C. the road, who was no conjurer, as he went | ral countries as a public minister, in which to relieve him he found his pocket was he formerly wandered as a gipsy. picked; that being a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin are very dextrous. I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks on this idle profligate people, who infest all the countries of Europe, and live in the midst of governments in a kind of commonwealth by themselves. But instead of entering into observations of this nature, I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a story which is still fresh in Holland, and was printed in one of our monthly accounts about twenty years ago. As the trekschuyt, or hackney-boat, which carries passengers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken in: which the master of the boat refused, because the lad had not quite money enough to pay the usual fare. An eminent merchant being pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with compassion towards him, paid the money for him, and ordered him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him afterwards, he found that he could speak readily in three or four languages, and learned upon farther examination that he had been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up and down several parts of Europe. It happened that the merchant, whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child some years before. The parents after a long search for him, gave him up for drowned in one of the canals with which that country abounds; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine boy, who was her only son, that she died for grief of it. Upon laying together all particulars, and examining the several moles and marks by which the mother used to describe the child when he was first missing, the boy proved to be the son of the merchant, whose heart had so unaccountably melted at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate: the father on the other hand was not a little delighted to see a son return to him, whom he had given up for lost, with such a strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding, and skill in languages.' Here the printed story leaves off; but if I may give credit to reports, our linguist having received such extraordinary rudiments towards a good education, was afterwards trained up in every thing that becomes a gentleman; wearing off by little and little all the vicious habits and practices that he had been used to in the course of his peregrinations. Nay, it is said, that he has since been employed in foreign courts upon national business, with great reputation to himself and honour to those who sent him, and that he has visited seve ་ No. 131.] Tuesday, July 31, 1711. Once more, ye woods, adieu. Virg. Ec. x. 63. It is usual for a man who loves country sports to preserve the game in his own grounds, and divert himself upon those that belong to his neighbour. My friend Sir Roger generally goes two or three miles from his house, and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before he beats about in search of a hair or partridge, on purpose to spare his own fields, where he is always sure of finding diversion, when the worst comes to the worst. By this means the breed about his house has time to increase and multiply, besides that the sport is the more agreeable where the game is the harder to come at, and where it does not lie so thick as to produce any perplexity or confusion in the pursuit. For these reasons the country gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home. In the same manner I have made a month's excursion out of the town, which is the great field of game for sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the country, where I have started several subjects, and hunted them down, with some pleasure to myself, and I hope to others. I am here forced to use a great deal of diligence before I can spring any thing to my mind, whereas in town, whilst I am following one character, it is ten to one but I am crossed in my way by another, and put up such a variety of odd creatures in both sexes, that they foil the scent of one another, and puzzle the chase. My greatest difficulty in the country is to find sport, and in town to choose it. In the mean time, as I have given a whole month's rest to the cities of London and Westminster, promise myself abundance of new game upon my return thither. It is indeed high time for me to leave the country, since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow very inquisitive after my name and character: my love of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way of life, having raised a great curiosity in all these parts. The notions which have been framed of me are various: some look upon me as very proud, some as very modest, and some as very melancholy. Will Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, observing me very much alone, and extremely silent when I am in company, is afraid I have killed a man. The country people seem to suspect me for a conjurer; and some of them hearing of the visit which I made to Moll White, will needs have it that Si Roger has brought down a cunning man with him to cure the old woman, and free the country from her charms. character which I go under in neighbourhood, is what they White Witch. So that the part of the here call a A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and is not of Sir Roger's party, has it seems said twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger does not harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he thinks the gentlemen of the country would do very well to make me give some account of myself. | Moll White, and Will Wimble. Prythee On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends are afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing fellow; and as they have heard that he converses very promis cuously when he is in town, do not know but he has brought down with him some No. 132.] Wednesday, August 1, 1711. discarded Whig, that is sullen, and says nothing because he is out of place. Such is the variety of opinions which are here entertained of me, so that I pass among some for a disaffected person, and among others for a popish priest; among some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer; and all this for no other reason that I can imagine, but because I do not hoot, and halloo, and make a noise. It is true my friend Sir Roger tells them,That t is my way,' and that I am only a philosopher; but this will not satisfy them. They think there is more in me than he discovers, and that I do not hold my tongue for nothing. Qui, aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loquitur, aut se ostentat, aut eorum quibuscum est ra tionem non habet, is ineptus esse dicitur.—Tull. That man may be called impertinent, who considers not the circumstances of time, or engrosses the conversa tion, or makes himself the subject of his discourse, or pays no regard to the company he is in. HAVING notified to my good friend Sir Roger that I should set out for London the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed hour in the evening; and, attended by one of his grooms, I arrived at the country-town at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant, who waited upon me, inquired of the cham For these and other reasons I shall set berlain in my hearing what company he had out for London to-morrow, having found for the coach? The fellow answered, 'Mrs. by experience that the country is not a Betty Arable, the great fortune, and the place for a person of my temper, who does widow her mother; a recruiting officer, not love jollity, and what they call good (who took a place because they were to neighbourhood. A man that is out of hu- go,) young 'Squire Quickset, her cousin mour when an unexpected guest breaks in (that her mother wished her to be married upon him, and does not care for sacrificing to;) Ephraim the Quaker, her guardian; an afternoon to every chance-comer, that and a gentleman that had studied himself will be the master of his own time, and the dumb, from Sir Roger de Coverley's.' I pursuer of his own inclinations, makes but observed by what he said of myself, that a very unsociable figure in this kind of life. according to his office he dealt much in inI shall therefore retire into the town, if I telligence; and doubted not but there was may make use of that phrase, and get into some foundation for his reports of the rest the crowd again as fast as I can, in order to of the company, as well as for the whimbe alone. I can there raise what specula-sical account he gave of me. The next tions I please upon others without being observed myself, and at the same time enjoy all the advantages of company, with all the privileges of solitude. In the meanwhile, to finish the month, and conclude these my rural speculations, I shall here insert a letter from my friend Will Honeycomb, who has not lived a month for these forty years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me after his way upon my country life. DEAR SPEC, I suppose this letter will find thee picking of daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in some innocent country diversion of the like nature. I have however orders from the club to summon thee up to town, being all of us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company, after thy conversations with morning at day-break we were all called; and I, who know my own natural shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I might make no one wait. The first preparation for our setting out was, that the captain's half-pike was placed near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the mean time the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very loud, 'that none of the captain's things should be placed so as to be spoiled;' upon which his cloak-bag was fixed in the seat of the coach: and the captain himself, according to a frequent, though invidious behaviour of military men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should have the place he had taken fronting the coachbox. The captain was so little out of humour, and our company was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took a particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future; and assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, apartments, and accommodation, fell under Ephraim; and the Captain looked to all disputes upon the road, as the good behaviour of our coachman, and the right we had of taking place, as going to London, of all vehicles coming from thence. The occurrences we met with were ordinary, and very little happened which could entertain by the relation of them: but when I considered the company we were in, I took it for no small good-fortune, that the whole journey was not spent in impertinences, which to one part of us might be an entertainment, to the other a suffering. What, therefore, Ephraim said, when we were almost arrived at London, had to me an air not only of good understanding, but good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim declared himself as follows:-- We were in some little time fixed in our | pertinent if thou hadst not reprimanded me. seats, an sat with that dislike which peo- Come, thou art, I see, a smoky old fellow, ple not too good-natured usually conceive and I will be very orderly' the ensuing part of each other at first sight. The coach of my journey. I was going to give myself jumbled us insensibly into some sort of fa- airs, but, ladies, I beg pardon. miliarity: and we had not moved above two iniles, when the widow asked the captain what success he had in his recruiting? "The officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, told her, that indeed he had but very little luck, and had suffered much by desertion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter. In a word,' continued he, I am a soldier, and to be plain is my character: you see me, madam, young, sound, and impudent; take me yourself, widow, or give me to her; I will be wholly at your disposal. I am a soldier of fortune, ha!'-This was followed by a vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all the rest of the company. I had nothing left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with all speed. Come,' said he, 'resolve upon it, we will make a wedding at the next town: we will wake this pleasant companion who is fallen asleep, to be the brideman; and,' giving the quaker a clap on the knee, he concluded, this sly saint, who, I will warrant, understands what is what as well as you or I, widow, shall give the bride as father.' The quaker, who happened to be a man of smartness, answered, Friend, I take it in good part that thou hast given me the authority of a There is no ordinary part of human life, father over this comely and virtuous child; which expresseth so much a good mind, and I must assure thee, that if I have the and a right inward man, as his behaviour giving her, I shall not bestow her on thee.upon meeting with strangers, especially Thy mirth, friend, savoureth of folly: thou such as may seem the most unsuitable comart a person of a light mind, thy drum is a panions to him: such a man, when he falleth type of thee, it soundeth because it is empty. in the way with persons of simplicity and Verily, it is not from thy fulness, but thy innocence, however knowing he may be in emptiness, that thou hast spoken this day. the ways of men, will not vaunt himself Friend, friend, we have hired this coach in thereof, but will the rather hide his supepartnership with thee, to carry us to the riority to them, that he may not be painful great city; we cannot go any other way. unto them. My good friend,' continued he, This worthy mother must hear thee, if thou turning to the officer, 'thee and I are to wilt needs utter thy follies; we cannot help part by and by, and peradventure we may it; friend, I say: if thou wilt, we must hear never meet again: but be advised by a plain thee; but if thou wert a man of understand-man; modes and apparel are but trifles to ing, thou wouldst not take advantage of thy courageous countenance to abash us children of peace. Thou art, thou sayest, a soldier; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. Why didst thou fleer at our friend, who feigned himself asleep? He said nothing; but how dost thou know what he containeth? If thou speakest improper things in the hearing of this virtuous young virgin, consider it as an outrage against a distressed person that cannot get from thee: to speak indiscreetly what we are obliged No. 133.] Thursday, August 2, 1711. to hear, by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in some degree assaulting on the high road.' Here Ephraim paused, and the Captain, with a happy and uncommon impudence, (which can be convicted and support itself at the same time,) cries, Faith, friend, I thank thee; I should have been a little im the real man, therefore do not think such a Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus THERE is a sort of delight, which is alternately mixed with terror and sorrow, in the world, of noble and heroic minds that have resigned this being, as if the termination of life were but an ordinary occurrence of it. This common-place way of thinking I fell into from an awkward endeavour to throw off a real and fresh affliction, by turning over books in a melancholy mood; but it is not easy to remove griefs which touch the heart, by applying remedies which only entertain the imagination. As therefore this paper is to consist of any thing which concerns human life, I cannot help letting the present subject regard what has been the last object of my eyes, though an entertainment of sorrow. the contemplation of death. The soul has he expressed himself in his manner. This its curiosity more than ordinarily awaken-is not the end of my life. my fellow-soldiers; ed, when it turns its thoughts upon the con- it is now your Epami ondas is born, who duct of such who have behaved themselves dies in so much glory. with an equal, a resigned, a cheerful, a ge- It were an endless labour to collect the nerous or heroic temper in that extremity.accounts, with which all ages have filled We are affected with these respective manners of behaviour, as we secretly believe the part of the dying person imitable by ourselves, or such as we imagine ourselves more particularly capable of. Men of exalted minds march before us like princes, and are, to the ordinary race of mankind, rather subjects for their admiration than example. However, there are no ideas strike more forcibly upon our imaginations, than those which are raised from reflections upon the exits of great and excellent men. Innocent men who have suffered as criminals, though they were benefactors to human society, seem to be persons of the highest distinction, among the vastly greater number of human race, the dead. When the iniquity of the times brought Socrates to his execution, how great and wonderful is it to behold him, unsupported by any thing but the testimony of his own conscience, and conjectures of hereafter, receive the poison with an air of mirth and good humour, and as if going on an agreeable journey, bespeak some deity to make it fortunate. When Phocion's good actions had met with the like reward from his country, and he was led to death with many others of his friends, they bewailing their fate, he walking composedly towards the place of execution, how gracefully does he support his illustrious character to the very last instant! One of the rabble spitting at him as he passed, with his usual authority he called to know if no one was ready to teach this fellow how to behave himself. When a poor-spirited creature that died at the same time for his crimes, bemoaned himself unmanfully, he rebuked him with this question, Is it no consolation to such a man as thou art to die with Phocion?" At the instant when he was to die, they asked what commands he had for his son? he answered, To forget this injury of the Athenians.' Niocles, his friend, under the same sentence, desired he might drink the potion before him: Phocion said, Because, he never had denied him any thing, he would not even this, the most difficult request he had ever made." I went this evening to visit a friend, with a design to rally him, upon a story I had heard of his intending to steal a marriage without the privity of us his intimate friends and acquaintance. I came into his apartment with that intimacy which I have done for very many years, and walked directly into his bed-chamber, where I found my friend in the agonies of death.-What could I do? The innocent mirth in my thoughts struck upon me like the most flagitious wickedness: I in vain called upon him; he was senseless, and too far spent to have the least knowledge of my sorrow, or any pain in himself. Give me leave then to transcribe my soliloquy, as I stood by his mother, dumb with the weight of grief for a son who was her honour and her comfort, and never till that hour since his birth had been an occasion of a moment's sorrow to her. How surprising is this change! From the possession of vigorous life and strength, to be reduced in a few hours to this fatal extremity! Those lips which look so pale and livid, within these few days gave delight to all who heard their utterance: it was the business, the purpose of his being, next to obeying Him to whom he is gone, to please, and instruct, and that for no other end but to please and instruct. Kindness was the motive of his actions, and with all the capacity requisite for making a figure in a contentious world, moderation, goodnature, affability, temperance, and chastity, These instances were very noble and were the arts of his excellent life.-There, great, and the reflections of those sublime as he lies in helpless agony, no wise man spirits had made death to them what it is who knew him so well as I, but would rereally intended to be by the Author of na- sign all the world can bestow to be so near ture, a relief from a various being, ever the end of such a life. Why does my heart subject to sorrows and difficulties. so little obey my reason as to lament thee, Epaminondas, the Theban general, hav-thou excellent man?-Heaven receive him ing received in fight a mortal stab with a sword, which was left in his body, lay in that posture till he had intelligence that his troops had obtained the victory, and then permitted it to be drawn out, at which instant or restore him!-Thy beloved mother, thy obliged friends, thy helpless servants, stand around thee without distinction. How much wouldst thou, hadst thou thy senses, say to each of us: But now that good heart bursts, and he | I never fail of being highly diverted or im· is at rest. With that breath expired a soul proved. The variety of your subjects surwho never indulged a passion unfit for the prises me as much as a box of pictures did place he is gone to. Where are now thy formerly, in which there was only one face, plans of justice, of truth, of honour? Of that by pulling some pieces of isinglass over what use the volumes thou hast collated, it, was changed into a grave senator or a the arguments thou hast invented, the ex- Merry-Andrew, a patched lady or a nun, amples thou hast followed? Poor were the a beau or a blackamoor, a prude or a coexpectations of the studious, the modest, quette, a country 'squire or a conjurer, and the good, if the reward of their labours with many other different representations were only to be expected from man. No, very entertaining, (as you are,) though still my friend, thy intended pleadings, thy in- the same at the bottom. This was a childish tended good offices to thy friends, thy in- amusement, when I was carried away with tended services to thy country, are already outward appearance, but you make a deeper performed (as to thy concern in them,) impression, and affect the secret springs of in his sight, before whom, the past, pre- the mind; you charm the fancy, soothe the sent, and future appear at one view. While passions, and insensibly lead the reader to others with thy talents were tormented that sweetness of temper that you so well with ambition, with vain-glory, with envy, describe; you rouse generosity with that with emulation, how well didst thou turn spirit, and inculcate humanity with that thy mind to its own improvement in things ease, that he must be miserably stupid that out of the power of fortune; in probity, in is not affected by you. not affected by you. I cannot say, in integrity, in the practice and study of jus- deed, that you have put impertinence to tice! How silent thy passage, how private silence, or vanity out of countenance; but, thy journey, how glorious thy end! Many methinks you have bid as fair for it as any have I known more famous, some more man that ever appeared upon a public knowing, not one so innocent. R. stage; and offer an infallible cure of vice and folly, for the price of one penny, And since it is usual for those who receive benefit by such famous operators, to publish an advertisement, that others may reap the same advantage, I think myself obliged to declare to all the world, that having for a long time been splenetic, ill-natured, fro ward, suspicious, and unsociable, by the application of your medicines, taken only with half an ounce of right Virginia tobacco, for six successive mornings, I am become open, obliging, officious, frank and hospitable. I am, your humble servant and great admirer, No. 134.] Friday, August 3, 1711. Dicor- Tower-hill, July 5, 1711. 'SIR,-Your saying the other day there is something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who please them, makes me in pain that I am not a man in power. If I were, you should soon see how much I approve your speculations. In the mean time, I beg leave to supply that inability with the empty tribute of an honest mind, by telling you plainly I love and thank you for your daily refreshments. I constantly peruse your paper as I smoke my morning's pipe, (though I cannot forbear reading the motto before I fill and light,) and really it gives a grateful relish to every whiff; each paragraph is fraught either with useful or delightful notions, and * Quack Doctors. GEORGE TRUSTY.' The careful father and humble petitioner hereafter-mentioned, who are under difficulties about the just management of fans, will soon receive proper advertisements relating to the professors in that behalf, with their places of abode and methods of teaching. ‘July 5, 1711. 'SIR,-In your Spectator of June 27th, you transcribe a letter sent to you from a new sort of muster-master, who teaches ladies the whole exercise of the fan; I have a daughter just come to town, who though she has always held a fan in her hand at proper times, yet she knows no more how to use it according to true discipline than an awkward school-boy does to make use of his new sword. I have sent for her on purpose to learn the exercise, she being already very well accomplished in all other arts which are necessary for a young lady to understand; my request is, that you will speak to your correspondent on my behalf, and in your next paper let me know what he expects, either by the month or the quarter, for teaching: and where he keeps his place of rendezvous. I have a son, too, |