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To compare one man's singing to that of another, or to represent the whiteness of any object by that of milk and snow, or the variety of its colours by those of the rainbow, cannot be called wit, unless, besides this obvious resemblance, there be some farther congruity discovered in the two ideas, that is capable of giving the reader some surprise. Thus when a poet tells us the bosom of his mistress is as white as snow, there is no wit in the comparison; but when he adds, with a sigh, it is as cold too, it then grows into wit. Every reader's memory may supply him with innumerable instances of the same nature. For this reason, the similitudes in heroic poets, who endeavour rather to fill the mind with great conceptions than to divert it with such as are new and surprising, have seldom any thing in them that can be called wit. Mr. Locke's account of wit, with this short explanation, comprehends most of the species of wit, as metaphors, similitudes, allegories, enigmas, mottos, parables, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic writings, burlesque, and all the methods of allusion. There are many other species of wit (how remote soever they may appear at first sight from the foregoing description) which upon examination will be found to agree with it.

As true wit generally consists in this resemblance and congruity of ideas, false wit chiefly consists in the resemblance and congruity sometimes of single letters, as in anagrams, chronograms, lipograms, and acrostics; sometimes of syllables, as in echoes and doggerel rhymes: sometimes of words, as in puns. and quibbles; and sometimes cf whole sentences or poems, cast into the figures of eggs, axes, or altars: nay, some carry the notion of wit so far, as to ascribe it even to external mimicry; and to look upon a man as an ingenious person that can resemble the tone, posture, or face of another.

As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas, and false wit in the resemblance of words, according to the foregoing instances; there is another kind of wit which consists partly in the resemblance of ideas, and partly in the resemblance of words, which for distinction-sake I shall call mixed wit. This kind of wit is that which abounds in Cowley, more than in any other author that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has likewise a great deal of it. Mr. Dryden is very sparing in it. Milton had a genius much above it. Spenser is in the same class with Milton. The Italians, even in their epic poetry, are full of it. Monsieur Boileau, who formed himself upon the ancient poets, has every where rejected it with scorn. If we look after mixed wit among the Greek writers, we shall find it no where but in the epigrammatists. There are indeed some strokes of it in the little poem ascribed to Musæus, which by that, as well as many other marks, betrays itself to be a modern composition. If we look into the Latin writers, we find none of this mixed wit in Virgil, Lucretius, or Catullus; very little in Horace, but a great deal of it in Ovid, and scarce any thing else in Martial.

Out of the innumerable branches of mixed wit, I shall choose one instance which may be met with in all the writers of this class. The passion of love in its nature has been thought to resemble fire; for which reason the words fire and flame are made use of to signify love. The witty poets therefore have taken an advantage from the double meaning of the word fire, to make an infinite number of witticisms. Cowley, observing the cold regard of his mistress's eyes, and at the same time their power of producing love in him, considers them as burning-glasses made of ice; and finding himself able to live in the

greatest extremities of love, concludes the torrid zone to be habitable. When his mistress has read his letter written in juice of lemon, by holding it to the fire, he desires her to read it over a second time by love's flame. When she weeps, he wishes it were inward heat that distilled those drops from the limbeck. When she is absent, he is beyond eighty, that is, thirty degrees nearer the pole than when she is with him. His ambitious love is a fire that naturally mounts upwards; his happy love is the beams of heaven, and his unhappy love flames of hell. When it does not let him sleep, it is a flame that sends up no smoke; when it is opposed by counsel and advice, it is a fire that rages the more by the winds blowing upon it. Upon the dying of a tree, in which he had cut his loves, he observed that his written flames had burnt up and withered the tree. When he resolves to give over his passion, he tells us that one burnt like him for ever dreads the fire. His heart is an Etna, that instead of Vulcan's shop, encloses Cupid's forge in it. His endeavouring to drown his love in wine, is throwing oil upon the fire. He would insinuate to his mistress that the fire of love, like that of the sun (which produces so many living creatures), should not only warm, but beget. Love in another place cooks pleasure at his fire. Sometimes the poet's heart is frozen in every breast, and sometimes scorched in every eye. Sometimes he is drowned in tears and burnt in love, like a shipset on fire in the middle of the sea.

The reader may observe in every one of these instances, that the poet mixes the qualities of fire with those of love; and in the same sentence speaking of it both as a passion and as real fire, surprises the reader with those seeming resemblances or contradictions, that make up all the wit in this kind of writing. Mixed wit therefore is a composition of pun and true wit, and is more or less perfect as the resemblance lies in the ideas or in the words. Its foundations are laid partly in falsehood and partly in truth; reason puts in her claim for one half of it, and extravagance for the other. The only province therefore for this kind of wit is epigram, or those little occasional poems that in their own nature are nothing else but a tissue of epigrams. I cannot conclude this head of mixed wit, without owning that the admirable poet, out of whom I have taken the examples of it, had as much true wit as any author that ever writ; and indeed, all other talents of an extraordinary genius.

It may be expected, since I am upon this subject, that I should take notice of Mr. Dryden's definition of wit; which, with all the deference that is due to the judgment of so great a man, is not so properly a definition of wit as of good writing in general. Wit, as he defines it, is "a propriety of words and thoughts adapted to the subject." If this be a true definition of wit, I am apt to think that Euclid was the greatest wit that ever set pen to paper. It is certain there never was a greater propriety of words and thoughts adapted to the subject, than what that author has made use of in his Elements. I shall only appeal to my reader if this definition agrees with any notion he has of wit. If it be a true one, I am sure Mr. Dryden was not only a better poet, but a greater wit, than Mr. Cowley; and Virgil a much more facetious man than either Ovid or Martial

Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most penetrating of all the French critics has taken pains to shew, that it is impossible for any thought to be beautiful which is not just, and has not its foundation in the nature of things; that the basis of ail

wit is truth; and that no thought can be valuable, of which good sense is not the ground-work. Boileau has endeavoured to inculcate the same notion in several parts of his writings, both in prose and verse. This is that natural way of writing, that beautiful simplicity, which we so much admire in the compositions of the ancients; and which nobody deviates from, but those who want strength of genius to make a thought shine in its own natural beauties. Poets who want this strength of genius to give that majestic simplicity to nature, which we so much admire in the works of the ancients, are forced to hunt after foreign ornaments, and not to let any piece of wit of what kind soever escape them. I look upon these writers as Goths in poetry, who, like those in architecture, not being able to come up to the beautiful simplicity of the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to supply its place with all the extravagancies of an irregular fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handsome observation on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to Æneas, in the following words: "Ovid," says he, speaking of Virgil's fiction of Dido and Æneas, "takes it up after him, even in the same age, and makes an ancient heroine of Virgil's new-created Dido; dictates a letter for her just before her death to the ungrateful fugitive, and very unluckily for himself, is for measuring a sword with a man so much superior in force to him on the same subject. I think I may be judge of this, because I have translated both. The famous author of the Art of Love has nothing of his own; he borrows all from a greater master in his own profession, and, which is worse, improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him, and, being forced to his old shift, he has recourse to witticism. This passes indeed with his soft admirers, and gives him the preference to Virgil in their esteem."

Were I not supported by so great an authority as that of Mr. Dryden, I should not venture to observe, that the taste of most of our English poets, as well as readers, is extremely Gothic. He quotes Monsieur Segrais, for a threefold distinction of the readers of poetry; in the first of which he comprehends the rabble of readers, whom he does not treat as such with regard to their quality, but to their numbers and the coarseness of their taste. His words are as follow: "Segrais has distinguished the readers of poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into three classes." He might have said the same of writers too, if he had pleased.] “In the lowest form he places those whom he calls Les Petits Esprits, such things as are our upper-gallery audience in a playhouse; who like nothing but the husk and rind of wit, and prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram, before solid sense and elegant expression. These are mob readers. If Virgil and Martial stood for parliament-men, we know already who would carry it. But though they made the greatest appearance in the field, and cried the loudest, the best of it is, they are but a sort of French huguenots, or Dutch boors, brought over in herds, but not naturalized; who have not lands of two pounds per annum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged to poll.* The authors are of the same level, fit to represent them on a mountebank's stage, or to be masters of the ceremonies in a bear garden; yet these are they who have the most admirers. But it often happens, to their mortification, that as their readers improve their stock of sense (as they may

To poll is used here as signifying to vote; but in propriety of speech, the poll only ascertains the majority of votes.

by reading better books, and by conversation with men of judgment), they soon forsake them."

I must not dismiss this subject without observing, that as Mr. Locke in the passage above-mentioned has discovered the most fruitful source of wit, so there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which does likewise branch itself out into several kinds. For not only the resemblance, but the opposition of ideas, does very often produce wit; as I could shew in several little points, turns, and antitheses, that I may possibly enlarge upon in some future speculation.-C.

No. 63.] SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1711.
Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas,
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne;
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici ?
Credite, Pisones, isti tabulæ fore librum
Persimilem, cujus, velut ægri somnia, vana
Fingentur species.-HOR. Ars. Poet. ver 1.
If in a picture, Piso, you should see
A handsome woman with a fish's tail,
Or a man's head upon a horse's neck,

Or limbs of beasts, of the most different kinds,
Cover'd with feathers of all sorts of birds;
Wou'd you not laugh, and think the painter mad?
Trust me that book is as ridiculous,
Whose incoherent style, like sick men's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.

ROSCOMMON.

Ir is very hard for the mind to disengage itself from a subject on which it has been long employed. The thoughts will be rising of themselves from time to time, though we give them no encouragement; as the tossings and fluctuations of the sea continue several hours after the winds are laid.

It is to this that I impute my last night's dream or vision, which formed into one continued allegory the several schemes of wit, whether false, mixed, or true, that have been the subject of my late papers.

Methought I was transported into a country that was filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed by the goddess of Falsehood, and entitled the Region of False Wit. There was nothing in the fields, the woods, and the rivers, that appeared natural. Several of the trees blossomed in leaf-gold, some of them produced bone-lace, and some of them precious stones. The fountains bubbled in an opera tune, and were filled with stags, wild boars, and mermaids that lived among the waters; at the same time that dolphins and several kinds of fish played upon the banks, or took their pastime in the meadows. The birds had many of them golden beaks and human voices. The flowers perfumed the air with smells of incense, ambergrease, and pulvillios;* and were so interwoven with one another, that they grew up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were filled with sighs and messages of distant lovers. As I was walking to and fro in this enchanted wilderness, I could not forbear breaking out into soliloquies upon the several wonders which lay before me, when, to my great surprise, I found there were artificial echoes in every walk that, by repetitions of certain words which I spoke, agreed with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I said. In the midst of my conversation with these invisible companions, I discovered in the centre of a very dark grove a monstrous fabric built after the gothic manner, and covered with innumerable devices in that barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately went up to it, and found it to be a kind of heathen temple consecrated to the

Pulvillios, sweet scents.

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god of Dulness. Upon my entrance I saw the deity of the place dressed in the habit of a monk, with a book in one hand and a rattle in the other. Upon his right hand was Industry, with a lamp burning before her; and on his left Caprice, with a monkey sitting on her shoulder. Before his feet there stood an altar of a very odd make, which, as I afterward found, was shaped in that manner to comply with the inscription that surrounded it. Upon the altar there lay several offerings of axes, wings, and eggs, cut in paper, and inscribed with verses. The temple was filled with votaries, who applied themselves to different diversions, as their fancies directed them. In one part of it I saw a regiment of anagrams, who were continually in motion, turning to the right or to the left, facing about, doubling their ranks, shift ing their stations, and throwing themselves into all the figures and counter-marches of the most changeable and perplexed exercise.

Not far from these was the body of acrostics, made up of very disproportioned persons. It was disposed into three columns, the officers planting themselves in a line on the left hand of each column. The officers were all of them at least six feet high, and made three rows of very proper men; but the common soldiers, who filled up the spaces between the officers, were such dwarfs, cripples, and scarecrows, that one could hardly look upon them without laughing. There were behind the acrostics two or three files of chronograms, which differed only from the former, as their officers were equipped (like the figure of Time) with an hour-glass in one hand and a scythe in the other, and took their posts promiscuously among the private men whom they commanded.

I left the temple, and crossed over the fields that lay about it with all the speed I could make. I was not gone far, before I heard the sound of trumpets and alarms, which seemed to proclaim the march of an enemy; and, as I afterward found, was in reality what I apprehended it. There appeared at a great distance a very shining light, and in the midst of it a person of a most beautiful aspect; her name was Truth On her right hand there marched a male deity, who bore several quivers on his shoulders, and grasped several arrows in his hand. His name was Wit. The approach of these two enemies filled all the teritories of False Wit with an unspeakable consternation, insomuch that the goddess of those regions appeared in person upon her frontiers, with the several inferior deities, and the different bodies of forces which I had before seen in the temple, who were now drawn up in array, and prepared to give their foes a warm reception. As the march of the enemy was very slow, it gave time to the several inhabitants who bordered upon the regions of Falsehood to draw their forces into a body, with a design to stand upon their guard as neuters, and attend the issue of the combat.

I must here inform my reader, that the frontiers of the enchanted region which I have before described, were inhabitated by a species of Mixed Wit, who made a very odd appearance when they were mustered together in an army. There were men whose bodies were stuck full of darts, and women whose eyes were burning-glasses: men that had hearts of fire, and women that had breasts of snow. It would be endless to describe several monsters of the like nature, that composed this great army; which immediately fell asunder, and divided itself into two parts, the one half throwing themselves behind the banners of Truth, and the other behind those of Falsehood.

The goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic stature, and advanced some paces before the front of her army; but as the dazzling light which flowed from Truth began to shine upon her, she faded in. sensibly; insomuch that in a little space, she looked rather like a huge phantom, than a real substance. At length, as the goddess of Truth approached still nearer to her, she fell away entirely, and vanished amidst the brightness of her presence; so that there did not remain the least trace or impression of her figure in the place where she had been seen.

In the body of the temple, and before the very face of the Deity, methought I saw the phantom of Tryphiodorus, the lipogrammatist, engaged in a ball with four-and-twenty persons, who pursued him by turns through all the intricacies and labyrinths of a country dance, without being able to overtake him. Observing several to be very busy at the western end of the temple, I inquired into what they were doing, and found there was in that quarter the great magazine of rebusses. These were several things of the most different natures tied up in bundles, and thrown upon one another in heaps like faggots. You might behold an anchor, a night-rail, and a hobbyhorse, bound up together. One of the workmen As at the rising of the sun the constellations grow seeing me very much surprised, told me there was thin, and the stars go out one after another, till the an infinite deal of wit in several of those bundles, whole hemisphere is extinguished; such was the and that he would explain them to me if I pleased; I vanishing of the goddess: and not only of the godthanked him for his civility, but told him I was in dess herself, but of the whole army that attended very great haste at that time. As I was going out her, which sympathised with their leader, and shrank of the temple, I observed in one corner of it a clus-into nothing, in proportion as the goddess disapter of men and women laughing very heartily, and diverting themselves at a game of crambo. I heard several double rhymes as I passed by them, which raised a great deal of mirth.

Not far from these was another set of merry people engaged at a diversion, in which the whole jest was to mistake one person for another. To give occasion for these ludicrous mistakes, they were divided into pairs, every pair being covered from head to foot with the same kind of dress, though perhaps there was not the least resemblance in their faces. By this means an old man was sometimes mistaken for a boy, a woman for a man, and a black-a-moor for a European, which very often produced great peals of laughter. These I guessed to be a party of puns. But being very desirous to get out of this world of magic, which had almost turned my brain, |

peared. At the same time the whole temple sank, the fish betook themselves to the streams and the wild beasts to the woods, the fountains recovered their murmurs, the birds their voices, the trees their leaves, the flowers their scents, and the whole face of nature its true and genuine appearance. Though I still continued asleep, I fancied myself, as it were, awakened out of a dream, when I saw this region of prodigies restored to woods and rivers, fields and meadows.

Upon the removal of that wild scene of wonders, which had very much disturbed my imagination, I took a full survey of the persons of Wit and Truth; for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first, without seeing the other at the same time. There was behind them a strong compact body of figures. The genius of Heroic Poetry appeared with a sword

in her hand, and a laurel on her head. Tragedy was the time appointed for beginning to mourn, as dark crowned with cypress, and covered with robes dipped as a cloud. This humour does not prevail only on in blood. Satire had smiles in her look, and a those whose fortunes can support any change in their dagger under her garment. Rhetoric was known equipage, nor on those only whose incomes demand by her thunderbolt; and Comedy by her mask. After the wantonness of new appearances; but on such several other figures, Epigram marched up in the also who have just enough to clothe them. An old rear, who had been posted there at the beginning of acquaintance of mine, of ninety pounds a year, who the expedition, that he might not revolt to the has naturally the vanity of being a man of fashion enemy, whom he was suspected to favour in his deep at his heart, is very much put to it to bear the heart. I was very much awed and delighted with mortality of princes. He made a new black suit the appearance of the god of Wit; there was some- upon the death of the King of Spain, he turned it thing so amiable, and yet so piercing in his looks, as for the King of Portugal, and he now keeps his inspired me at once with love and terror. As I was chamber while it is scouring for the Emperor. He gazing on him, to my unspeakable joy he took a is a good economist in his extravagance, and makes quiver of arrows from his shoulder, in order to make only a fresh black button on his iron-grey suit for me a present of it; but as I was reaching out my any potentate of small territories; he indeed adds hand to receive it of him, I knocked it against a his crape hatband for a prince whose exploits he has chair, and by that means awaked. admired in the Gazette. But whatever compliments C. may be made on these occasions, the true mourners are the mercers, silkmen, lacemen, and milliners. A prince of a merciful and royal disposition would reflect with great anxiety upon the prospect of his death, if he considered what numbers would be reduced to misery by that accident only. He would think it of moment enough to direct, that in the notification of his departure, the honour done, to him might be restrained to those of the household of the prince to whom it should be signified. He would think a general mourning to be, in a less degree, the same ceremony which is practised in barbarous nations, of killing their slaves to attend the obsequies of their kings.

No. 64.] MONDAY, MAY 14, 1711.

-Hic vivimus ambitiosa

Paupertate omnes Juv. Sat. iii. 183.

The face of wealth in poverty we wear.

THE most improper things we commit in the conduct of our lives, we are led into by the force of fashion. Instances might be given, in which a prevailing custom makes us act against the rules of nature, law, and common sense; but at present I shall confine my consideration to the effect it has upon men's minds, by looking into our behaviour when it is the fashion to go into mourning. The custom of representing the grief we have for the loss of the I had been wonderfully at a loss for many months dead by our habits, certainly had its rise from the together, to guess at the character of a man who real sorrow of such as were too much distressed to came now and then to our coffee-house. He ever take the proper care they ought of their dress. By ended a newspaper with this reflection, "Well, I degrees it prevailed, that such as had this inward see all the foreign princes are in good health." If oppression upon their minds, made an apology for you asked, "Pray, Sir, what says the Postman from "Make us thankful, the not joining with the rest of the world in their ordi- Vienna?" He answered, nary diversions by a dress suited to their condition. German princes are all well."-"What does he say This, therefore, was at first assumed by such only as from Barcelona ?"-" He does not speak but that were under real distress; to whom it was a relief the country agrees very well with the new Queen." that they had nothing about them so light and gay After very much inquiry, I found this man of unias to be irksome to the gloom and melancholy of versal loyalty was a wholesale dealer in silks and their inward reflections, or that might misrepresent ribands. His way is, it seems, if he hires a weaver them to others. In process of time this laudable or workman, to have it inserted in his articles, that distinction of the sorrowful was lost, and mourning all this shall be well and truly performed, provided is now worn by heirs and widows. You see nothing no foreign potentate shall depart this life within the but magnificence and solemnity in the equipage of time above mentioned." It happens in all public the relict, and an air of release from servitude in mournings that the many trades which depend upon the pomp of a son who has lost a wealthy father. our habits, are during that folly either pinched with preThis fashion of sorrow is now become a generous sent want, or terrified with the apparent approach of it. part of the ceremonial between princes and sove- All the atonement which men can make for wanton reigns, who, in the language of all nations, are expenses (which is a sort of insulting the scarcity styled brothers to each other, and put on the purple under which others labour) is, that the superfluities upon the death of any potentate with whom they live of the wealthy give supplies to the necessities of the in amity. Courtiers, and all who wish themselves poor; but instead of any other good arising from sach, are immediately seized with grief from head to the affectation of being in courtly habits of mournfoot upon this disaster to their prince; so that one ing, all order seems to be destroyed by it: and the may know by the very buckles of a gentleman-usher, true honour which one court does to another on that what degree of friendship any deceased monarch occasion, loses its force and efficacy. When a maintained with the court to which he belongs. A foreign minister beholds the court of a nation (which good courtier's habit and behaviour is hieroglyphical flourishes in riches and plenty) lay aside, upon the on these occasions. He deals much in whispers, and you may see he dresses according to the best intelligence.

The general affectation among men, of appearing greater than they are, makes the whole world run into the habit of the court. You see the lady, who the day before was as various as a rainbow, upon

• Royal and princely mourners are clad in purple.

loss of his master, all marks of splendour and magnificence, though the head of such a joyful people, he will conceive a greater idea of the honour done to his master, than when he sees the generality of the people in the same habit. When one is afraid to ask the wife of a tradesman whom she has lost of her know whom she mourns for; how ridiculous is it to family: and after some preparation, endeavours to hear her explain herself, "That we have lost one of

the house of Austria!" Princes are elevated so a pretty phrase of "How now, Double Tripe ?" highly above the rest of mankind, that it is a presump-Upon the mention of a country-gentlewoman, whom tuous distinction to take a part in honours done to he knows nothing of (no one can imagine why), their memories, except we have authority for it by "he will lay his life she is some awkward ill-tabeing related in a particular manner to the court shioned country toad, who, not having above four which pays the veneration to their friendship, and dozen of hairs on her head, has adorned her baldseems to express on such an occasion the sense of ness with a large white furz, that she may look the uncertainty of human life in general, by assuming sparkishly in the fore-front of the king's box at an the habit of sorrow, though in the full possession of old play." Unnatural mixture of senseless comtriumph and royalty. mon-place!

B.

No. 65.1 TUESDAY, MAY 15, 1711.

-Demetri, teque, Tigelli,
Discipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.
HOR. 1 Sat. x. 90.

Demetrius and Tigellius, know your place;

As to the generosity of his temper, he tells his poor footman, "If he did not wait better," he would turn him away-in the insolent phrase of, "I'll uncase you."

Now for Mrs. Harriet. She laughs at obedience to an absent mother, whose tenderness Busy describes to be very exquisite, for," that she is so pleased with finding Harriet again, that she cannot Go hence, and whine among the school-boy race. chide her for being out of the way." This witty AFTER having at large explained what wit is, and daughter and fine lady has so little respect for this described the false appearances of it, all that labour good woman, that she ridicules her air in taking seems but a useless inquiry, without some time be leave, and cries, "In what struggle is my poor spent in considering the application of it. The seat mother yonder! See, see, her head tottering, her of wit, when one speaks as a man of the town and eyes staring, and her under-lip trembling." But all the world, is the playhouse; I shall therefore fill this is atoned for, because "she has more wit than this paper with reflections upon the use of it in that is usual in her sex, and as much malice, though she place. The application of wit in the theatre has is as wild as you could wish her, and has a demureas strong an effect upon the manners of our gen-ness in her looks that makes it so surprising." tlemen, as the taste of it has upon the writings of our authors. It may, perhaps, look like a very presumptuous work, though not foreign from the duty of a Spectator, to tax the writings of such as have long had the general applause of a nation; but I shall always make reason, truth, and nature, the measures of praise and dispraise; if those are for me, the generality of opinion is of no consequence against me; if they are against me, the general opinion cannot long support me.

Without farther preface, I am going to look into some of our most applauded plays, and see whether they deserve the figure they at present bear in the imaginations of men or not.

In reflecting upon these works, I shall chiefly dwell upon that for which each respective play is most celebrated. The present paper shall be employed upon Sir Fopling Flutter. The received character of this play is, that it is the pattern of genteel comedy. Dorimant and Harriet are the characters of greatest consequence, and if these are low and mean, the reputation of the play is very unjust.

I will take for granted, that a fine gentleman should be honest in his actions, and refined in his language. Instead of this, our hero in this piece is a direct knave in his designs, and a clown in his language. Bellair is his admirer and friend; in return for which, because he is forsooth a greater wit than his said friend, he thinks it reasonable to persuade him to marry a young .ady, whose virtue, he thinks, will last no longer than till she is a wife, and then she cannot but fall to his share, as he is an irresistible fine gentleman. The falsehood to Mrs. Loveit, and the barbarity of triumphing over her anguish for losing him, is another instance of his honesty as well as his goodnature. As to his fine language, he calls the orange-woman, who, it seems, is inclined to grow fat, “An overgrown jade, with a flasket of guts before her ;" and salutes her with

"The Man of the Mode." Sir Fopling was Beau Hewit, son of Sir Thomas Hewit, of Pishiobury, in Hertfordshire, Bart.; and the author's own character is represented in Bellair.

Then to recommend her as a fit spouse for his hero, the poet makes her speak her sense of marriage very ingenuously I think," says she, “I might be brought to endure him, and that is all a reasonable woman should expect in a husband." It is methinks unnatural, that we are not made to understand, how she that was bred under a silly pious old mother, that would never trust her out of her sight, came to be so polite.

It cannot be denied, but that the negligence of every thing which engages the attention of the sober and valuable part of mankind, appears very well drawn in this piece. But it is denied, that it is necessary to the character of a fine gentleman, that he should in that manner trample upon all or der and decency. As for the character of Dorimant, it is more of a coxcomb than that of Fopling. He says of one of his companions, that a good correspondence between them is their mutual interest. Speaking of that friend, he declares, their being much together" makes the women think the better of his understanding, and judge more favourably of my reputation. It makes him pass upon some for a man of very good sense, and me upon others for a very civil person."

This whole celebrated piece is a perfect contradiction to good manners, good sense, and common honesty; and as there is nothing in it but what is built upon the ruin of virtue and innocence, according to the notion of merit in this comedy, I take the shoemaker to be in reality the fiue gentleman of the play: for it seems he is an atheist, if we may depend upon his character as given by the orange-woman, who is herself far from being the lowest in the play. She says of a fine man who is Dorimant's companion, there is not such another heathen in the town, except the shomaker." His pretension to be the hero of the drama, appears still more in his own description of his way of living with his lady. There is," says he, "never a man in town lives more like a gentleman with his wife

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He also was a real person, and got vast employment by the representation of him in this play."

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