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Her mind continued wavering about twenty of pain, in its midnight rambles. A man that muryears longer between Shalum and Mispach; for ders his enemy, or deserts his friend in a dream, though her inclinations favoured the former, her had need to guard his temper against revenge and interest pleaded very powerfully for the other. ingratitude, and take heed that he be not tempted While her heart was in this unsettled condition, to do a vile thing in the pursuit of false or the the following accident happened, which deter-neglect of true honour. For my part, I seldom mined her choice. A high tower of wood that receive a benefit, but in a night or two's time I stood in the city of Mispach having caught fire by make most noble returns for it; which, though a flash of lightning, in a few days reduced the my benefactor is not a whit the better for, yet it whole town to ashes. Mispach resolved to rebuild pleases me to think that it was from a principle of the place, whatever it should cost him; and, having gratitude in me that my mind was susceptible of already destroyed all the timber of the country, such generous transport, while I thought myself rehe was forced to have recourse to Shalum, whose paying the kindness of my friend: and I have forests were now two hundred years old. He pur- often been ready to beg pardon, instead of returnchased these woods with so many herds of cattle ing an injury, after considering that when the and flocks of sheep, and with such a vast extent of offender was in my power I had carried my resentfields and pastures, that Shalum was now grown ments much too far. more wealthy than Mishpach; and therefore appeared so charming in the eyes of Zilpah's daughter, that she no longer refused him in marriage. On the day in which he brought her up into the mountains he raised a most prodigious pile of cedar, and of every sweet-smelling wood, which reached above three hundred cubits in height: he also cast into the pile bundles of myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, enriching it with every spicy shrub, and making it fat with the gums of his plantations, This was the burnt-offering which Shalum offered in the day of his espousals: the smoke of it ascended up to heaven, and filled the whole country with Incense and perfume.

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SIR,

It was a good piece of advice which Pythagoras gave to his scholars-that every night before they lept they should examine what they had been doing that day, and so discover what actions were worthy of pursuit to-morrow, and what little vices were to be prevented from slipping unawares into a habit. If I might second the philosopher's advice, it should be mine, that in a morning before my scholar rose he should consider what he had been about that night, and with the same strictness as if the condition he has believed himself to be in was real. Such a scrutiny into the actions of his fancy must be of considerable advantage; for this reason, because the circumstances which a man imagines himself in during sleep are generally such as entirely favour his inclinations, good or bad, and give him imaginary opportunities of pursuing them to the utmost; so that his temper will lie fairly open to his view, while he considers how it is moved when free from those constraints which the accidents of real life put it under. Dreams are certainly the result of our waking thoughts, and our daily hopes and fears are what give the mind such Bible relishes of pleasure, and such severe touches

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I think it has been observed in the course of your papers, how much one's happiness or misery may depend upon the imagination: of which truth those strange workings of fancy in sleep are no inconsiderable instances; so that not only the advantage a man has of making discoveries of himself, but a regard to his own ease or disquiet, may induce him to accept of my advice. Such as are willing to comply with it, I shall put into a way of doing it with pleasure, by observing only one maxim which I shall give them, viz. " To go to bed with a mind entirely free from passion, and a body clear of the least intemperance."

They, indeed, who can sink into sleep with their thoughts less calm or innocent than they should be, do but plunge themselves into scenes of guilt and misery; or they who are willing to purchase any midnight disquietudes for the satisfaction of a full meal, or a skin full of wine; these I have nothing to say to, as not knowing how to invite them to reflections full of shame and horror: but those that will observe this rule, I promise them they shall awake into health and cheerfulness, and be capable of recounting with delight those glorious moments, wherein the mind has been indulging itself in such luxury of thought, such noble hurry of imagination. Suppose a man's going supperless to bed should introduce him to the table of some great prince or other, where he shall be entertained with the noblest marks of honour and plenty, and do so much business after, that he shall rise with as good a stomach to his breakfast as if he had fasted all night long: or suppose he should see his dearest friends remain all night in great distresses, which he could instantly have disengaged them from, could he have been content to have gone to bed without the other bottle; believe me these effects of fancy are no contemptible consequences of commanding or indulging one's appetite.

I forbear recommending my advice upon many other accounts till I hear how you and your readers relish what I have already said; among whom, if there be any that may pretend it is useless to them, because they never dream at all, there may be others perhaps who do little else all day long. Were every one as sensible as I am of what happens to him in his sleep, it would be no dispute whether we pass so considerable a portion of our time in the condition of stocks and stones, or whether the soul were not perpetually at work upon the principle of thought. However, it is an honest endeavour of mine to persuade my countrymen to reap some advantage from so many unregarded hours, and as such you will encourage it.

'I shall conclude with giving you a sketch or two of my way of proceeding.

If I have any business of consequence to do to-morrow, I am scarce dropped asleep to-night but I am in the midst of it; and when awake, I consider the whole procession of the affair, and get the advantage of the next day's experience before the sun has risen upon it.

'There is scarce a great post but what I have some time or other been in; but my behaviour while I was master of a college pleases me so well, that whenever there is a province of that nature vacant I intend to step in as soon as I can.

I have done many things that would not pass examination, when I have had the art of flying er being invisible; for which reason I am glad I am not possessed of those extraordinary qualities.

Lastly, Mr. Spectator, I have been a great correspondent of yours, and have read many of my letters in your paper which I never wrote you. If you have a mind I should really be so, I have got a parcel of visions and other miscellanies in my noctuary, which I shall send to enrich your paper with on proper occasions. 'I am, &c.

'Oxford, Aug. 20. BYROM.

JOHN SHALLOW *.'

No 587. MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 1714.

Intus, et in cute noci.

PERS, Sat. iii. ver. 30.
I know thee to thy bottom; from within
Thy shallow centre, to the utmost skin.
DRYDEN.

THOUGH the author of the following vision is un-
known to me, I am apt to think it may be the
work of that ingenious gentleman, who promised
me, in the last paper, some extracts out of his
noctuary.

ing slumber, when methought two parter, estes
my chamber, carrying a large chest betwee
After having set it down in the middle of the nam
they departed. I immediately endeavær, s
open what was sent ine, when a shape, like mat -
which we paint our angels, appeared brie
and forbade me. "Inclosed," said he, are
hearts of several of your friends and acquaintan
but, before you can be qualified to see and a
madvert on the failings of others, you must be
yourself;" whereupon he drew out his tas
knife, cut me open, took out my heart, and beg
to squeeze it. I was in a great confu-0 15 a
how many things, which I had always chers.
virtues, issued out of my heart on this occ
In short, after it had been thoroughly squeezed,
looked like an empty bladder; when thes
tom, breathing a fresh particle of divine a
it, restored it safe to its former repository; Ba
having sewed me up, we began to examite te
chest.

4

The hearts were all inclo-ed in tranpw-s phials, and preserved in liquor which looked be spirits of wine. The first which I cast my ev upon I was afraid would have broke the gian which contained it. It shot up and down, wÀ» credible swiftness, through the liquor in which swam, and very frequently bounced against the side of the phial. The fomes, or spot in the mid of it, was not large, but of a red fiery coloe, a seemed to be the cause of these violent agiturme "That," says my instructor," is the heart of Te Dreadnought, who behaved himself well in the wars, but has for these ten years last past aiming at some post of honour to co purpose. is lately retired into the country, where, q choked up with spleen and choler, he rails at be men than himself, and will be for ever uneasy, b cause it is impossible he should think his re sufficiently rewarded." The next heart that les mined was remarkable for its smallness; it lay at the bottom of the phial, and I could bars · I was the other day reading the life of Mahomet. perceive that it beat at all. The fumes was qu Among many other extravagancies, I find it re-black, and had almost diffused itself over the whet corded of that impostor, that in the fourth year of his age the angel Gabriel caught him up while he was among his playfellows; and, carrying him aside, cut open his breast, plucked out his heart, and wrung out of it that black drop of blood, in which, says the Turkish divines, is contained the Fomes Peccati, so that he was free from sin ever after. I immediately said to myself, though this story be a fiction, a very good moral may be drawn from it, would every man but apply it to himself, and endeavour to squeeze out of his heart whatever sins or ill qualities he finds in it.

SIR,

While my mind was wholly taken up with this contemplation, I insensibly fell into a most pleas

heart. This," says my interpreter," is the bar of Dick Gloomy, who never thirsted arter an thing but money. Notwithstanding all his esdre vours, he is still poor. This has flung him most deplorable state of melancholy and dea i He is a composition of envy and idleness; kurs mankind, but gives them their revenge by best more uneasy to himself than to any one else."

The phial I looked upon next contained a larg fair heart which beat very strongly. The 11 spot in it was exceeding small; but I coad f help observing, that which way soever I turned t phial it always appeared uppermost, and is tor strongest point of light. “The heart you are ess mining," says my companion," belongs to Wa

is possessed of a thousand good qualities. T speck which you discover is vanity."

This paper was written by Mr. John Byrom, who like-Worthy. He has, indeed, a most noble seal, wise wrote the letters in the next paper, No 587, and in No 593. He was also author of the pastoral poem in No 603. Mr. Byrom was born at Kersal, near Manchester, in 1691, and educated first at Merchant Taylors' school, and afterwards at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he was elected a fellow. In 1716 he went to France for his health, and on his return to London he applied to physic with a view of making it his profession; and soon after married, to the great displeasure of his relations, a lady with little or no fortune. He now supported hunsel principally by teaching a newlyinvented system of short-hand. In 1724 he was elected a fellow of the Royal Society; and soon after, by the death of an elder brother without issue, the paternal estate at Kersal came to him by inheritance, and rendered him independent. He was a man of fine taste, and a great proficient in polite literature, yet strongly tinctured with the enthusiastic notions of Behmen and other mystics. Mr. Byrom died at Manchester, Sept. 26, 1763.

"Here," says the angel," is the heart of love, your intimate friend."-" Freelove a said I," are at present very cold to one a and I do not care for looking on the braft d man which I fear is overcast with rascour." W teacher commanded me to look upon it: 1¢ a and, to my unspeakable surprise, found that a -swelling spot, which I at first took to be towards me, was only passion; and that opas an nearer inspection it wholly disappeared: which the phantom told me Freelove was the best-natured men alive.

"This," says my teacher," is a female heart of our acquaintance." I found the fomes in it of the rgest size, and of an hundred different colours, hich were still varying every moment. Upon my king to whom it belonged, I was informed that it as the heart of Coquetilla.

* I set it down, and drew out another, in which took the fomes at first sight to be very small, but as amazed to find that, as I looked stedfastly pon it, it grew still larger. It was the heart of elissa, a noted prude who lives the next door

me.

"I show you this," says the phantom," because is indeed a rarity, and you have the happiness to now the person to whom it belongs." He then ut into my hands a large crystal glass, that inosed an heart, in which, though I examined it ith the utmost nicety, I could not perceive any lemish. I made no scruple to affirm that it must e the heart of Seraphina; and was glad, but not rprised, to find that it was so." She is indeed," ontinued my guide, “the ornament, as well as the nvy of her sex." At these last words he pointed the hearts of several of her female acquaintance hich lay in different phials, and had very large ots in them, all of a deep blue. "You are not wonder," says he, "that you see no spot in an art, whose innocence has been proof against all e corruptions of a depraved age. If it has any lemish, it is too small to be discovered by human yes."

'I laid it down, and took up the hearts of other males, in all of which the fomes ran in several eins, which were twisted together, and made a ery perplexed figure. I asked the meaning of it, nd was told it represented deceit.

'I should have been glad to have examined the earts of several of my acquaintance, whom I knew o be particularly addicted to drinking, gaming, triguing, &c. but my interpreter told me I must et that alone till another opportunity, and flung own the cover of the chest with so much violence immediately awoke me*.

BYROM.

or, having drawn it with a little and sordid aspect, what pleasure they can possibly take in such a picture. Do they reflect that it is their own, and, if we would believe themselves, is not more odious than the original? One of the first that talked in this lofty strain of our nature was Epicurus. Beneficence, would his followers say, is all founded in weakness; and, whatever he pretended, the kindness that passeth between men and men is by every man directed to himself. This, it must be confessed, is of a piece with the rest of that hopeful philosophy, which, having patched mau up out of the four elements, attributes his being to chance, and derives all his actions from an unintelligible declination of atoms. And for these glorious discoveries the poet is beyond measure transported in the praises of his hero, as if he must needs be something more than man, only for an endeavour to prove that man is in nothing superior to beasts. In this school was Mr. Hobbes instructed to speak after the same manner, if he did not rather draw his knowledge from an observation of his own temper*; for he somewhere unluckily lays down this as a rule, that from the similitudes of thoughts and passions of one man to the thoughts and passions of another, whosoever looks into himself and considers what he doth when he thinks, hopes, fears, &c. and upon what grounds, he shall hereby read and know what are the thoughts and passions of all other men upon the like occasions. Now we will allow Mr. Hobbes to know best how he was inclined; but in earnest, I should be heartily out of conceit with myself if I thought myself of this unamiable temper as he affirms, and should have as little kindness for myself as for any body in the world. Hithereto I always imagined that kind and benevolent propensions were the original growth of the heart of man; and, however checked and overtopped by counter-inclinations that have since sprung up within us, have still some force in the worst of tempers, and a considerable influence on the best. And methinks it is a fair step towards the proof of this, that the most beneficent of all beings is he who hath an absolute fulness of perfection in himself, who gave existence to the universe, and so cannot be supposed to want that which he communicated, without diminishing from

588. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1714. the plenitude of his own power and happiness.

CICERO,

The philosophers before-mentioned have indeed
done all that in them lay to invalidate this argu-
ment; for, placing the gods in a state of the most

Dicitis, omnis in imbecillitate est et gratia, et caritas.
You pretend that all kindness and benevolence is founded elevated blessedness, they describe them as selfish as

in weakness.

JAN may be considered in two views, as a reasonble and as a social being; capable of becoming imself either happy or miserable, and of contriuting to the happiness or misery of his fellowreatures. Suitably to this double capacity, the Contriver of human nature hath wisely furnished it with two principles of action, self-love, and beneolence; designed one of them to render man akeful to his own personal interest, the other to ispose him for giving his utmost assistance to all ngaged in the same pursuit. This is such an acount of our frame, so agreeable to reason, so much For the honour of our Maker, and the credit of our pecies, that it may appear somewhat unaccount■ble what should induce men to represent human ature as they do under characters of disadvantage;

we poor miserable mortals can be, and shut them out from all concern for maukind, upon the score of their having no need of us. But if he that sitteth in the heavens wants not us, we stand in continual need of him; and, surely, next to the survey of the immense treasures of his own mind, the most exalted pleasure he receives is from beholding millions of creatures, lately drawn out of the gulf of nou-existence, rejoicing in the various degrees of being and happiness imparted to them. And as this is the true, the glorious character of the Deity, so in forming a reasonable creature he would not, if possible, suffer his image to pass out of his hands unadorned with a resemblance of himself in this most lovely part of his nature. For what complacency could a mind, whose love is as

We must consider this reflection on Hobbes as illiberal and unfounded; for by various testimonies we learn, that he This vision of hearts, the dissection of the beau's head, was a good and an amiable man, as well as possessed of su 275, and of the coquette's heart, No 281, probably sug-perior understanding and uncommon perspicacity and peneested to George Alexander Stevens the first idea of bis celerated lectures on heads. tration: exceptionable as his writings are, his life appears to have been without reproach.

selfish views, he at all more satifa ta
when he is applauded for what he dai va
design; because in both cases, the ends of e
are equally answered. The conscienc-of pa
recompence for being so; doubtless it is, a le
most interested cannot propose any thing wa
to their own advantage, notwithstanding va
the inclination is nevertheless unselfish. Te
sure which attends the gratification of our
and thirst, is not the cause of these appetives.
are previous to any such prospect; and so lan
is the desire of doing good; with this d
that, being seated in the intellectual part, th” a
though antecedent to reason, may yet be impare
and regulated by it; and, I will add, is
wise a virtue than as it is so. Thus have s
tended for the dignity of that nature I have
honour to partake of; and, after all the evicte
produced, I think I have a right to co
against the motto of this paper, that there c
a thing as generosity in the world. Though
were under a mistake in this, I should say as Com
in relation to the immortality of the soul, I
lingly err, and should believe it very much for
interest of mankind to lie under the same dem
For the contrary notion naturally tends to dig
the mind, and sinks it into a meanness fatal
God-like zeal of doing good: as, on the ar
hand, it teaches people to be ungrateful, b
sessing them with a persuasion concerning
benefactors, that they have no regard to tien
the benefits they bestow. Now he that tæn
gratitude from among men, by so doing p
the stream of beneficence: for though in conce
kindnesses a truly generous man doth not aim i
return, yet he looks to the qualities of the perz
obliged; and as nothing renders a persa at
unworthy of a benefit than his being wither
resentment of it, he will not be extremely fa
to oblige such a man.

unbounded as his knowledge, have in a work so unlike himself; a creature that should be capable of knowing and conversing with a vast circle of objects, and love none but himself? What proportion would there be between the head and the hearting oneself a benefactor to mankind is tz. of such a creature, its affections, and its understanding? Or could a society of such creatures, with no other bottom but self-love on which to maintain a commerce, ever flourish? Reason, it is certain, would oblige every man to pursue the general happiness as the means to procure and establish his own; and yet, if, besides this consideration, there were not a natural instinct, prompting men to desire the welfare and satisfaction of others, selflove, in defiance of the admonitions of reason, would quickly run all things into a state of war and confusion. As nearly interested as the soul is in the fate of the body, our provident Creator saw it necessary, by the constant returns of hunger and thirst, those importunate appetites, to put it in mind of its charge; knowing that if we should eat and drink no oftener than cold abstracted speculation should put us upon these exercises, and then leave it to reason to prescribe the quantity, we should soon refine ourselves out of this bodily life. And, indeed, it is obvious to remark, that we follow nothing heartily unless carried to it by inclinations which anticipate our reason, and, like a bias, draw the mind strongly towards it. In order, therefore, to establish a perpetual intercourse of benefits amongst mankind, their Maker would not fail to give them this generous prepossession of benevolence, if, as I have said, it were possible. And from whence can we go about to argue its impossibility? Is it inconsistent with self-love? Are their motions contrary? No more than the diurnal rotation of the earth is opposed to its annual; or its motion round its own centre, which might be improved as an illustration of self-love, to that which whirls it about the cominon centre of the world, answering to universal benevolence. Is the force of self-love abated, or its interest prejudiced by benevolence? So far from it, that benevolence, though a distinct principle, is extremely serviceable to self-love, and theu doth most service when it is least designed.

But to descend from reason to matter of fact; the pity which arises on sight of persons in distress, and the satisfaction of mind which is the consequence of having removed them into a happier state, are instead of a thousand arguments to prove such a thing as a disinterested benevolence. Did pity proceed from a reflection we make upon our liableness to the same ill accidents we see befal others, it were nothing to the present purpose; but this is assigning an artificial cause of a natural passion, and can by no means be admitted as a tolerable account of it, because children and persons most thoughtless about their own condition, and incapable of entering into the prospects of futurity, feel the most violent touches of compassion. And then, as to that charming delight which immediately follows the giving joy to another, or relieving his sorrow, and is, when the objects are and the kindness of importance really numerous, inexpressible, what can this be owing to but a consciousness of a man's having done something praiseworthy, and expressive of a great soul? Whereas, if in all this he only sacrified to vanity and self-love, as there would be nothing brave in. actions that make the most shining appearance, so nature would not have rewarded them with this divine pleasure; nor could the commendations, which a person receives for benefits done upon

GROVE*.

N° 589. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 174

Persequitur scelus ille suum: labefactaque tandon
Ictibus innumeris adductaque sunibus arour

Corruit

OVID. Met. L v.

The impious axe he plies: loud strokes resin!.
Till dragg'd with ropes, and fell'd with many a
The loosen'd tree comes rushing to the ground.

SIR,

I AM so great an admirer of trees, that the sp ground I have chosen to build a small seat p the country is almost in the midst of a large • * I was obliged, much against my will, to et des several trees, that I might have any suca t to leave the space, between every walk, al a walk in my gardens: but then I have tak wood as I found it. The moment you tur to the right or left you are in a forest, where than could have been raised by art. ture presents you with a much more beautifá kra

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oaks in my gardens of four hundred years Instead of tulips or carnations I can do m and a knot of elms that might shelter a trap horse from the rain.

It is not without the utmost indigrane the i observe several prodigal young heir in tự mệ

• Mr. Henry Grove was a dissenting rain ste“, 1.4 academy at Taunton. See Nos. 601, ego, zâmi valla

rhood felling down the most glorious monuments their ancestors' industry, and ruining, in a day, product of ages.

I am mightily pleased with your discourse upon nting, which put me upon looking into my ks, to give you some account of the veneration ancients had for trees. There is an old tradi, that Abraham planted a cypress, a pine, and edar; and that these three incorporated into tree, which was cut down for the building of temple of Solomon.

Isidorus, who lived in the reign of Constantins, ires us, that he saw even in his time that famous in the plains of Mamre, under which Abraham eported to have dwelt; and adds, that the peolooked upon it with a great veneration, and served it as a sacred tree.

The heathens still went further, and regarded as the highest piece of sacrilege to injure certain es which they took to be protected by some ty. The story of Erisicthon, the grove at Dona, and that at Delphi, are all instances of this

nd.

If we consider the machine in Virgil, so much med by several critics, in this light, we shall rdly think it too violent.

- Eneas, when he built his fleet in order to sail Italy, was obliged to cut down the grove on sunt Ida, which however he durst not do until he d obtained leave from Cybele, to whom it was dicated. The goddess could not but think herf obliged to protect these ships, which were de of consecrated timber, after a very extradinary manner, and therefore desired Jupiter, at they might not be obnoxious to the power of aves or winds. Jupiter would not grant this, but comised 'er, that as many as came safe to Italy muld be transformed into goddesses of the sea; hich the poet tells u3 was accordingly executed.

And now at length the number'd hours were come,
Prefix'd by Fate's irrevocable doom,
When the great mother of the god was free
To save her ships, and finish Jove's decree.
First, from the quarter of the morn there sprung
A light that sing'd the heavens, and shot along:
Then from a cloud, fring'd round with golden fires,
Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian quires:
And last a voice, with more than mortal sounds,
Both hosts in arms oppos'd, with equal horror wounds.
"O Trojan race, your needless aid forbear;
And know my ships are my peculiar care.
With greater ease the bold Rutulian may,
With hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea,
Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge,
Loos'd from your crooked anchors, launch at large,
Exalted each a nymph; forsake the sand,
And swim the seas, at Cybele's command.'
No sooner had the goddess ceas'd to speak,
When lo, th' obedient ships their hawsers break;
And, strange to tell, like dolphins in the main,
They plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again :
As many beauteous maids the billows sweep,
As rode before tall vessels on the deep.'

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DRYDEN's Virgil. The common opinion concerning the nymphs, hom the ancients called Hamadryads, is more to e honour of trees than any thing yet mentioned. t was thought the fate of these nymphs had so ear a dependence on some trees, more especially aks, that they lived and died together. For this ason they were extremely grateful to such perons who preserved those trees with which their eing subsisted. Apollonius tells us a very remarkble story to this purpose, with which I shall onclude my letter.

A certain man, called Rhæcus, observing an d oak ready to fall, and being moved with a sort f compassion towards the tree, ordered his ser

vants to pour in fresh earth at the roots of it, and set it upright. The Hamadryad, or nymph, who must necessarily have perished with the tree, appeared to him the next day, and, after having returned him her thanks, told him she was ready to grant whatever he should ask. As she was extremely beautiful, Rhæcus desired he might be entertained as her lover. The Hamadryad, not much displeased with the request, promised to give him a meeting, but commanded him for some days to abstain from the embraces of all other women, adding, that she would send a bee to him, to let him know when he was to be happy. Rhæcus was, it seems, too much addicted to gaming, and happened to be in a run of ill-luck when the faithful bee came buzzing about him; so that, instead of minding his kind invitation, he had like to have killed him for his pains. The Hamadryad was so provoked at her own disappointment, and the ill usage of her messenger, that she deprived Rhæcus of the use of his limbs. However, says the story, he was not so much a cripple, but he made a shift to cut down the tree, and consequently to fell his mistress.'

N° 590. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1714.

Assiduo labuntur tempora motu

Non secus ac flumen. Neque enim consistere flumen,
Nec levis hora potest: sed ut unda impellitur unda,
U geturque prior venicnti, urgelque priorem,
Tempora sie fugiunt pariter, pariterque sequuntur;
Et nova sunt semper. Nam quod fuit ante, relictum est;
Fitque quod haud fuerat: momentaque cuncla novuntur.
OVID. Met. xv. ver. 179.

E'en times are in perpetual flux, and run,
Like rivers from their fountains, rolling on.
For time, no more than streams is at a stay;
The flying hour is ever on her way:
And as the fountain still supplies their store,
The wave behind impels the wave before;
Thus in successive course the minutes run,
And urge their predecessor minutes on.
Still moving, ever new: for former things
Are laid aside, like abdicated kings;
And ev'ry moment alters what is done,
And innovates some act, till then unknown.
DRYDEN.

The following discourse comes from the same hand with the essays upon infinitude*.

"WE consider infinite space as an expansion without a circumference: we consider eternity, or infinite duration, as a line that has neither a beginning nor an end. In our speculations of infinite space, we consider that particular place in which we exist as a kind of centre to the whole expansion. In our speculations of eternity, we consider the time which is present to us as the middle, which divides the whole line into two equal parts. For this reason many witty authors compare the present time to an isthmus or narrow neck of land, that rises in the midst of an ocean, immeasurably dif fused on either side of it.

Philosophy, and indeed common sense, natu. rally throws eternity under two divisions, which we may call in English that eternity which is past, and that eternity which is to come. The learned terms of Eternitas a parte ante, and Æternitas a parte post, may be more amusing to the reader, but can have no other idea affixed to them than what is conveyed to us by those words, an eternity that is past, and an eternity that is to come. *See Nos. 565, 571, 580, and 698.

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