I hope these notes may serve as a rough draught for a new establishment of engineers which I shall hereafter fill up with proper persons, according to my own observations on their conduct, having already had one recommended to me for the general of my artillery. But that, and all the other posts, I intend to keep open, until I can inform myself of the candidates having resolved in this case to depend no more upon their friends' word, than I would upon their own. From my own Apartment, October 31. France. He observed me at a stand, and went on to inform me, 'that now articulate motions, as well as sounds, were expressed by proper characters; and that there is nothing so common, as to communicate a dance by a letter.' I besought him hereafter to meditate in a ground-room, for that otherwise it would be impossible for an artist of any other kind to live near him; and that I was sure several of his thoughts this morning would have shaken my spectacles off my nose, had I been myself at study. I then took my leave of this virtuoso, and returned to my chamber, meditating on the various occupations of rational creatures. No. 89.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1709. Virg. Georg. ii, 485. My next desire is, void of care and strife, Dryden. I HAVE received this short epistle from an unknown hand. 'SIR, 'I have no more to trouble you with, than to desire yon would in your next help me to some answer to the enclosed concerning myself. In the mean time I congratulate you upon the increase of your fame which you see has extended itself beyond the bills of mortality. 'SIR, I was this morning awakened by a sudden shake of the house; and as 300n as I had got a little out of my consternation, I felt another, which was followed by two or three repetitions of the same convulsion. I got up as fast as possible, girt on my rapier, and snatched up my hat, when my landlady came up to me, and told me, that the gentlewoman of the next house begged me to step thither, for that a lodger she had taken in was run mad; and she desired my advice,' as indeed every body in the whole lane does upon important occasions. I am not, like some artists, saucy because I can be beneficial, but went immediately. Our neighbour told us, she had the day before let her second floor to a very genteel youngish man, who told her, he kept extraordinary good hours, and was generally at home most part of the morning and evening at study; but that this morning he had for an hour together made this extravagant noise which we then heard.' I went up stairs with my hand upon the hilt of my rapier, and approached this new lodger's door. I looked in at the key-hole, and there I saw a well-made man look with great attention on a book, and, on a sudden, jump into the air so high, that his head almost touched the ceiling. He came down safe on his right foot, and again flew up, alighting on his left; then looked again at his book, and holding out his right 'That the country is barren of news has been the leg, put it into such a quivering motion, that I excuse, time out of mind, for dropping a correspondthought he would have shaked it off. He used the ence with our friends in London; as if it were left after the same manner, when, on a sudden, to impossible, out of a coffee-house, to write an agreeable my great surprise, he stooped himself incredibly low, letter. I am too ingenuous to endeavour at the and turned gently on his toes. After this circular covering of my negligence with so common an excuse. motion, he continued bent in that humble posture Doubtless, amongst friends, bred, as we have been, to for some time, looking on his book. After this, he the knowledge of books as well as men, a letter dated recovered himself with a sudden spring, and flew from a garden, a grotto, a fountain, a wood, a meadow, round the room in all the violence and disorder or the banks of a river, may be more entertaining imaginable, until he made a fuil pause for want of than one from Tom's, Will's, White's, or St. James's. breath. In this interim my woman asked, what II promise, therefore, to be frequent for the future in thought.' I whispered, that I thought this learned person an enthusiast, who possibly had his first education in the Peripatetic way, which was a sect of philosophers who always studied when walking.' But, observing him much out of breath, I thought it the best time to master him if he were disordered, and knocked at his door. I was surprised to find him open it, and say with great civility and good mien, that he hoped he had not disturbed us.' I believed him in a lucid interval, and desired, he would please to let me see his book.' He did so, smiling. I could not make any thing of it, and, therefore, asked, ' in what language it was writ.' He said, 'it was one he studied with great application; but it was his profession to teach it, and could not communicate his knowledge without a consideration.' I answered, that I hoped he would hereafter keep his thoughts to himself, for his meditation this morning had cost me three coffee-dishes, and a clean pipe. He seemed concerned at that, and told me he was a dancing-master, and had been reading a dance or two before he went out, which had been written by one who taught at an academy in my rural dates to you. But, for fear you should, from what I have said, be induced to believe I shun the commerce of men, I must inform you, that there is a fresh topic of discourse lately arisen amongst the ingenious in our part of the world, and is become the more fashionable for the ladies giving into it. This we owe to Isaac Bickerstaff, who is very much censured by some, and as much justified by others. Some criticise his style, his humour, and his matter, others admire the whole man. Some pretend, from the informations of their friends in town, to decypher the author; and others confess they are lost in their guesses. For my part, I must own myself a professed admirer of the paper, and desire you to send me a complete set, together with your thoughts of the squire and his lucubrations.' There is no pleasure like that of receiving praise from the praise-worthy; and I own it a very solid happiness, that these my lucubrations are approved by a person of so fine a taste as the author of this letter, who is capable of enjoying the world in the simplicity of its natural beauties. This pastoral letter, if I may so call it, must be written by a man who carries his entertainment wherever he goes, | and is, undoubtedly, one of those happy men who appear far otherwise to the vulgar. I dare say he is not envied by the vicious, the vain, the frolic, and the loud; but is continually blessed with that strong and serious delight, which flows from a well-taught and liberal mind. With great respect to country sports, I may say, this gentleman could pass his time agreeably, if there were not a hare or a fox in his county. That calm and elegant satisfaction which the vulgar call melancholy is the true and proper delight of men of knowledge and virtue. What we take for diversion, which is a kind of forgetting ourselves, is but a mean way of entertainment, in comparison of that which is considering, knowing, and enjoying ourselves. The pleasures of ordinary people are in their passions; but the seat of this delight is in the reason and understanding. Such a frame of mind raises that sweet enthusiasm, which warms the imagination at the sight of every work of nature, and turns all round you into picture and landscape. I shall be ever proud of advices from this gentleman; for I profess writing news from the learned, as well as the busy world. As for my labours, which he is pleased to enquire after, if they can but wear one impertinence out of human life, destroy a single vice, or give a morning's cheerfulness to an honest mind; in short, if the world can be but one virtue the better, or in any degree less vicious, or receive from them the smallest addition to their innocent diversions, I shall not think my pains, or indeed my life, to have been spent in vain. Thus far as to my studies. It will be expected I should, in the next place, give some account of my life. I shall, therefore, for the satisfaction of the present age, and the benefit of posterity, present the world with the following abridgment of it. It is remarkable, that I was bred by hand, and ate nothing but milk until I was a twelve-month old; from which time, to the eighth year of my age, I was observed to delight in pudding and potatoes; and indeed I retain a benevolence for that sort of food to this day. I do not remember that I distinguished myself in any thing at those years, but by my great skill at taw, for which I was so barbarously used, that it has ever since given me an aversion to gaming. In my twelfth year, I suffered very much for two or three false concords. At fifteen I was sent to the university, and staid there for some time; but a drum passing by, being a lover of music, I enlisted myself for a soldier. As years came on, I began to examine things, and grew discontented at the times. This made me quit the sword, and take to the study of the occult sciences, in which I was so wrapped up, that Oliver Cromwell had been buried and taken up again, five years before I heard he was dead. This gave me first the reputation of a conjurer, which has been of great disadvantage to me ever since, and kept me out of all public employments. The greater part of my later years has been divided between Dick's coffee-house, the Trumpet in Sheer-lane, and my own lodgings. From my own Apartment, November 2. The evil of unseasonable visits has been complained of to me with much vehemence by persons of both sexes; and I am desired to consider this very important circumstance, that men may know how to regulate their conduct in an affair which concerns no less than life itself. For, to a rational creature, it is almost the same cruelty to attack his life, by robbing him of so many moments of his time, or so many drops of his blood. The author of the following letter has a just delicacy in this point, and hath put it into a very good light: October 29. 'MR. BICKERSTAFF, 'I am very much afflicted with the gravel, which makes me sick and peevish. I desire to know of you, if it be reasonable that any of my acquaintance should take advantage over me at this time, and affict me with long visits, because they are idle, and I am confined. Pray, sir, reform the town in this matter. Men never consider whether the sick person be disposed for company, but make their visits to humour themselves. You may talk upon this topic, so as to oblige all persons afflicted with chronical distempers, among which I reckon visits. Do not think me a sour man, for I love conversation and my friends; but I think one's most intimate friend may be too familiar, and that there are such things as unseasonable wit, and painful mirth.' It is with some, so hard a thing to employ their time, that it is a great good fortune when they have a friend indisposed, that they may be punctual in in that state which cannot be called sickness or perplexing him, when he is recovered enough to be health; when he is too well to deny company, and too ill to receive them. It is no uncommon case, if a gratulated into a relapse. man is of any figure or power in the world, to be con Will's Coffee-house, November 2. I was very well pleased this evening, to hear a gentleman express a very becoming indignation against a practice, which I myself have been very much offended at. There is nothing,' said he 'more ridiculous, than for an actor to insert words of his own in the part he is to act, so that it is impossible to see the poet for the player. You will have Penkethman and Bullock helping out Beaumont and Fletcher. It puts me in mind,' continued he, of a collection of antique statues which I once saw in a gentleman's possession, who employed a neighbouring stone-cutter to add noses, ears, arms, or legs, to the maimed works of Phidias or Praxiteles. You may be sure, this addition disfigured the statues much more than time had. I remember Venus, that, by the nose he had given her, looked like mother Shipton; and a Mercury, with a pair of legs that seemed very much swelled with the dropsy,' I thought the gentleman's observations very proper, and he told me I had improved his thought, in mentioning on this occasion those wise commentators who had filled up the hemistichs of Virgil; particularly that notable poet, who, to make the Eneid more perfect, carried on the story to Lavinia's wedding. If the proper officer will not condescend to take notice of these absurdities, I shall myself, as a censor of the people, animadvert upon such proceedings. is,' said he, remarkable, that no passion has been treated, by all who have touched upon it, with the same bent of design but this. The poets, the moralists, the painters, in all their descriptions, allegories, and pictures, have represented it as a soft torment, a bitter sweet, a pleasing pain, or an agreeable distress; and have only expressed the same thought in a different manner.' tions, it was remarked, that the same sentiment on This infant grew up, and proved in all his behaviour, this passion had run through all languages and what he really was, a compound of opposite beings. nations.' Memmius, who has a very good taste, fell As he is the son of Plenty, who was the offspring of into a little sort of dissertation on this occasion. It Prudence, he is subtile, intriguing, full of stratagems and devices; as the son of Poverty, he is fawning, begging, serenading, delighted to lie at a threshold, or beneath a window. By the father, he is audacious, full of hopes, conscious of merit, and therefore quick of resentment. By the mother, he is doubtful, timorous, mean-spirited, fearful of offending, and abject in submissions. In the same hour you may see him transported with raptures, talking of immortal pleasures, and appearing satisfied as a god; and immediately after, as the mortal mother prevails in his composition, you behold him pining, languishing, despairing, dying.' The joining of pleasure and pain together in such devices, seems to me the only pointed thought I ever read which is natural, and it must have proceeded from its being the universal sense and experience of mankind, that they have all spoken of it in the same manner. I have, in my own reading, remarked a hundred and three epigrams, fifty odes, and ninetyone sentences, tending to this sole purpose. It is certain, there is no other passion which does produce such contrary effects in so great a degree. But this may be said for love, that if you strike it out of the soul, life would be insipid, and our being but half-animated. Human nature would sink into deadness and lethargy, if not quickened with some active principle; and, as for all others, whether ambition, envy, or avarice, which are apt to possess the mind in the absence of this passion, it must be allowed that they have greater pains, without the compensation of such exquisite pleasures as those we find in love. The great skill is to heighten the satisfactions, and deaden the sorrows of it; which has been the end of many of my labours, and shall continue to be so, for the service of the world in general, and in particular of the fair sex, who are always the best or the worst part of it. It is pity that a passion, which has in it a capacity of making life happy, should not be cultivated to the utmost advantage. Reason, prudence, and good-nature, rightly applied, can thoroughly accomplish this great end, provided they have always a real and constant love to work upon. But this subject I shall treat more at large in the history of my married sister, and, in the mean time, shall conclude my reflection on the pains and pleasures which attend this passion, with one of the finest allegories which I think I have ever read. It is invented by the divine Plato, and, to show the opinion he himself had of it, ascribed by him to his admired Socrates, whom he represents as discoursing with his friends, and giving the history of Love in the following manner: At the birth of Beauty,' says he, there was a great feast made, and many guests invited. Among the rest, was the god Plenty, who was the son of the goddess Prudence, and inherited many of his mother's virtues. After a full entertainment, he retired into the garden of Jupiter, which was hung with a great variety of ambrosial fruits, and seems to have been a very proper retreat for such a guest. In the mean time, an unhappy female called Poverty, having heard of this great feast, repaired to it, in hopes of finding relief. The first place she lights upon was Jupiter's garden, which generally stands open to people of all conditions. Poverty enters, and by chance finds the god Plenty asleep in it. She was immediately fired with his charms, laid herself down by his side, and managed matters so well, that she conceived a child by him. The world was very much in suspense upon the occasion, and could not imagine to themselves what would be the nature of an infant that was to have its original from two such parents. At the last, the child appears; and who should it be but Love. I have been always wonderfully delighted with fables, allegories, and the like inventions, which the politest and the best instructors of mankind have always made use of. They take off from the severity of instruction, and enforce it at the same time that they conceal it. The supposing Love to be conceived immediately after the birth of Beauty; the parentage of Plenty; and the inconsistency of this passion with its self so naturally derived to it, are great master-strokes in this fable; and if they fell into good hands, might furnish out a more pleasing canto than any in Spenser. From my own Apartment, November 4. I came home this evening in a very pensive mood; and, to divert me, took up a volume of Shakspeare, where I chanced to cast my eye upon a part in the tragedy of Richard the Third, which filled my mind with a very agreeable horror. It was the scene in which that bold but wicked prince is represented as sleeping in his tent, the night before the battle in which he fell. The poet takes that occasion to set before him, in a vision, a terrible assembly of apparitions, the ghosts of all those innocent persons whom he is said to have murdered. Prince Edward, Henry VI. the Duke of Clarence, Rivers, Gray, and Vaughan; Lord Hastings, the two young princes, sons to Edward IV., his own wife, and the Duke of Buckingham, rise up in their blood before him, beginning their speeches with that dreadful salutation, 'Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow;' and conclude with that dismal sentence, Despair and die.' This inspires the tyrant with a dream of his past guilt, and of the approaching vengeance. He anticipates the fatal day of Bosworth, fancies himself dismounted, weltering in his own blood; and in the agonies of despair, before he is thoroughly awake, starts up with the following speech: 'Give me another horse-Bind up my wounds! A scene written with so great strength of imagi nation indisposed me from further reading, and threw me into a deep contemplation. I began to reflect upon the different ends of good and bad kings; and as this was the birthday of our late renowned monarch, I could not forbear thinking on the departure of that excellent prince, whose life was crowned with glory, and his death with peace. I let my mind go so far into this thought, as to imagine to myself what might have been the vision of his departing slumbers. He might have seen confederate kings applauding him in different languages; slaves that had been madam; there is no dishonour in loving a man of bound in fetters lifting up their hands, and blessing merit; I assure you I am grieved at this dallying him; and the persecuted in their several forms of with yourself, when you put another in competition worship imploring comfort on his last moments. The with him, for no other reason but superior wealth.' reflection upon this excellent prince's mortality hadTo tell you, then,' said she, the bottom of my been a very melancholy entertainment, had it not been relieved by the consideration of the glorious reign which succeeds it. We now see as great a virtue as ever was on the British throne, surrounded with all the beauty of success. Our nation may not only boast of a long series of great, regular, and well-laid designs, but also of triumphs and victories; while we have the happiness to see our sovereign exercise that true policy which tends to make a kingdom great and happy, and at the same time enjoy the good and glorious effect of it. No. 91.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1709. From my own Apartment, November 7. I was very much surprised this evening with a visit from one of the top Toasts of the town, who came privately in a chair, and bolted into my room, while I was reading a chapter of Agrippa upon the occult sciences; but, as she entered with all the air and bloom that nature ever bestowed on woman, I threw down the conjuror, and met the charmer. I had no sooner placed her at my right hand by the fire, but she opened to me the reason of her visit. Mr. Bickerstaff,' said the fine creature, 'I have been your correspondent for some time, though 1 never saw you before; I have writ by the name of Maria. You have told me, you were too far gone in life to think of love. Therefore, I am answered as to the passion I spoke of; and,' continued she, smiling, I will not stay until you grow young again, as you men never fail to do in your dotage; but am come to consult you about disposing of myself to another. My person you see; my fortune is very considerable; but I am at present under much perplexity how to act in a great conjuncture. I have two lovers, Crassus and Lorio: Crassus is prodigiously rich, but has no one distinguishing quality; though at the same time, he is not remarkable on the defective side. Lorio has travelled, is well bred, pleasant in discourse, discreet in his conduct, agreeable in his person; and with all this, he has a competency of fortune without superfluity. When I consider Lorio, my mind is filled with an idea of the great satisfactions of a pleasant conversation. When I think of Crassus, my equipage, numerous servants, gay liveries, and various dresses, are opposed to the charms of his rival. In a word, when I cast my eyes upon Lorio, I forget and despise fortune; when I behold Crassus, I think only of pleasing my vanity, and enjoying an uncontrolled expense in all the pleasures of life, except love.' She paused here. Madam,' said I, 'I am confident you have not stated your case with sincerity, and that there is some secret pang which you have concealed from me; for I see by your aspect the generosity of your mind: and that open ingenuous air lets me know, that you have too great a sense of the generous passion of love, to prefer the ostentation of life in the arms of Crassus, to the entertainments and conveniencies of it in the company of your beloved Lorio; for so he is, indeed, madam: you speak his name with a different accent from the rest of your discourse. The idea his image raises in you gives new life to your features, and new grace to your speech. Nay, blush not, heart, there is Clotilda lies by, and plants herself in the way of Crassus, and I am confident will snap him if I refuse him. I cannot bear to think that she will shine above me. When our coaches meet, to see her chariot hung behind with four footmen, and mine with but two; her's powdered, gay, and saucy, kept only for show; mine, a couple of careful rogues that are good for something: I own, I cannot bear that Clotilda should be in all the pride and wantonness of wealth, and I only in the ease and affluence of it. Here I interrupted: 'Well, madam, now I see your whole affection; you could be happy, but that you fear another would be happier. Or rather, you could be solidly happy, but that another is to be happy in appearance. This is an evil which you must get over, or never know happiness. We will put the case, madam, that you married Crassus, and she Lorio.' She answered, Speak not of it. I could tear her eyes out at the mention of it.'-' Well, then I pronounce Lorio to be the man; but I must tell you, that what we call settling in the world is, in a kind, leaving it; and you must at once resolve to keep your thoughts of happiness within the reach of your fortune, and not measure it by comparison with others.-But, indeed, madam, when I behold that beauteous form of yours, and consider the generality of your sex, as to their disposal of themselves in marriage, or their parents doing it for them without their own approbation, I cannot but look upon all such matches as the most impudent prostitutions. Do but observe, when you are at the play, the familiar wenches that sit laughing among the men. These appear detestable to you in the boxes. Each of them would give up her person for a guinea; and some of you would take the worst there for life for twenty thousand. If so, how do you differ but in price? As to the circumstance of marriage, I take that to be hardly an alteration of the case; for wedlock is but a more solemn prostitution, where there is not a union of minds. You would hardly believe it, but there have been designs even upon me. A neighbour in this very lane, who knows I have, by leading a very wary life, laid up a little money, had a great mind to marry me to his daughter. I was frequently invited to their table: the girl was always very pleasant and agreeable. After dinner, Miss Molly would be sure to fill my pipe for me, and put more sugar than ordinary into my coffee; for she was sure I was good-natured. If I chanced to hem, the mother would applaud my vigour; and has often said on that occasion, "I wonder, Mr. Bickerstaff, you de not marry, I am sure you would have children." Things went so far, that my mistress presented me with a wrought night-cap and a laced band of her own working. I began to think of it in earnest; but one day, having an occasion to ride to Islington, as two of three people were lifting me upon my pad, I spied her at a convenient distance laughing at her lover, with a parcel of romps of her acquaintance. One of them, who I suppose had the same design upon me, told me she said, "Do you see how briskly my old gentleman mounts?" This made me cut off mr amour, and to reflect with myself, that no married life could be so unhappy, as where the wife proposes no other advantage from her husband, than that of making herself fine, and keeping her out of the dirt.' 'You seem a very honest fellow; therefore, pray tell me, did not you write that letter in praise of the squire and his lucubrations yourself,' &c. The greatest plague of coxcombs is, that they often break upon you with an impertinent piece of good sense, as this jackanapes has hit me in the right place enough. I must confess, I am as likely to play such a trick as another; but that letter he speaks of is really genuine. When I firs set up, I thought it fair enough to let myself know from all parts, that my works were wonderfully enquired for, and were become the diversion as well as instruction, of all the choice spirits in every county of Great Britain. do not doubt but the more intelligent of my readers found it, before this jackanapes, I can call him no better, took upon him to observe upon my style, and my basket-hilt. A very pleasant gentleman of my acquaintance told me one day a story of this kind of falsehood and vanity in an author. I Mævius showed him a paper of verses, which he said he had received that morning by the penny-post from an unknown hand. My friend admired them extremely. Sir,' said he, this must come from a man that is eminent: you see fire, life, and spirit, run through the whole, and at the same time a correctness, which shows he is used to writing. Pray, sir, read them over again.' He begins again, title and all; To Mævius, on his incomparable poems.' The second reading was performed with much more vehemence and action than the former; after which my friend fell into downright raptures-Why, they are truly sublime! there is energy in this line! description in that! Why! it is the thing itself! this is perfect picture! Mævius could bear no more; but, Faith,' says he, Ned, to tell you the plain truth, I writ them myself.' There goes such another story of the same paternal tenderness in Bavius, an ingenious contemporary of mine, who had writ several comedies, which were rejected by the players. This, my friend Bavius took for envy, and therefore prevailed upon a gentleman to go with him to the play-house, and gave him a new play, of his, desiting he would personate the author, and read it, to baffle the spite of the actors. The friend consented, and to reading they went. T ey had not gone over three similes, before Roscius the player made the acting author stop, and desired to know, What he meant by such a apture? and how it came to pass, that in this condition of the lover, instead of acting according to his circumstances, he spent his time in considering what his present state was like? That is very true,' says the mock author; 'I believe we had as good strike these lines out. By your leave,' says Bavius, you shall not spoil your play, you are too modest; those very lines for aught I know, are as good as any in your play, and they shall stand. Well, they go on, and the particle 'and' stood unfortunately at the end of a verse, and was made to rhyme with the word stand.' This, Roseius excepted against. The new poet gave up THE TATLER, No. 20. that too, and said, 'he would not dispute for a monosyllable.'-' For a monosyllable,' says the real author, I can assure you, a monosyllable may be of as great force as a word of ten syllables. I tell you, sir, "and" is the connexion of the matter in that place; without that word, you may put all that follows into any other play as well as this. Besides, if you leave it out, it will look as if you had put it in only for the sake of the rhyme.' Roscius persisted, assuring the gentleman, that it was impossible to speak it, but the "and" must be lost,' so it might be as well blotted out.' Bavius snatched his play out of their hands, said, 'they were both blockheads,' and went off; repeating a couplet, because he would not make his exit irregularly. A witty man of these days compared this true and feigned poet to the contending mothers before Solomon; the true one was easily discovered from the pretender, by refusing to see his offspring dissected. No. 92.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1709. Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret Quem nisi mendosum et mendacem? Hor. i. Ep. xvi. False praise can please, and calumny affright, White's Chocolate-house, November 9. I KNOW no manner of speaking so offensive as that of giving praise, and closing it with an exception; which proceeds (where men do not do it to introduce malice, and make calumny more effectual) from the common error of considering man as a perfect creature. But, if we rightly examine things, we shall find that there is a sort of economy in Providence, that one shall excel where another is defective, in order to make men more useful to each other, and mix them in society. This man having this talent, and that man another, is as necessary in conversation, as one professing one trade, and another another, is beneficial in commerce. The happiest climate does not produce all things; and it was so ordered, that one part of the earth should want the product of another, for uniting mankind in a general correspondence and good understanding. It is, therefore, want of good sense as well as good nature, to say Simplicius has a better judgment, but not so much wit as Latius; for that these have not each other's capacities is no more a diminution to either than if you should say, Simplicius is not Latius, or Latius not Simplicius. The heathen world had so little notion that perfection was to be expected amongst men, that among them any one quality or endowment in an heroic degree made a god. Hercules had strength; but it was never objected to him that he wanted wit. Apollo presided over wit, and it was never asked whether he had strength. We hear no exceptions against the beauty of Minerva, or the wisdom of Venus. These wise heathens were glad to immortalize any one serviceable gift, and overlook all imperfections in the person who had it. But with us it is far otherwise, for we reject many eminent virtues, if they are accompanied with one apparent weakness. The reflecting after this manner made me account for the strange delight men take in reading lampoons and scandal, with which the age abounds, and of which I receive frequent complaints. Upon mature consideration, I find it is principally for this reason, that the worst of mankind, X |