letter.

"You having, in your two last Spectators, given the town a couple of remarkable letters in very different styles, I take this opportunity to offer to you some remarks upon the epistolary way of writing in verse. This is a species of poetry by itself; and has not so much as heen hinted at in any of the Arts of Poetry that have ever fallen into my hands, neither has it in any age, or any nation, been so much cultivated as the other several kinds of poesy. A man of genius may, if he pleases, write letters in verse upon all manner of subjects that are capable of being embellished with wit and language, and may render them new and agreeable by giving the proper turn to them. But, in speaking at present of epistolary poetry, I would be understood to mean only such writings in this kind as have been in use amongst the ancients, and have been copied from them by some moderns. These may be reduced into two classes in the one I shall range love-letters, letters of friendship, and letters upon mournful occasions: in the other I shall place such epistles in verse as may properly be called familiar, critical, and moral; No. 619.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1714. to which may be added letters of mirth and humour. Ovid for the first, and Horace for the latter, are the best originals we have left.

"He, that is ambitious of succeeding in the Ovidian way, should first examine his heart well, and feel whether his passions (especially those of the gentler kind) play easy; since it is not his wit, but the delicacy and tenderness of his sentiments, that will affect his readers. His versification likewise should be soft, and all his numbers flowing and querulous.

I might here mention an epistolary poem, just published by Mr. Eusden, on the king's accession to the throne; wherein, amongst many other noble and beautiful strokes of poetry, his reader may see this rule very happily observed.

dura

Exerce imperia, et ramos compesce fluentes.
VIRG. Georg. i 369.
Exert a rigorous sway,

And lop the too luxuriant boughs away. I HAVE often thought that if the several letters which are written to me under the character of the Spectator, and which I have not made use of, were published in a volume, they would not be an unentertaining collection. The variety of the subjects, styles, sentiments, and informations, which are "The qualifications requisite for writing epistles, transmitted to me, would lead a very curious, or after the model given us by Horace, are of a quite very idle, reader, insensibly along through a great different nature. He that would excel in this kind many pages. I know some authors who would pick must have a good fund of strong masculine sense: up a secret history out of such materials, and make to this there must be joined a thorough knowledge a bookseller an alderman by the copy. I shall of mankind, together with an insight into the business and the prevailing humours of the age. Our author must have his mind well-seasoned with the finest precepts of morality, and be filled with nice reflections upon the bright and the dark sides of human life; he must be a master of refined raillery,

therefore carefully preserve the original papers in a room set apart for that purpose, to the end that they may be of service to posterity; but shall at present content myself with owning the receipt of several letters, lately come to my hands, the authors whereof are impatient for an answer.

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