come yesterday, an' it had no' been that th'awld weazle-belly horfe tired: and then we were fo cruelly loaden, that the two forewheels came crath down at once, in Waggon-rut-lane, and there we lost four hours 'fore we could fet things to rights again. Manly. So they bring all their baggage with the coach, then?

Moody. Ay, ay, and good flore on't there is-Why, my lady's gear alone were as much as filled four po mantel trunks, befides the great deal box that heavy Ralph and the monkey fit upon behind.

Manly. Ha, ha, ha!-And, pray, how many are they within the coach?

Moody. Why there's my lady and his worthip, and the younk 'fquoire, and Mifs Jenny, and the fat lap-dog, and my lady's maid Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook, that's all-only Doll puked a little with riding backward; fo they hoifted her into the coach-box, and then her ftomach was cafy.

Marly. Ha, ha, ha!

Moody. Then you mun think, Meafter, there was fome ftowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; children are apt to be famifh'd upo' the road; fo we had fuch cargoes of plumb cake, and bafkets of tongues, and bifcuits, and cheese, and cold boil'd beef and then, in cafe of fickness, bottles of cherry-brandy, plague-water, fack, tent, and ftrong beer fo plenty, as made th' awld coach crack again. Mercy upon them! and fend them all well to town, I say.

Manly. Ay, and well out on't again, John. Moody. Meafter! you're a wife mon! and, for that matter, fo am I-Wheam's whoam, I fay: I am fure we ha' got but little good e'er fin' we turn'd our backs on't. Nothing but mischief! fome devil's trick or other plagued us aw th' day lung. Crack, goes one thing! bawnee, goes another! Woa! fays Roger-Then, lowfe! we are all fet faft in a flough. Whaw! cries Mifs: Scream! go the maids; and bawl juft as thof' they were ftuck. And fo, mercy on us! this was the trade from morning to night.

Manly. Ha, ha, ha!

Moody. But I mun hie me whoam; the coach will be coming every hour naw.

Manly. Well, honest John --Moody. Dear Meafier Manly! the goodnefs of goodness blefs and preferve you! § 30. Directions for the Management of

Wit.

If you have wit (which I am not fure

that I with you, unless you have at the fame time at least an equal portion of judgment to keep it in good order) wear it, like your ford, in the fcabbard, and do not blandith it to the terror of the whole company. Wit is a fhining quality, that every body admires; moit people aim at it, all people fear it, and few love it, unless in themfives: a man inuit have a good fhare of wit himself, to endure a great share in another. When wit exerts itself in fatire, it is a moit malignant dilemper: wit, it is true, may be thewn in fatire, but fatire does not conftitute wit, as many imagine. A man of wit ought to find a thousand better occafions of thewing it.

Abflain, therefore, moit carefully from fatire; which, though it fall on no particu lar perfon in company, and momentarily, from the malignancy of the human heart, pleafes all; yet, upon reflection, it frightens all too. Every one thinks it may be his turn next; and will hate you for what he finds you could say of him, more than be obliged to you for what you do not fay. Fear and hatred are next-door neigh bours: the more wit you have, the more good-nature and politenefs you must fhew, to induce people to pardon your fuperiority; for that is no eafy matter.

Appear to have rather lefs than more wit than you really have. A wife man will live at least as inuch within his wit as his income. Content yourfelf with good fenfe and reafon, which at the long run are ever fure to pleafe every body who has either; if wit comes into the bargain, welcome it, but never invite it. Bear this truth always in your mind, that you may be admired for your wit, if you have any; but that nothing but good fenfe and good qualities can make you be beloved. Thele are fubftantial every day's wear: whereas wit is a holiday-fuit, which people put on chiefly to be stared at.

There is a fpecies of minor wit, which is much ufed, and much more abused; I mean raillery. It is a moft mifchievoas and dangerous weapon, when in unskilfu and clumty hands; and it is much fafer to let it quite alone than to play with it; and yet almost every body plays with it, though they fee daily the quarrels and heart-burnings that it occafions.

The injuflice of a bad man is fooner forgiven than the infults of a witty one; the former only hurts one's liberty and property; but the latter hurts and mortifies that fecret pride which no human breaft is free from. I will allow, that there is a

fort

fort of raillery which may not only be inoffenfive, but even flattering; as when, by a genteel irony, you accufe people of those in perfections which they are moft notorioutly free from, and confequently infinuate that they pollet's the contrary virtues. You may fat i call Ariitides a knave, or a very handsome woman an ugly one. Take care, however, that neither the man's character nor the lady's beauty be in the leaft ul. But this fort of raillery requires very light and steady hand to administer A little too long, it may be mistaken into an offence; and a little too fmooth, it may be thought a fneer, which is a moft odious thing.

2

There is another fort, I will not call it wit, but merriment and buffoonery, which i mimicry. The most fuccefsful mimic in the world is always the most abfurd fellow, and an ape is infinitely his fuperior. His profesion is to imitate and ridicule thofe natural defects and deformities for which no man is in the leaft accountable, and in the imitation of which he makes himicif, for the time, as difagreeable and hocking as thofe he mimics. But I will fay no more of thefe creatures, who only amufe the loweft rabble of mankind.

There is another fort of human animals, called wags, whofe profeffion is to make the company laugh immoderately; and who always fucceed, provided the company confit of fools; but who are equally difappointed in finding that they never can alter a mufcle in the face of a man of fenfe. This is a moft contemptible character, and never esteemed, even by thofe who are filly enough to be diverted by them.

Be content for yourself with found good fenfe and good manners, and let wit be thrown into the bargain, where it is proper and inoffenfive. Good fenfe will make you cheemed; good manners will make you beloved; and wit will give a luftre to Chesterfield.

both.

$31. Egctifm to be avoided. The egotifin is the moft ufual and fa vourite figure of most people's rhetoric, and which I hope you will never adopt, but, on the contrary, molt fcrupulously avoid. Nothing is more difagreeable or irktome to the company, than to hear a man either praising or condemning himfelf; for both proceed from the fame motive, vanity. I would allow no man to speak of himself unless in a court of juftice, in his own defence, or as a witnefs.

Shall a man fpeak in his own praife? No: the hero of his own little tale always puzzles and diguts the company; who do not know what to fay, or how to look. Shall he blame himself? No: vanity is as much the motive of his condemnation as of his panegyric.

I have known many people take shame to themselves, and, with a modest contrition, confefs themselves guilty of molt of the cardinal virtues. They have fuch a weakness in their nature, that they cannot help being too much moved with the miffortunes and miteries of their fellow-creatures; which they feel perhaps more, but at least as much as they do their own. Their generofity, they are fenfible, is imprudence; for they are apt to carry it too far, from the weak, the irrefiitible benefi cence of their nature. They are poffibly too jealous of their honour, too irafcible when they think it is touched; and this proceeds from their unhappy warm conftitution, which makes them too fenfible upon that point; and fo poffibly with refpect to all the virtues. A poor trick, and a wretched inftance of human vanity, and what defeats its own purpose.

Do you be fure never to speak of yourfelf, for yourself, nor against yourself; but let your character fpeak for you: whatever that fays will be believed; but whatever you fay of it will not be believed, and only make you odious and ridiculous.

I know that you are generous and benevolent in your nature; but that, though the principal point, is not quite enough; you must feem fo too. I do not mean oftentatiously; but do not be ashamed, as many young fellows are, of owning the laudable fentiments of good-nature and humanity, which you really feel. I have known many young men, who defired to be reckoned men of fpirit, affect a hardnefs and unfeelingness which in reality they never had; their converfation is in the decifive and menacing tone, mixed with horrid and filly oaths; and all this to be thought men of fpirit. Aftonishing error this! which natnrally reduces them to this dilemma: If they really mean what they fay, they are brutes; and if they do not, they are fools for faying it. This, however, is a common character among young men; carefully avoid this contagion, and content yourself with being calmly and mildly refolute and fteady, when you are thoroughly convinced you are in the right; for this is true fpirit.

Obferve

Obferve the à-propos in every thing you fay or do. In converfing with thofe who are much your fuperiors, however eafy and familiar you may and ought to be with them, preferve the refpect that is due to them. Converfe with your equals with an eafy familiarity, and, at the fame time, great civility and decency: but too much familiarity, according to the old faying, often breeds contempt, and fometimes quarrels. I know nothing more difficult in common behaviour, than to fix due bounds to familiarity: too little implies an unfociable formality; too much deftroys friendly and focial intercourfe. The best rule I can give you to manage familiarity is, never to be more familiar with any body than you would be willing, and even with, that he fhould be with you. On the other hand, avoid that uncomfortable referve and coldness which is generally the hield of cunning or the protection of dulnefs. To your inferiors you fhould ufe a hearty benevolence in your words and actions, inftead of a refined politenefs, which would be apt to make them fufpect that you rather laughed at them.

Carefully avoid all affectation either of body or of mind. It is a very true and a very trite obfervation, That no man is ridiculous for being what he really is, but for affecting to be what he is not. No man is awkward by nature, but by affecting to be genteel. I have known many a man of common fenfe pafs generally for a fool, because he affected a degree of wit that nature had denied him. A plowman is by no means awkward in the exercife of his trade, but would be exceedingly ridiculous, if he attempted the air and graces of a man of fashion. You learned to dance; but it was not for the fake of dancing; it was to bring your air and motions back to what they would naturally have been, if they had had fair play, and had not been warped in youth by bad examples, and awkward imitations of other boys.

Nature may be cultivated and improved both as to the body and the mind; but it is not to be extinguifhed by art; and all endeavours of that kind are abfurd, and an inexpreffible fund for ridicule. Your body and mind must be at eafe to be agreeable; but affectation is a particular reftraint, under which no man can be genteel in his carriage or pleafing in his converfation. Do you think your motions would be eafy or graceful, if you wore the cloaths of an

other man much flenderer or taller thart yourfelf? Certainly not: it is the fame thing with the mind, if you affect a character that does not fit you, and that nature never intended for you.

In fine, it may be laid down as a general rule, that a man who defpairs of pleafing will never please; a man that is fure that he fhall always pleafe wherever he goes, is a coxcomb; but the man who hopes and endeavours to please, will most infallibly please. Chefterfield.

32. Extract from Lord BOLINGBROKE'S

My Lord,

Letters.

1736. You have engaged me on a fubject which interrrupts the series of those letters I was writing to you; but it is one which, I confefs, I have very much at heart. I fhall therefore explain myself fully, nor bluth to reafon on principles that are out of fashion among men who intend nothing by ferving the public, but to feed their avarice, their vanity, and their luxury, without the sense of any duty they owe to God or man.

It seems to me, that in order to maintain the moral system of the world at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made capable of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but however fufficient, upon the whole, to conftitute a fate eafy and happy, or at the worst tolerable; I fay, it seems to me, that the Author of nature has thought fit to mingle from time to time among the fo cieties of men, a few, and but a few, of thofe on whom he is graciously pleased to bestow a larger proportion of the ethereal fpirit, than is given in the ordinary courfe of his providence to the fons of men. Thefe are they who engross almoft the whole reafon of the fpecies, who are born to inftruct, to guide, and to preferve, who are defigned to be the tutors and the guardians of human kind. When they prove fuch, they exhibit to us examples of the highest virtue and the trueft piety; and they deferve to have their feftivals kept, inftead of that pack of anchorites and enthufiafts, with whofe names the Calendar is crowded and difgraced. When thefe men apply their talents to other purposes, when they ftrive to be great, and defpife being good, they commit a molt facrilegious breach of trufl; they pervert the means, they defeat, as far as lies in them, the defigns of Providence, and difturb, in fome fort, the fyftem of In

finite Wisdom. To mifapply thefe talents is the moft diffufed, and therefore the greateft of crimes in its nature and confequences; but to keep them unexerted and unemployed, is a crime too. Look about you, my Lord, from the palace to the cottage, you will find that the bulk of man. kind is made to breathe the air of this atmofphere, to roam about this globe, and to confume, like the courtiers of Alcinous, the fruits of the earth. Nos numerus fumus fruges confumere nati. When they have trod this infipid round a certain number. of years, and left others to do the fame after them, they have lived; and if they have perfo.med, in fome tolerable degree, the ordinary moral duties of life, they have done all they were born to do. Look about you again, my Lord, nay, look into your own breaft, and you will find that there are fuperior fpirits, men who fhew, even from their infancy, though it be not always perceived by others, perhaps not always felt by themfelves, that they were born for fomething more, and better. Thefe are the men to whom the part I mentioned is affigned; their talents denote their general defignation, and the opportaaities of conforming themfelves to it, that arife in the courfe of things, or that are prefented to them by any circumstances ofrank and fituation in the fociety to which they belong, denote the particular vocation which it is not lawful for them to refitt, nor even to negle&t. The duration of the lives of fuch men as thefe is to be determined, I think, by the length and importance of the parts they act, not by the number of years that pafs between their coming into the world and their going out of it. Whether the piece be of three or five acts, the part may be long; and he who fuftains it through the whole, may be faid to die in the fulness of years; whilft he who declines it fooner, may be faid not to live out half his days.

that had been hitherto barren, appeared on a fudden laden with a vast quantity of crabs: this fign alfo the old gentleman imagined to be a prognoftic of the acutenefs of his wit. A great fwarm of wafps played round his cradle without hurting him, but were very troublefome to all in the room befides. This feemed a certain prefage of the effects of his fatire. A dunghill was feen within the space of one night to be covered all over with mushrooms: this fome interpreted to promise the infant great fertility of fancy, but no long duration to his works; but the father was of another opinion.

But what was of all moft wonderful, was a thing that seemed a monftrous fowl, which juft then dropped through the fkylight, near his wife's apartment. It had a large body, two little difproportioned wings, a prodigious tail, but no head. As its colour was white, he took it at firft fight for a fwan, and was concluding his fon would be a post; but on a nearer view he perceived it to be fpeckled with black, in the form of letters; and that it was indeed a paper-kite which had broke its leafh by the impetuofity of the wind. His back was armed with the art military, his belly was filled with phyfic, his wings were the wings of Quarles and Withers, the feveral nodes of his voluminous tail were diverfified with feveral branches of fcience; where the Doctor beheld with great joy a knot of logic, a knot of metaphyfic, a knot of cafuittry, a knot of polemical divinity, and a knot of common law, with a lanthorn of Jacob Behmen.

There went a report in the family, that as foon as he was born, he uttered the voice of nine feveral animals: he cried like a calf, bleated like a fheep, chattered like a magpye, grunted like a hog, neighed like a foal, croaked like a raven, mewed like a cat, gabbled like a goofe, and brayed like an afs; and the next morning he was found playing in his bed with two

LERUS.

father was greatly rejoiced at all the fe figns, which betokened the variety of his eloquence, and the extent of his learning; but he was more particularly pleafed with the laft, as it nearly refembled what happened at the birth of Homer.

The Doctor and his Shield.

The day of the chriftening being come, and the house filled with golips, the levity of whofe converfation fuited but ill with

3 H

the