such authors as I could not name with honour. This I must confess to have been a piece of very great self-denial: for as the public relishes nothing better than the ridicule which turns upon a writer of any eminence, so there is nothing which a man that has but a very ordinary talent in ridicule may execute with greater ease. One might raise laughter for a quarter of a year together upon the works of a person who has published but a very few volumes. For which reason I am astonished, that those who have appeared against this paper have made so very little of it. The criticisms which I have hitherto published, have been made with an intention rather to discover beauties and excellences in the writers of my own time, than to publish any of their faults and imperfections. In the mean while I should take it for a very great favour from some of my underhand detractors, if they would break all measures with me, so far as to give me a pretence for examining their performances with an impartial eye: nor shall I look upon it as any breach of charity to criticise the author, so long as I keep clear of the person. In the mean while, until I am provoked to such hostilities, I shall from time to time endeavour to do justice to those who have distinguished themselves in the politer parts of learning, and to point out such beauties in their works as may have escaped the observation of others.

As the first place among our English poets is due to Milton; and as I have drawn more quotations out of him than from any other, I shall enter into a regular criticism upon his Paradise Lost, which I shall publish every Saturday, until I have given my thoughts upon that poem. I shall not, however, presume to impose upon others my own particular judgment on this author, but only deliver it as my private opinion. Criticism is of a very large extent, and every particular master in this art has his favourite passages in an author which do not equally strike the best judges. It will be sufficient for me, if I discover many beauties or imperfections which others have not attended to, and I should be very glad to see any of our eminent writers publish their discoveries on the same subject. In short, I would always be understood to write my papers of criticism in the spirit which Horace has expressed in these two famous lines:

-Si quid novisti rectius istis, Candidus imperti; si non, his utere mecum. Lib. I. Ep. vi. v. ult. If you have made any better remarks of your own communicate them with candour; if not, make use of these I present you with.

C.

No.263.] Tuesday, January 1, 1711-12. Gratulor quod cum quem necesse erat diligere, qualis cunque esset, talem habemus ut libenter quoque

mus.

Trebonius apud Tull.

I am glad, that he whom I must have loved from duty, whatever he had been, is such a one as I can love from inclination.

'MR. SPECTATOR,-I am the happy father of a very towardly son, in whom I do not only see my life, but also my manner of life renewed. It would be extremely beneficial to society, if you would frequently resume subjects which serve to bind these sort of relations faster, and endear the ties of blood with those of good-will, protection, observance, indulgence, and veneration. Í would, methinks, have this done after an uncommon method, and do not think any one, who is not capable of writing a good play, fit to undertake a work wherein there will necessarily occur so many secret instincts, and biases of human nature which would pass unobserved by common eyes. I thank Heaven I have no outrageous offence against my own excellent parents to answer for; but when I am now and then alone, and look back upon my past life, from my earliest infancy to this time, there are many faults which I committed that did not appear to me even until I myself became a father. I had not until then a notion of the yearnings of heart, which a man has when he sees his child do a laudable thing, or the sudden damp which seizes him when he fears he will act something unworthy. It is not to be imagined, what a remorse touched me for a long train of childish negligences of my mother, when I saw my wife the other day look out of the window, and turn as pale as ashes upon seeing my younger boy sliding upon the ice. These slight intimations will give you to understand, that there are numberlesss little crimes which children take no notice of while they are doing, which, upon reflection, when they shall themselves become fathers, they will look upon with the utmost sorrow and contrition, that they did not regard before those whom they offended were to be no more seen.

How many thousand things do I remember which would have highly pleased my father, and I omitted for no other reason, but that I thought what he proposed the effect of humour and old age, which I am now convinced had reason and good sense in it. I cannot now go into the parlour to him, and make his heart glad with an account of a matter which was of no consequence, but that I told it, and acted in it. The good man and woman are long since in their graves, who used to sit and plot the welfare of us their children, while, perhaps, we were sometimes laughing at the old folks at another end of the house. The truth of it is, were we merely to follow nature in these great duties of life, though we have a strong instinct towards the performing of them, we should be on both sides very deficient. Age is so unwelcome to the generality of mankind, and growth towards manhood so desirable to all, that resignation to decay is too difficult a task in the father; and deference, amidst the impulse

tion, and that grounded upon the principles of reason, not the impulses of instinct.

'It is from the common prejudices which men receive from their parents, that hatreds are kept alive from one generation to another; and when men act by instinct, hatreds will descend when good offices are forgot

of gay desires, appears unreasonable to the son. There are so few who can grow old with a good grace, and yet fewer who can come slow enough into the world, that a father, were he to be actuated by his desires, and a son, were he to consult himself only, could neither of them behave himself as he ought to the other. But when reason inter-ten. For the degeneracy of human life is poses against instinct, where it would carry such, that our anger is more easily transeither out of the interests of the other, there ferred to our children than our love. Love arises that happiest intercourse of good always gives something to the object it deoffices between those dearest relations of lights in, and anger spoils the person against human life. The father, according to the whom it is moved of something laudable in opportunities which are offered to him, is him; from this degeneracy, therefore, and throwing down blessings on the son, and the a sort of self-love, we are more prone to son endeavouring to appear the worthy off-take up the ill-will of our parents, than to spring of such a father. It is after this follow them in their friendships. manner that Camillus and his first-born 'One would think there should need no dwell together. Camillus enjoys a pleasing more to make men keep up this sort of reand indolent old age, in which passion is lation with the utmost sanctity, than to exsubdued, and reason exalted. He waits the amine their own hearts. If every father day of his dissolution with a resignation remembered his own thoughts and inclinamixed with delight; and the son fears the tions when he was a son, and every son reaccession of his father's fortune with dif-membered what he expected from his fidence, lest he should not enjoy or become it as well as his predecessor. Add to this, that the father knows he leaves a friend to the children of his friends, an easy landlord to his tenants, and an agreeable companion to his acquaintance. He believes his son's behaviour will make him frequently remembered, but never wanted. This commerce is so well cemented, that without the pomp of saying, "Son, be a friend to such a one when I am gone;" Camillus knows, being in his favour is direction enough to the grateful youth who is to succeed him, without the admonition of his mentioning it. 'DEAR FRANK,—If the pleasures, which These gentlemen are honoured in all their I have the grief to hear you pursue in town, neighbourhood; and the same effect which do not take up all your time, do not deny the court has on the manners of a kingdom, your mother so much of it as to read setheir characters have on all who live with-riously this letter. You said before Mr. in the influence of them.

'My son and I are not of fortune to communicate our good actions or intentions to so many as these gentlemen do; but I will be bold to say, my son has, by the applause and approbation which his behaviour towards me has gained him, occasioned that many an old man besides myself has rejoiced. Other men's children follow the example of mine, and I have the inexpressible happiness of overhearing our neighbours, as we ride by, point to their children, and say, with a voice of joy, "There they go.

'You cannot, Mr. Spectator, pass your time better than in insinuating the delights which these relations well regarded bestow upon each other. Ordinary passages are no longer such, but mutual love gives an importance to the most indifferent things, and a merit to actions the most insignificant. When we look round the world and observe the many misunderstandings which are created by the malice and insinuation of the meanest servants between people thus related, how necessary will it appear that it were inculcated that men would be upon their guard to support a constancy of affec

father, when he himself was in a state of dependence, this one reflection would preserve men from being dissolute or rigid in these several capacities. The power and subjection between them, when broken, make them more emphatically tyrants and rebels against each other, with greater cruelty of heart, than the disruption of states and empires can possibly produce. I shall end this application to you with two letters which passed between a mother and son very lately, and are as follows:

Letacre, that an old woman might live very well in the country upon half my jointure, and that your father was a fond fool to give me a rent charge of eight hundred a year to the prejudice of his son. What Letacre said to you upon that occasion, you ought to have borne with more decency, as he was your father's well-beloved servant, than to have called him a country-put. In the first place, Frank, I must tell you, I will have my rent duly paid, for I will make up to your sisters for the partiality I was guilty of, in making your father do so much as he has done for you. I may, it seems, live upon half my jointure! I lived upon much less, Frank, when I carried you from place to place in these arms, and could neither eat, dress, or mind any thing for feeding and tending you, a weakly child, and shedding tears when the convulsions you were then troubled with returned upon you. By my care you outgrew them, to throw away the vigour of your youth in the arms of harlots, and deny your mother what is not yours to detain. Both your sisters are crying to see the passion which I smother; but if you please to go on thus like a gentle

man of the town, and forget all regards to old fellow shall wear this or that sort of cut yourself and family, I shall immediately in his clothes with great integrity, while all enter upon your estate for the arrear due to me, and without one tear more, contemn you for forgetting the fondness of your mother, as much as you have the example of your father. O Frank, do I live to omit writing myself, your affectionate mother,

'A. T.' 'MADAM,-I will come down to-morrow and pay the money on my knees. Pray write so no more. I will take care you never shall, for I will be for ever hereafter your most dutiful son, F. T.

the rest of the world are degenerated into buttons, pockets, and loops unknown to their ancestors. As insignificant as even this is, if it were searched to the bottom, you perhaps would find it not sincere, but that he is in the fashion in his heart, and holds out from mere obstinacy. But I am running from my intended purpose, which was to celebrate a certain particular manner of passing away life, in contradiction to no man, but with a resolution to contract none of the exorbitant desires by which others are enslaved. The best way of sepa

I will bring down new hoods for my rating a man's self from the world, is to sisters. Pray let all be forgotten.'

T.

give up the desire of being known to it. After a man has preserved his innocence, and performed all duties incumbent upon

No. 264.] Wednesday, January 2, 1711-12. him, his time spent in his own way is what

-Secretum iter et fallentis semita vitæ.
Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xviii. 103.
ADAPTED.

makes his life differ from that of a slave. If they who affect show and pomp knew how many of their spectators derided their In public walks let who will shine or stray, trivial taste, they would be very much less I'll silent steal through life in my own way. elated, and have an inclination to examine IT has been from age to age an affectation the merit of all they have to do with: they to love the pleasure of solitude, among those would soon find out that there are many who cannot possibly be supposed qualified who make a figure below what their fortune for passing life in that manner. This people or merit entitles them to, out of mere choice, have taken up from reading the many agree- and an elegant desire of ease and disinable things which have been written on that cumbrance. It would look like romance to subject, for which we are beholden to ex- tell you in this age, of an old man who is cellent persons who delighted in being re- contented to pass for a humourist, and one tired, and abstracted from the pleasures who does not understand the figure he ought that enchant the generality of the world. to make in the world, while he lives in a This way of life, is recommended indeed lodging of ten shillings a week, with only with great beauty, and in such a manner as one servant; while he dresses himself acdisposes the reader for the time to a pleas-cording to the season in cloth or in stuff, ing forgetfulness, or negligence of the par- and has no one necessary attention to any ticular hurry of life in which he is engaged, thing but the bell which calls to prayers together with a longing for that state which twice a-day: I say it would look like a fable he is charmed with in description. But to report that this gentleman gives away all when we consider the world itself, and which is the overplus of a great fortune by how few there are capable of a religious, secret methods to other men. If he has not learned, or philosophical solitude, we shall the pomp of a numerous train, and of probe apt to change a regard to that sort of fessors of service to him, he has every day solitude, for being a little singular in enjoy- he lives the conscience that the widow, the ing time after the way a man himself likes fatherless, the mourner, and the stranger best in the world, without going so far as bless his unseen hand in their prayers. This wholly to withdraw from it. I have often humourist gives up all the compliments observed, there is not a man breathing who which people of his own condition could does not differ from all other men, as much make him, for the pleasure of helping the in the sentiments of his mind as the features afflicted, supplying the needy, and beof his face. The felicity is, when any one is friending the neglected. This humourist so happy as to find out and follow what is keeps to himself much more than he wants, the proper bent of his genius, and turn all and gives a vast refuse of his superfluities his endeavours to exert himself according to purchase heaven, and by freeing others as that prompts him. Instead of this, which from the temptations of worldly want, to is an innocent method of enjoying a man's carry a retinue with him thither. self, and turning out of the general tracks Of all men who affect living in a particuwherein you have crowds of rivals, there lar way, next to this admirable character, are those who pursue their own way out of a sourness and spirit of contradiction. These men do every thing which they are able to support, as if guilt and impunity could not go together. They choose a thing only because another dislikes it; and affect forsooth an inviolable constancy in matters of no manner of moment. Thus sometimes an

I am the most enamoured of Irus, whose condition will not admit of such largesses, and who perhaps would not be capable of making them if it were. Irus, though he is now turned of fifty, has not appeared in the world in his real character since five-andtwenty, at which age he ran out a small patrimony, and spent some time after with

rakes who had lived upon him. A course of ten years time passed in all the little alleys, by-paths, and sometimes open taverns and streets of the town, gave Irus a perfect skill in judging of the inclinations of mankind, and acting accordingly. He seriously considered he was poor, and the general horror which most men have of all who are in that condition. Irus judged very rightly, that while he could keep his poverty a secret, he should not feel the weight of it; he improved this thought into an affectation of closeness and covetousness. Upon this one principle he resolved to govern his future life; and in the thirty-sixth year of his age he repaired to Long-lane, and looked upon several dresses which hung there deserted by their first masters, and exposed to the purchase of the best bidder. At this place he exchanged his gay shabbiness of clothes fit for a much younger man, to warm ones that would be decent for a much older one. Irus came out thoroughly equipped from head to foot, with a little oaken cane, in the form of a substantial man that did not mind his dress, turned of fifty. He had at this time fifty pounds in ready money; and in this habit, with this fortune, he took his present lodging in St. John-street, at the mansion-house of a tailor's widow, who washes, and can clear-starch his bands. From that time to this he has kept the main stock, without alteration under or over to the value of five pounds. He left off all his old acquaintance to a man, and all his arts of life, except the play of back-gammon, upon which he has more than bore his charges. Irus has, ever since he came into this neighbourhood, given all the intimations he skilfully could of being a close hunks with money: nobody comes to visit him, he receives no letters, and tells his money morning and evening. He has from the public papers a knowledge of what generally passes, shuns all discourses of money, but shrugs his shoulders when you talk of securities; he denies his being rich with the air which all do who are vain of being so. He is the oracle of a neighbouring justice of the peace, who meets him at the coffee-house; the hopes that what he has must come to somebody, and that he has no heirs, have that effect wherever he is known, that he has every day three or four invitations to dine at different places, which he generally takes care to choose in such a manner as not to seem inclined to the richer man. All the young men respect him, and say he is just the same man he was when they were boys. He uses no artifice in the world, but makes use of men's designs upon him to get a maintenance out of them. This he carries on by a certain peevishness, (which he acts very well) that no one would believe could possibly enter into the head of a poor fellow. His mien, his dress, his carriage, and his language, are such, that you would be at a loss to guess whether in the active part of his life he had been a

sensible citizen, or scholar that knew the world. These are the great circumstances in the life of Irus, and thus does he pass away his days a stranger to mankind; and at his death, the worst that will be said of him will be, that he got by every man who had expectations from him, more than he had to leave him.

I have an inclination to print the following letters; for I have heard the author of them has somewhere or other seen me, and by an excellent faculty in mimickry my correspondents tell me he can assume my air, and give my taciturnity a slyness which diverts more than any thing I could say if I were present. Thus I am glad my silence is atoned for to the good company in town. He has carried his skill in imitation so far, as to have forged a letter from my friend Sir Roger in such a manner, that any one but I who am thoroughly acquainted with him, would have taken it for genuine.

'MR. SPECTATOR,-Having observed in Lilly's grammar how sweetly Bacchus and Apollo run in a verse; I have (to preserve the amity between them) called in Bacchus to the aid of my profession of the theatre. So that while some people of quality are bespeaking plays of me to be acted on such a day, and others, hogsheads for their houses against such a time; I am wholly employed in the agreeable service of wit and wine. Sir, I have sent you Sir Roger de Coverley's letter to me, which pray comply with in favour of the Bumper tavern. Be kind, for you know a player's utmost pride is the approbation of the Spectator. I am your admirer, though unknown,

RICHARD ESTCOURT.'

"To Mr. Estcourt,

At his house in Covent Garden.

'Coverley, Dec. 18, 1711. 'OLD COMICAL ONE,-The hogsheads of neat port came safe, and have gotten thee good reputation in these parts; and I am glad to hear, that a fellow who has been laying out his money ever since he was born, for the mere pleasure of wine, has bethought himself of joining profit and pleasure together. Our sexton (poor man) having received strength from thy wine since his fit of the gout, is hugely taken with it; he says it is given by nature for the use of families, and that no steward's table can be without it; that it strengthens digestion, excludes surfeits, fevers, and physic; which green wines of any kind cannot do. Pray get a pure snug room, and I hope next term to help fill your bumper with our people of the club; but you must have no bells stirring when the Spectator comes; I forbore ringing to dinner while he was down with me in the country. Thank you for the little hams and Portugal onions; pray keep some always by you. You know my supper is only good Cheshire cheese, best mustard, a golden pippin, attended with a pipe of John Sly's best. Sir Harry has stolen all