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(kind, and to think that the chief end of being as to

this life. I had these good impressions given me < from the handsome behaviour of a learned, generouls, " and wealthy man towards me, when I first began o the world. Some dissatisfaction between me and

my parents made me enter into it with less relish of

business than I ought; and to turnoff this uneasiness, " I gave myself to criminal pleasures, some excesses, " and a general loose conduct. I know not what the s excellent man above-mentioned saw in me, but h2

descended from the superiority of his wisdom and

merit, to throw himself frequently into my company. • This made ine soon hope that I had something in

me worth cultivating, and his conversation made me

sensible of satisfactions in a regular way, which I • had never before iinagined. When he was grown

familiar with me, he opened himself like a good an• gel, and told me, he had long laboured to ripen me

into a preparation to receive liis friendship and ad(vice, both which I should daily command, and the

use of any part of his fortune, to apply the measures • he should propose to me, for the improvement of my own.

I assute you, I cannot recollect the good(ness and confusion of the good man when he spoke ! to this purpose to me, without melting into tears ;

but in a word, Sir, I must hasten to tell you, that

my heart burns with gratitude towards him, and he • is so happy a man, that it can never be in my power I to return him his favours in kind, but I am sure I • have made him the most agreeable satisfaction I ( could possibly, in being ready to serve others to my ( utmost ability, as far as is consistent with the pru

dence he prescribes to me. Dear Mr, Spectator, I • do not owe to him only the good-will and esteem of

my own relations, who are people of distinction, the present ease and plenty of my circumstances, but also

the government of my passions, and regulation of my í desires. I doubt not, Sir, but in your imagination

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• such virtues as these of my worthy friend, bear as great a figure as actions which are more glittering

in the common estimation. What I would ask of • you, is to give us a whole Spectator upon heroic (virtue in common life, which may incite men to ' the same generous inclinations, as have by this ad. • mirable person been shewn to, and raised in,

« Sir,

. Your most humble servant.'



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" Mr. Spectator, • I AM a country gentleman, of a good plentiful estate, and live as the rest of my neighbours, with

great hospitality. I have ever been reckoned among ," the ladies the best company in the world, and have

access as a sort of favourite. I never came in pub- lic but I saluted them, though in great assemblies, • all around, where it was seen how genteely I • avoided hampering my spurs in their petticoats, • whilst I moved amongst them; and on the other

side how prettily they curtsied and received me, • standing in proper rows, and advancing as fast as

they saw their elders, or their betters, dispatched • by me. But so it is, Mr. Spectator, that all our "good-breeding is of late lost by the unhappy arri1 val of a courtier, or town “gentleman, who came • lately among us : this person wherever he came * into a room made a profound bow, and fell back, r then recovered with a soft air, and made a bow to • the next, and so to one or two more, and then took * the cross of the room, by passing by them in a A continued bow until he arrived at the person he • thought proper particularly to entertain. This he

did with so good a grace and assurance, that it is • taken for the present fashion : and there is no

young gentlewoman within several miles of this • place has been kissed ever since his first appear

ance among us. We country gentlemen cannot

s begin again and learn these fine and reserved airs ; • and our conversation is at a stand, until we have

your judgment for or against kissing, by way of « civility or salutation ; which is impatiently expect6 ed by your friends of both sexes, but by none so t much as

Your humble servant,


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Dec. 3, 1721, • Mr. Spectator,

I WAS the other night at Philaster, where I expected to hear your famous trunk-maker, but was unhappily disappointed of his company, and saw another person who had the like ambition to

distinguish himself in a noisy manner, partly by ( vociferation or talking loud, and partly by his bo• dily agility. This was a very lusty fellow, but • withal a sort of beau, who getting iato one of the

side-boxes on the stage before the curtain drew, was disposed to shew the whole audience his activity by leaping over the spikes; he passed from thence to one of the entering doors, where he took

snuff with a tolerable good grace, displayed his ' fine clothes, made two or three feint passes at the 6 curtain with his cane, then faced about and ap

peared at the other door: here he affected to sur

vey the whole house, bowed and smiled at random, < and then shewed his teeth, which were some of " them indeed very white : after this he retired be"hind the curtain, and obliged us with several 6 views of his person from every opening.

. During the time of acting, he appeared frequent• ly in the prince's apartment, made one at the hunt• ing-match, and was very forward in the rebellion. • If there were no injunctions to the contrary, yet • this practice must be confessed to diminish the • pleasure of the audience, and for that reason pre

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• sumptious and unwarrantable : but since her majes.

ty's late command has made it criminal, you have 6 authority to take notice of it.


« Sir,

• Your humble servant,



....Semperque relinqui
Sola sibi, semper longam incomitata videtur
Ire vian........


..........She seems alone To wander in her sleep thro' ways unknown, Guideless and dark.


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• Mr. Spectator, “ THOUGH you have considered virtuous love in o most of it's distresses, I do not remember that you • have given us any dissertation upon the absence

of lovers, or laid down any methods how they • should support themselves under those long sepa

rations which they are sometimes forced to undergo. I am at present in this unhappy circumstance, having parted with the best of husbands, who is

abroad in the service of his country, and may not • possibly return for some years. His warm and

generous affection, while we were together, with • the tenderness which he expressed to me at part• ing, make his absence almost insupportable. I " think of him every moment of the day, and meet ' him every night in my dreams. Every thing I see 'puts me in mind of him. I apply myself with

more than ordinary diligence to the care of his fa

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6 mily and his estate ; but this, instead of relieving

me, gives me but so many occasions of wishing

for his return. I frequent the rooms where I used • to converse with him, and not meeting him there, r sit down in his chair and fall a weeping. I love to 6 read the books he delighted in, and to converse 6 with the persons whom he esteemed. I visit his

picture a hundred times a day, and place myself over against it whole hours together. I pass a

great part of my time in the walks where I used to • lean upon his arm, and recollect in my mind the ( discourses which have there passed between us : I

look over the several prospects and points of view

which we used to survey together, fix my eye upon " the objects which he has made me take notice of,

and call to mind a thousand agreeable remarks r which he has made on these occasions. I write 6 to him by every conveyance, and contrary to other ' people, am always in good humour when an east, wind blows, because it seldom fails of bringing me a letter from him. Let me entreat you, Sir, to give me your advice upon this occasion, and to let me know how I may relieve myself in this my widowhood.

• I am, Sir,
• Your very humble servant,


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Absence is what the poets call death in love, and has given occasion to abundance of beautiful complaints in those authors who have treated of this

passion in verse. Ovid's Epistles are full of them. Otway's Monimia talks very tenderly on this subject.

" It was not kind
“ To leave me like a turtle, here alone,
To droop and mourn the absence of


" When thou art from me, every place is desert :

And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn.

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