mind. I know very well that a certain gravity of countenance sets some stories off to advantage, where the hearer is to be surprised in the end. But this is by no means a general rule; for it is frequently convenient to aid and assist by cheerful looks and whimsical agitations (movements of the body). I will go yet further, and affirm that the success of a story very often depends upon the make of the body, and the formation of the features of him who relates it. I have been of this opinion ever since I criticised upon the chin of Dick Dewlap. I very often had the weakness to repine at the prosperity of his conceits, which made him pass for a wit with the widow at the coffee-house, and the ordinary mechanics that frequent it, nor could I myself forbear laughing at them most heartily, though upon examination, I thought most of them very flat and insipid. I found, after some time, that the merit of his wit was founded upon the shaking of a fat paunch (belly), and the tossing up of a pair of rosy jowls (cheeks). Poor Dick had a fit of sickness, which robbed him of his fat and his fame1 at once, and it was full three months before he regained his reputation, which rose in proportion to his floridity (freshness of colour). He is now very jolly and ingenious, and hath a good constitution for wit.

Those who are thus adorned with the gifts of nature, are apt to show their parts with too much ostentation. I would therefore advise all the professors of this art never to tell stories but as they seem to grow out of the subject-matter of the conversation, or as they serve to illustrate or enliven it. Stories that are very common are generally irksome 3 (wearisome); but may be aptly introduced provided they be only hinted at and mentioned by way of allusion. Those that are altogether new, should never be ushered in without a short and pertinent character of the chief persons concerned, because, by that means, you may make the company acquainted with them; and it is a

(1) His fat and his fume. The alliteration here helps the expression considerably, and makes an amusing play upon words, being itself " witty."

(2) Subject-matter. This unnecessary compound still holds, and has long held, its place in our authors; notwithstanding the violent attack made upon it nearly a century ago. A writer in the London Magazine, in 1770, thus denounces it:— "This subject-matter!' In the name of everything that is disgusting and detestable, what is it? Is it one or two ugly words? What is the meaning of it ? Con. found me if ever I could guess! Yet one dares hardly ever peep into a preface for fear of being stared in the face by this nasty 'subject-matter!""

(3) Irksome. See note 3, p. 64. It is not quite correctly used above. Labou. is irksome (or worksome); stories may be wearisome.

certain rule, that slight and trivial accounts of those who are familiar to us, administer more mirth than the brightest points of wit in (in regard to) unknown characters. A little circumstance in the dress or complexion of the man you are talking of, sets his image before the hearer, if it be chosen aptly for the story. Thus, I remember Tom Liyard, after having made his sisters merry with an account of a formal old man's way of complimenting, owned very frankly that his story would not have been worth one farthing, if he had made the hat of him whom he represented one inch narrower. Besides the marking distinct characters, and selecting pertinent circumstances, it is likewise necessary to leave off in time, and end smartly, so that there is a kind of drama in the forming of a story; and the manner of conducting and pointing it is the same as in an epigram. It is a miserable thing, after one hath raised the expectation of the company by humorous characters and a pretty conceit, to pursue the matter too far. There is no retreating; and how poor is it for a story-teller to end his relation by saying "That's all!”

As the telling of stories is a great help and life to conversation, I always encourage them if they are pertinent and innocent, in opposition to those gloomy mortals who disdain everything but matter of fact. Those grave fellows are my aversion, who sift everything with the utmost nicety, and find the malignity of a lie in a piece of humour pushed a little beyond exact truth. I likewise have a poor opinion of those who have got a trick of keeping a steady countenance, that cock their hats and look glum when a pleasant thing is said, and ask, "Well, and what then?" Men of wit and parts should treat one another with benevolence, and I will lay it down as a maxim, that if you seem to have a good opinion of another man's wit, he will allow you to have judgment.

2. THE GLORIES OF POETRY.

(FROM "THE GUARDIAN," PUBLISHED IN 1713.)

Ir is probable the first poets were found at the altar, that they employed their talents in adorning and animating the worship of their gods; the spirit of poetry and religion reci

1

(1) Poetry, poesy. Some persons affect to find a distinction in the use of these words; but it may be truly said it is a distinction without a difference--they mean precisely the same thing. The latter was, in the O.E. stage, the pet word, though poetry was still found, as in Elyot.

procally warmed each other-devotion inspired poetry, and poetry exalted devotion; the most sublime capacities were put to the most noble use; purity of will and fineness of understanding, were not such strangers as they have been in latter ages, but were most frequently lodged in the same breast, and went, as it were, hand in hand to the glory of the world's great Ruler and the benefit of mankind.

Were it modest, I should profess myself a great admirer of poesy; but that profession is in effect telling the world that I have a heart tender and generous, a heart that can swell with the joys, or be depressed with the misfortunes, of others, nay more, even of imaginary persons; a heart large enough to receive the greatest ideas nature can suggest, and delicate enough to relish the most beautiful; it is desiring mankind to believe that I am capable of entering into all those subtle graces, and all that divine elegance, the enjoyment of which is to be felt only, and not expressed.

All kinds of poesy are amiable; 2 but sacred poesy should be our most especial delight. Other poetry leads us through flowery meadows, or beautiful gardens; refreshes us with cooling breezes or delicious fruits, soothes us with the murmur of waters or the melody of birds, or else conveys us to the court or camp, dazzles our imagination with crowns and sceptres, embattled hosts or heroes shining in burnished steel; but sacred numbers seem to admit us into a solemn and magnificent temple, they encircle us with everything that is holy and divine, they superadd an agreeable awe and reverence to all those pleasing emotions we feel from other lays, an awe and reverence that exalts while it chastises; its sweet authority restrains each undue liberty of thought, word, and action: it makes us think better and more nobly of ourselves, from a consciousness of the great presence we are in, where saints surround us and angels are our fellow-worshippers.

Besides the greater pleasure which we receive from sacred poesy, it has another vast advantage above all other; when it has placed us in that imaginary temple (of which I just now spoke), methinks the mighty genius of the place covers us

(1) See note, p. 243.

(2) Amiable. See note 2, p. 95.

(3) Chastises seems here simply to mean restrains. The emotion excited by poetry elevates the soul, and in this mood it might become presumptuous; but it is then restrained by the reflex action of the same feeling. The beauty of expression in this passage fully justifies what was said generally (p. 241) of Steele's merits as a writer.

with an invisible hand, and secures us in the enjoyments we possess. We find a kind of refuge in our pleasure, and our diversion becomes our safety. Why, then, should not every heart that is addicted to the Muses, cry out in the holy warmth of the best poet that ever lived, "I will magnify thee, O Lord my King, and I will praise thy name for ever and ever?"

JOSEPH ADDISON.2

1. SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT CHURCH.

(FROM THE "SPECTATOR," PUBLISHED IN 1710.)

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit cloth, and railed in the communion table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular, and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common Prayer-Book; and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms, upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.1

(1) We find a kind of refuge... safety. Exquisitely expressed.

(2) "His (Addison's) sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison."—Johnson, Life of Addison.

"His (Addison's) style has that nameless urbanity in which we recognise the perfection of manner; courteous, but not courtier-like; so dignified, yet so kindly; so easy, yet high-bred. It is the most perfect form of English."-Lord Lytton, Caxtoniana.

(3) This passage is a good specimen of quiet humour, and may be tested by the note on that word (p. 212), and by Steele's "Picture of a Good Story-Teller" (p. 241).

(4) This is an evident incorrectness, arising from the desire to be particularly brief and emphatic. The assertion is, that the parishioners outdo most of the country churches, with the whimsical addition that the writer has heard the churches themselves, and not the choirs.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody1 else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen! three or four times in the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody' else is upon their' knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all the circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite2 enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side, and every now and then inquires how such a one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church, which is understood as a secret reprimand3 to the person that is absent.

(1) Anybody is evidently one person, but the pronoun is made to refer to it as if plural. The same fault occurs lower down in connection with everybody "upon their knees."

(2) Polite, polished; used only since the 17th century in a figurative sense; before that sometimes in a literal one. So Cudworth (as quoted by Trench) speaks of "polite bodies, as looking-glasses." There is a slight cast of humour in the above passage, implying that polite people are more critical of each other's peculiarities than simple villagers.

(3) Reprimand, compared with admonition and reproof, is the severest of the three. We admonish to prevent repetition, reprove to convict of wrong, and reprimand to punish; hence "we admonish for the first fault, we reprove for the second, we reprimand for the third.”—Taylor.