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stole it from him one day in the midst of his pleading; but he had better have let it alone, for he lost his cause by his jest.

delivered to them, at the same time that ey show the speaker is in earnest, and afcted himself with what he so passionately commends to others. Violent gesture and I have all along acknowledged myself to -ciferation naturally shake the hearts of be a dumb man, and therefore may be e ignorant, and fill them with a kind of thought a very improper person to give ligious horror. Nothing is more frequent rules for oratory; but I believe every one an to see women weep and tremble at the will agree with me in this, that we ought ght of a moving preacher, though he is either to lay aside all kinds of gesture aced quite out of their hearing; as in (which seems to be very suitable to the gegland we very frequently see peoplenius of our nation,) or at least to make use led to sleep, with solid and elaborate of such only as are graceful and expressive. Scourses of piety, who would be warmed d transported out of themselves by the llowing and distortions of enthusiasm. If nonsense, when accompanied with such emotion of voice and body, has such an Huence on men's minds, what might we t expect from many of those admirable scourses which are printed in our tongue, ere they delivered with a becoming fer-ur, and with the most agreeable graces voice and gesture!

We are told that the great Latin orator
ry much impaired his health by the late-
m contentio, the vehemence of action,
ith which he used to deliver himself. The
reek orator was likewise so very famous
r this particular in rhetoric, that one of
s antagonists, whom he had banished from
thens, reading over the oration which had
ocured his banishment, and seeing his
iends admire it, could not forbear asking
em, if they were so much affected by the
Are reading of it, how much more they
ould have been alarmed, had they heard
m actually throwing out such a storm of
oquence?

How cold and dead a figure, in compari-
n of these two great men, does an orator
ten make at the British bar, holding up
s head with the most insipid serenity, and
roking the sides of a long wig that reaches
own to his middle! The truth of it is, there
often nothing more ridiculous than the
estures of an English speaker: you see
me of them running their hands into their
ockets as far as ever they can thrust them,
d others looking with great attention on a
ece of paper that has nothing written on
you may see many a smart rhetorician
rning his hat in his hands, moulding it
to several different cocks, examining some-
mes the lining of it, and sometimes the
atton, during the whole course of his
arangue. A deaf man would think he was
eapening a beaver, when perhaps he is
lking of the fate of the British nation. I
member, when I was a young man, and
sed to
frequent Westminster-hall, there
as a counsellor who never pleaded with-
t a piece of pack-thread in his hand,
hich he used to twist about a thumb or a
ger all the while he was speaking: the
ags of those days used to call it the
read of his discourse,' for he was unable
utter a word without it. One of his
lents, who was more merry than wise,

No. 408.] Wednesday, June 18, 1712.

0.

subjacere, serviliter.-Tull. de Finibus.
Decet affectus animi neque se nimium erigere, nec

indulged, nor servilely depressed.
The affections of the heart ought not to be too much

'MR. SPECTATOR,-I have always been a very great lover of your speculations, as well in regard to the subject as to your manner of treating it. Human nature I always thought the most useful object of human reason; and to make the consideration of it pleasant and entertaining, I always thought the best employment of human wit: other parts of philosophy may perhaps make us wiser, but this not only answers that end, but makes us better too. Hence it was that the oracle pronounced Socrates the wisest of all men living, because he judiciously made choice of human nature for the object of his thoughts; an inquiry into which, as much exceeds all other learning, as it is of more consequence to adjust the true nature and measures of right and wrong, than to settle the distances of the planets, and compute the time of their circumvolutions.

'One good effect that will immediately arise from a near observation of human nature, is, that we shall cease to wonder at those actions which men are used to reckon wholly unaccountable; for, as nothing is produced without a cause, so by observing the nature and course of the passions, we shall be able to trace every action from its first conception to its death. We shall no more admire at the proceedings of Catiline or Tiberius, when we know the one was actuated by a cruel jealousy, the other by a furious ambition: for the actions of men follow their passions as naturally as light does heat, or as any other effect flows from its cause; reason must be employed in adjusting the passions, but they must ever remain the principles of action.

"The strange and absurd variety that is so apparent in men's actions, shows plainly they can never proceed immediately from reason; so pure a fountain emits no such troubled waters: they must necessarily arise from the passions, which are to the mind as the winds to a ship; they can only move it, and they too often destroy it: if fair and gentle, they guide it into the harbour; if

contrary and furious, they overset it in the the gentle gales of the passions, which may
waves. In the same manner is the mind preserve it from stagnating and corruption;
assisted or endangered by the passions; for they are necessary to the health of the
reason must then take the place of pilot, mind, as the circulation of the animal spi-
and can never fail of securing her charge rits is to the health of the body: they keep
if she be not wanting to herself. The it in life, and strength, and vigour; nor is i
strength of the passions will never be ac- possible for the mind to perform its office
cepted as an excuse for complying with without their assistance. These motions ar
them: they were designed for subjection; given us with our being; they are little spi
and if a man suffers them to get the upper rits that are born and die with us; to some
hand, he then betrays the liberty of his own they are mild, easy, and gentle; to others
soul.
wayward and unruly, yet never too strong
for the reins of reason and the guidance of
judgment.

'As nature has framed the several spe-
cies of being as it were in a chain, so man
seems to be placed as the middle link be-
tween angels and brutes. Hence he par-
ticipates both of flesh and spirit by an
admirable tie, which in him occasions per-
petual war of passions; and as man inclines
to the angelic or brute part of his constitu-
tion, he is then denominated good or bad,
virtuous or wicked; if love, mercy, and
good-nature prevail, they speak him of the
angel: if hatred, cruelty, and envy pre-
dominate, they declare his kindred to the
brute. Hence it was that some of the an-
cients imagined, that as men in this life
inclined more to the angel or the brute, so,
after their death, they should transmigrate
into the one or the other; and it would
be no unpleasant notion to consider the
several species of brutes, into which we
may imagine that tyrants, misers, the
proud, malicious, and ill-natured, might be
changed.

We may generally observe a pretty nice proportion between the strength of reason and passion; the greatest geniuses have commonly the strongest affections, as, of the other hand, the weaker understanding have generally the weaker passions; and is fit the fury of the coursers should not be too great for the strength of the charioteer Young men, whose passions are not a littl unruly, give small hopes of their ever being considerable: the fire of youth will of cours abate, and is a fault, if it be a fault, tha mends every day; but, surely, unless a ma has fire in his youth, he can hardly hav warmth in old age. We must therefore b very cautious, lest, while we think to re gulate the passions, we should quite extin guish them, which is putting out the ligh of the soul; for to be without passion, or t be hurried away with it, makes a ma equally blind. The extraordinary severit used in most of our schools has this fate effect, it breaks the spring of the mind, an most certainly destroys more good geniuse than it can possibly improve. And sure it is a mighty mistake that the passion should be so entirely subdued: for little i regularities are sometimes not only to borne with, but to be cultivated too, sing they are frequently attended with t greatest perfections. All great genius have faults mixed with their virtues, resemble the flaming bush which h thorns amongst lights.

are t

'As a consequence of this original, all passions are in all men, but appear not in all; constitution, education, custom of the country, reason, and the like causes, may improve or abate the strength of them; but still the seeds remain, which are ever ready to sprout forth upon the least encouragement. I have heard a story of a good religious man, who having been bred with the milk of a goat, was very modest in public, by a careful reflection he made on his actions; but he frequently had an hour in secret, wherein he had his frisks and capers; and if we had an opportunity 'Since, therefore, the passions of examining the retirement of the strictest principles of human actions, we must ende philosophers, no doubt but we should find your to manage them so as to retain the perpetual returns of those passions they so vigour, yet keep them under strict co artfully conceal from the public. I remem-mand; we must govern them rather li ber Machiavel observes, that every state free subjects than slaves, lest, while we should entertain a perpetual jealousy of its tend to make them obedient, they beco neighbours, that so it should never be un- abject, and unfit for those great purpos provided when an emergency happens; in to which they were designed. For my pa like manner should reason be perpetually I must confess I could never have any on its guard against the passions, and never gard to that sect of philosophers who suffer them to carry on any design that may much insisted upon an absolute indifferen be destructive of its security: yet, at the and vacancy from all passion; for it see same time, it must be careful that it do not to me a thing very inconsistent, for a m so far break their strength as to render to divest himself of humanity in order them contemptible, and consequently itself acquire tranquillity of mind; and to era unguarded. The understanding, being of itself too it is possible they may produce ill efec cate the very principles of action, becau slow and lazy to exert itself into action, it I am, sir, your affectionate admirer, is necessary it should be put in motion by

Z.

T.B

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No. 409.] Thursday, June 19, 1712.

-Museo contingere cuncta lepore. Lucr. Lib. i. 933. Το grace each subject with enliv'ning wit. GRATIAN very often recommends fine aste as the utmost perfection of an accomplished man.

thoughts, he ought to conclude, not (as is too usual among tasteless. readers,) that the author wants those perfections which have been admired in him, but that he himself wants the faculty of discovering them.

He should, in the second place, be very careful to observe, whether he tastes the distinguishing perfections, or, if I may be alAs this word arises very often in conver-lowed to call them so, the specific qualities ation, I shall endeavour to give some acount of it, and to lay down rules how we may know whether we are possessed of it, nd how we may acquire that fine taste of writing, which is so much talked of among he polite world.

Most languages make use of this metahor, to express that faculty of the mind hich distinguishes all the most concealed aults and nicest perfections in writing. We ay be sure this metaphor would not have een so general in all tongues, had there ot been a very great conformity between hat mental taste, which is the subject of is paper, and that sensitive taste which ives us a relish of every different flavour at affects the palate. Accordingly we nd there are as many degrees of refineent in the intellectual faculty as in the ense, which is marked out by this common enomination.

I knew a person who possessed the one so great a perfection, that, after having sted ten different kinds of tea, he would istinguish, without seeing the colour of it, he particular sort which was offered him; ad not only so, but any two sorts of them at were mixed together in an equal proortion; nay, he has carried the experient so far, as, upon tasting the composition three different sorts, to name the parcels om whence the three several ingredients ere taken. A man of fine taste in writing ill discern, after the same manner, not ly the general beauties and imperfections an author, but discover the several ways thinking and expressing himself, which versify him from all other authors, with le several foreign infusions of thought and nguage, and the particular authors from hom they were borrowed.

of the author whom he peruses; whether he is particularly pleased with Livy, for his manner of telling a story, with Sallust, for entering into those internal principles of action which arise from the characters and manners of the person he describes, or, with Tacitus, for displaying those outward motives of safety and interest which gave birth to the whole series of transactions which he relates.

He may likewise consider how differently he is affected by the same thought which presents itself in a great writer, from what he is when he finds it delivered by a person of an ordinary genius; for there is as much difference in apprehending a thought clothed in Cicero's language, and that of a common author, as in seeing an object by the light of a taper, or by the light of the sun.

It is very difficult to lay down rules for the acquirement of such a taste as that I am here speaking of. The faculty must in some degree be born with us; and it very often happens, that those who have other qualities in perfection are wholly void of this. One of the most eminent mathematicians of the age has assured me, that the greatest pleasure he took in reading Virgil was in examining Æneas's voyage by the map; as I question not but many a modern compiler of history would be delighted with little more in that divine author than the bare matters of fact.

But, notwithstanding this faculty must in some measure be born with us, there are several methods for cultivating and improving it, and without which it will be very uncertain, and of little use to the person that possesses it. The most natural method for this purpose is to be conversant among the writings of the most polite authors. A man who has any relish for fine writing, either discovers new beauties, or receives stronger impressions, from the masterly strokes of a great author every time he peruses him; besides that he naturally wears himself into the same manner of speaking and thinking.

After having thus far explained what is nerally meant by a fine taste in writing, d shown the propriety of the metaphor hich is used on this occasion, I think I ay define it to be that faculty of the soul hich discerns the beauties of an author ith pleasure, and the imperfections with slike. If a man would know whether he Conversation with men of a polite genius possessed of this faculty, I would have is another method for improving our natural m read over the celebrated works of an- taste. It is impossible for a man of the quity, which have stood the test of so greatest parts to consider any thing in its any different ages and countries, or those whole extent, and in all its variety of lights. orks among the moderns which have the Every man besides those general observanction of the politer part of our contem- tions which are to be made upon an author, raries. If, upon the perusal of such writ- forms several reflections that are peculiar 8, he does not find himself delighted in to his own manner of thinking; so that conextraordinary manner, or if, upon read-versation will naturally furnish us with the admired passages in such authors, hints which we did not attend to, and make finds a coldness and indifference in his us enjoy other men's parts and reflections

-Dum foris sunt, nihil videtur mundius,
Nec magis compositum quidquam, nec magis elegans:
Quæ, cum amatore suo cum cænant, liguriunt.
Harum videre inglu viem, sordes, inopiam:
Quam inhonesta solæ sint domi, atque avidæ cibi,
Quo pacto ex jure hesterno panem atrum vorent;
Nosse omnia hæc, salus est adolescentulis.

as well as our own. This is the best reason | No. 410.] Friday, June 20, 1712
I can give for the observation which several
have made, that men of great genius in the
same way of writing seldom rise up singly,
but at certain periods of time appear to-
gether, and in a body; as they did at Rome
in the reign of Augustus, and in Greece
about the age of Socrates. I cannot think
that_Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau,
La Fontaine, Bruyere, Bossu, or the
ciers, would have written so well as they
have done, had they not been friends and
contemporaries.

Ter. Eun. Act v. Sc. 4
'When they are abroad, nothing so clean and nicely
Da-dressed; and when at supper with a gallant, they do but
ness and poverty at home, their gluttony, and how they
piddle, and pick the choicest bits; but to see their nasti.
devour black crusts dipped in yesterday's broth, is a
perfect antidote against wenching.'

It is likewise necessary for a man who would form to himself a finished taste of good writing, to be well versed in the works of the best critics, both ancient and modern. I must confess that I could wish there were authors of this kind, who, beside the mechanical rules, which a man of very little taste may discourse upon, would enter into the very spirit and soul of fine writing, and show us the several sources of that pleasure which rises in the mind upon the perusal of a noble work. Thus, although in poetry it be absolutely necessary that the unities of time, place, and action, with other points of the same nature, should be thoroughly explained and understood, there is still something more essential to the art, something that elevates and astonishes the fancy, and gives a greatness of mind to the reader, which few of the critics besides Longinus have considered.

WILL HONEYCOMB, who disguises his present decay by visiting the wenches of the town only by way of humour, told us, that the last rainy night he, with Sir Roger de Coverley, was driven into the Temple cloister, whither had escaped also a lady most exactly dressed from head to foot. Will made no scruple to acquaint us, that she saluted him very familiarly by his name, and turning immediately to the knight, she said, she supposed that was his good friend Sir Roger de Coverley: upon which nothing less could follow than Sir Roger's approach to salutation, with Madam, the same, at your service.' She was dressed in a black tabby mantua and petticoat, without ribands; her linen striped muslin, and in the whole an agreeable second mourning; decent dresses being often affected by the crea tures of the town, at once consulting cheapness and the pretension to modesty. She Our general taste in England is for epi- went on with a familiar easy air, 'Your gram, turns of wit, and forced conceits, friend, Mr. Honeycomb, is a little surprised which have no manner of influence either to see a woman here alone and unattended; for the bettering or enlarging the mind of but I dismissed my coach at the gate, and him who reads them, and have been care-tripped it down to my counsel's chambers; fully avoided by the greatest writers, both for lawyers' fees take up too much of a small among the ancients and moderns. I have disputed jointure to admit any other exendeavoured in several of my speculations, penses but mere necessaries.' Mr. Honeyto banish this gothic taste, which has taken comb begged they might have the honour possession among us. I entertained the town of setting her down, for Sir Roger's servant for a week together with an essay upon wit, was gone to call a coach. In the interim the in which I endeavoured to detect several of footman returned with no coach to be had, those false kinds which have been admired and there appeared nothing to be done but in the different ages of the world, and at trusting herself with Mr. Honeycomb and the same time to show wherein the nature his friend, to wait at the tavern at the gate of true wit consists. I afterwards gave an for a coach, or to be subjected to all the instance of the great force which lies in a impertinence she must meet with in that natural simplicity of thought to affect the public place. Mr. Honeycomb being a man mind of the reader, from such vulgar pieces of honour, determined the choice of the as have little else besides this single quali- first, and Sir Roger as the better man, took fication to recommend them. I have like the lady by the hand, leading her through all wise examined the works of the greatest the shower, covering her with his hat, and poet which our nation, or perhaps any gallanting a familiar acquaintance through other, has produced, and particularized rows of young fellows, who winked at Sukey most of those rational and manly beauties in the state she marched off, Will Honeywhich give a value to that divine work. I comb bringing up the rear. shall next Saturday enter upon an essay on The Pleasures of the Imagination,' which, though it shall consider the subject at large, will perhaps suggest to the reader what it is that gives a beauty to many passages of the finest writers both in prose and verse. As an undertaking of this nature is entirely I question not but it will be received with candour.

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Much importunity prevailed upon fair one to admit of a collation, where, after declaring she had no stomach, and having eaten a couple of chickens, devoured a truss of sallet, and drank a full bottle to her share, she sung the Old Man's Wish to Sir Roger. The knight left the room some time after supper, and writ the fol lowing billet, which he conveyed to Sukey

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and Sukey to her friend Will Honeycomb. Will has given it to Sir Andrew Freeport, who read it last night to the club.

But let my sons attend. Attend may they
Whom youthful vigour may to sin betray;
Let them false charmers fly, and guard their hearts
Against the wily wanton's pleasing arts;
With care direct their steps, nor turn astray
To tread the paths of her deceitful way;
Lest they too late of her fell pow'r complain,
And fall, where many mightier have been slain."
T.

I am not so mere a country gentleman, but I can guess at the law business you had at the Temple. If you would go down to the country, and leave off all your vanities but your singing, let me know at my lodgings in Bow-street, Covent-garden, and you No. 411.] shall be encouraged by your humble servant,

ROGER DE COVERLEY.'

My good friend could not well stand the raillery which was rising upon him; but to put a stop to it, I delivered Will Honeycomb the following letter, and desired him to read it to the board.

'MR. SPECTATOR,-Having seen a trans-
lation of one of the chapters in the Canticles
into English verse inserted among your late
papers, I have ventured to send you the
seventh chapter of the Proverbs in a poetical
dress.
If you think it worthy appearing
among your speculations, it will be a suf-
ficient reward for the trouble of your con-
stant reader,
A. B.

"My son, th' instruction that my words impart,
Grave on the living tablet of thy heart;
And all the wholesome precepts that I give
Observe with strictest reverence, and live.
"Let all thy homage be to Wisdom paid,
Seek her protection, and implore her aid;
That she may keep thy soul from harm secure,
And turn thy footsteps from the harlot's door,
Who with curs'd charias lures the unwary in,
And soothes with flattery their souls to sin.

"Once from my window, as I cast mine eye
On those that pass'd in giddy numbers by,
A youth among the foolish youths I spy'd,
Who took not sacred wisdom for his guide.
"Just as the sun withdrew his cooler light,
And evening soft led on the shades of night,
He stole in covert twilight to his fate,

And pass'd the corner near the harlot's gate;
When lo, a woman comes!-

Loose her attire, and such her glaring dress,
As aptly did the harlot's mind express;
Subtle she is, and practis'd in the arts
By which the wanton conquer heedless hearts:
Stubborn and loud she is; she hates her home;
Varying her place and form, she loves to roam:
Now she's within, now in the street doth stray,
Now at each corner stands, and waits her prey.
The youth she seiz'd; and laying now aside
All modesty, the female's Justest pride,
She said with an embrace, Here at my house
Peace-offerings are, this day I paid my vows.
I therefore came abroad to meet my dear,
And lo, in happy hour, I find thee here.
My chamber I've adorn'd, and o'er my bed
Are coverings of the richest tap'stry spread,
With linen it is deck'd from Egypt brought,
And carvings by the curious artist wrought:
It wants no glad perfume Arabia yields
In all her citron groves, and spicy fields;
Here all her store of richest odour meets,
I'll lay thee in a wilderness of sweets;
Whatever to the sense can grateful be
I have collected there I want but thee.
My husband's gone a journey far away,
Much gold he took abroad, and long will stay:
He nam'd for his return a distant day.'
"Upon her tongue did such smooth mischief dwell,
And from her lips such welcome flatt'ry fell,
Th' unguarded youth, in silken fetters ty'd,
Resign'd his reason, and with ease comply'd.
Thus does the ox to his own slaughter go,
And thus is senseless of the impending blow,
Thus flies the simple bird into the snare,
That skilful fowlers for his life prepare.
VOL. II.
18

Saturday, June 21, 1712.

PAPER I.

ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.

Contents-The perfection of our sight above our other
senses. The pleasures of the imagination arise origi.
nally from sight. The pleasures of the imagination
divided under two heads. The pleasures of the imagi
nation in some respects equal to those of the under.
standing. The extent of the pleasures of the imagina.
tion. The advantages a man receives from a relish of
these pleasures. In what respect they are preferable
to those of the understanding.

Avia Pieridum peragro loca nullius ante
Trita solo: juvat integros accedere fonteis,
Atque haurire-
Lucr. Lib. i. 925.

In wild unclear'd, to Muses a retreat,
O'er ground untrod before I devious roam,
And deep-enamour'd, into latent springs
Presume to peep at coy virgin Naiads.
OUR sight is the most perfect and most
delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind
with the largest variety of ideas, converses
with its objects at the greatest distance, and
continues the longest in action without being
tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments.
The sense of feeling can indeed give us a
notion of extension, shape, and all other
ideas that enter at the eye, except colours;
but at the same time it is very much strained,
and confined in its operations, to the num-
ber, bulk, and distance of its particular
objects. Our sight seems designed to sup-
ply all these defects, and may be considered
as a more delicate and diffusive kind of
touch,that spreads itself over an infinite mul-
titude of bodies, comprehends the largest
figures, and brings into our reach some of
the most remote parts of the universe.

It is this sense which furnishes the ima-
gination with its ideas; so that by the
pleasures of the imagination,' or 'fancy,'
(which I shall use promiscuously) I here
mean such as arise from visible objects,
either when we have them actually in our
view, or when we call up their ideas into our
minds by paintings, statues, descriptions,
or any the like occasion. We cannot indeed
have a single image in the fancy that did
not make its first appearance through the
sight; but we have the power of retaining,
altering, and compounding those images,
which we have once received, into all the
varieties of picture and vision that are most
agreeable to the imagination; for by this.
faculty a man in a dungeon is capable of
entertaining himself with scenes and land-
scapes more beautiful than any that can be
found in the whole compass of nature.

There are few words in the English lan-
guage which are employed in a more loose
and uncircumscribed sense than those of
the fancy and the imagination. I therefore

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