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ements, with the snow driving in his face, and the tempest howling in his ears. Such are the colours in which Marvel paints his ad ventures. He has accustomed himself to sounding words and hyperbolical images, till he has lost the power of true description. In a road through which the heaviest carriages pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every day and night goes and returns, he meets with hardships like those which are endured in Siberian deserts, and misses nothing of romantic danger but a giant and a dragon. When his dreadful story is told in proper terms, it is only that the way was dirty in winter, and that he experienced the common vicissitudes of rain and sunshine.

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THE character of Mr. Marvel has raised the merriment of some and the contempt of others, who do not sufficiently consider how often they hear and practise the same arts of exaggerated narration. There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes of all conditions that swarm upon the earth, a single man who does not believe that he has something extraordinary to relate of himself; and who does not, at one time or other, summon the attention of his friends to the casualties of his adventures, and the vicissitudes of his fortune; casualties and vicissitudes that happen alike in lives uniform and diversified; to the commander of armies, and the writer at a desk; to the sailor who resigns himself to the wind and water, and the farmer whose longest journey is to the market. In the present state of the world man may pass through Shakespeare's seven stages of life, and meet nothing singular or wonderful. But such is every man’s attention to himself, that what is common and unheeded when it is only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar when we happen to feel it. It is well enough known to be according to the usual process of nature that men should sicken and recover, that some designs should succeed and others miscarry, that friends should be separated and meet again, that some should be made angry by endeavours to please them, and some be pleased when no eare has been used to gain their approbation; that men and women should àt first come together by chance, like each other so well as to commence acquaintance, improve acquaintance into fondness, increase or extinguish fondness by marriage, and have children of different degrees of intellects and virtue, some of whom die before their parents, and others survive them. Yet let any man tell his own story, and nothing of all this has ever befallen him, according to the common order of things; something has always discriminated his case; some unusual concurrence of events has appeared which made him more happy or more miserable than other mortals; for in pleasures or calamities, however common, every one has comforts and afflictions of his own. It is certain that without some sufficient augmentations, many of the pleasures of life, and almost all its

embellishments, would fall to the ground. If no man
was to express more delight than he felt, those who
felt most would raise little envy. If travellers were to
describe the most laboured performances of art with
the same coldness as they survey them, all expecta-
tions of happiness from change of place would cease.
The pictures of Raphael would hang without specta-
tors, and the gardens of Versailles might be inhabit-
ed by hermits. All the pleasure that is received ends
in an opportunity of splendid falsehood, in the power
of gaining notice by the display of beauties which the
eye was weary of beholding, and a history of happy
moments, of which, in reality, the most happy was
the last.
The ambition of superior sensibility and superior el-
oquence disposes the lovers of arts to receive rapture
at one time, and communicate it at another; and each
labours first to impose upon himself, and then to prop-
agate the imposture.
Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices of ex-
pression. The torments of disease, and the grief for
irremediable misfortunes, sometimes are such as no
words can declare, and can only be signified by groans,
or sobs, or inarticulate ejaculations. Man has from
nature a mode of utterance peculiar to pain; but he
has none peculiar to pleasure, because he never has
pleasure but in such degrees as the ordinary use of
language may equal or surpass.
It is nevertheless certain, that many pains as well
as pleasures are heightened by rhetorical affectation,
and that the picture is, for the most part, bigger than
the life.
When we describe our sensations of another's sor-
rows, either in friendly or ceremonious condolence,

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the customs of the world scarcely admit of rigid veracity. Perhaps the fondest friendship would enrage of. tener than comfort, were the tongue on such occasions faithfully to represent the sentiments of the heart; and I think the strictest moralists allow forms of address to be used without much regard to their literal acceptation, when either respect or tenderness requires them, because they are universally known to denote not the degree but the species of our sentiments.

But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to him who aggravates dangers incurred or sorrow endured by himself, because he darkens the prospect of futurity, and multiplics the pains of our condition by useless terrour. Those who magnify their delights are less criminal deceivers, yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disappointed. It would be undoubtedly best, if we could see and hear every thing as it is, that nothing may be too anxiously dreaded, or too ardently pursued.

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IT has been commonly remarked, that eminent ons are least eminent at home, that bright characters lose much of their splendour at a nearer view, and many who fill the world with their fame, excite very little reverence among those that surround them in their domestick privacies. To blame or suspect is easy and natural. When the fact is evident, and the case doubtful, some accusa

tion is always engendered between idleness and malignity. This disparity of general and familiar esteem is therefore imputed to hidden vices, and to practices indulged in secret, but carefully covered from the publick eye. Vice will indeed always produce contempt. The dignity of Alexander, though nations fell prostrate before him, was certainly held in little veneration by the partakers of his midnight revels, who had seen him, in the madness of wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Persian palace at the instigation of a harlot; and it is well remembered among us, that the avarice of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his wife, while he was dreaded by France as her conqueror, and honoured by the emperor as his deliverer. But though where there is vice there must be want of reverence, it is not reciprocally true, that where there is want of reverence there is always vice. That awe which great actions or abilities impress will be inevitably diminished by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or criminal should be found. Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge according to our knowledge. When we see of a hero only his battles, or of a writer only his books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their greatness. We consider the one only as the guardian of his country, and the other only as the instructor of mankind. We have neither opportunity nor motive to examine the minuter parts of their lives, or the less apparent peculiarities of their characters; we name them with habitual respect, and forget, what we still continue to know, that they are men like other mortals. But such is the constitution of the world, that much of life must be spent in the same manner by the wise

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