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me a copy of this diary, on my promising to transmit it to you. It was with more difficulty I drew from him, that his neighbour Fuz never from that day bought any more tobacco at his shop; and that, two days afterwards, he received a letter by post, from his Essex customer, threatening him with an action for assaulting his servant, and ordering him to furnish his bill immediately: that the club had sent him to Coventry; and that he had lost deputy Dripping's interest for the office of churchwarden, to which he then aspired.

But (to quit my old acquaintance and his diary) even this custom, sir, absurd as it is, will afford the moralist a topic of useful instruction: the danger of credulity on the one hand, and of over-caution on the other, may be inferred from the exploits of an Aprilday fool-maker. The young and inexperienced will find this one day, within the circle of their own acquaintance, no bad sketch of the world as it is every day, and in every age: much deception, much falsehood; every body suspicious of his neighbour, and every body more ready to join in the shout of triumph at an instance of successful imposition, than to unite in detecting and punishing the deceiver. The practical professor of this honourable art too, if he have any sense remaining, may take an useful hint, that, however successful he may be, he is open to the same imposition from his more skilful brethren; and that ridicule, when it falls on him, will fall with augmented force: at all events, that this contemptible and vulgar talent, though in season but for a day, may produce most lasting effects; and that a friend may be lost, and an enemy created, by the momentary triumph of ill-founded pride and bastard humour.

OCTAVIUS.

The letter of Mr. Octavius was read at our society, and judged worthy of admission. Mr. Barnaby and Mr. Blunt made some trifling objections, which were soon over-ruled by Mr. Allworth. I was tempted almost myself to enter a clause in favour of those industrious mechanics, whose turn to be witty comes round only once a-year. I own, it has sometimes given me a sensible pleasure to contemplate, among the petty triumphers of this one day, those worthy gentlemen who have served as butts all the other 364. The muddy-headed part of society, or what Lucian calls the παχεις των ανθρώπων, must be kept in good-humour with themselves, or they will not proceed with cheerfulness and activity in the duties of life which they are destined to fulfil. I think therefore, that, in regard to this description of men, there is a degree of injustice and impolicy in discountenancing their jokes, and in refusing to open our gates to them for twelve hours, while we sport without scruple on their manors as long as it is convenient.

I am very easy myself in this particular; and, if it were not for the dignity and interests of my calling, the whole parish might try their wit upon me, so long as the effects of it were confined to the first of April and I think there would be no great fear. of their lasting much longer, as, for want of Attic salt, these jokes do rarely keep above a day. I am a voluntary martyr to the facetiousness of an old maid-servant, who acts in quality of housekeeper, at every return of this Saturnalia: for these twenty' years she has regularly sent us up a pie with nothing but the crust; and my mother and myself as regularly fall to, as if we had set our hearts upon this part of the dinner alone. If she should ever throw up this long-established custom, which she'

holds by a sort of charter, we should feel much chagrined at the disappointment, and regard it as one of those ominous lapses of time, in which some cement is loosened, or some prop succumbs, to warn us of the ruin of the fabric of life.

Yet, although this holiday humour may, I think, be fairly allowed to a certain description of persons, whose play is innocent, and whose jokes are powerless, yet it is a dangerous engine in the hands of those who have malice enough to meditate mischiefs, and wit enough to render them successful. In such a case, however, the victor has nothing but a laugh to support him, and the vanquished has nothing to shame him, unless truth and unsuspicion can do it. It is in fact in this instance a disgrace to be triumphant, and an honour to be defeated. Yet the mere momentary feelings of the parties are not alone to be considered; for, as my correspondent observes, very solid mischiefs may frequently result from this meretricious mirth. I have seen an amiable woman seriously disordered by the false alarm it has occasioned her; and many a very manly mind has been disqualified for the business of the whole day before him, by some dreadful intelligence at his entrance into the breakfast-room. But, besides all this, it is ever a dangerous thing to tamper with truth; and, however good-natured our meaning may be, the habit may take root in the most diminutive trifles, and may gain upon us under the cover of various denominations and excuses, till it usurps a leading influence on our conduct and deportment.

There is surely something sacred in simplicity; and no well-constituted mind can bear to abuse it. To one of this make, it is like leading the blind into the ditch, to foster the mistakes of a person in order to oppress him with ridicule. The world, with its

disappointments, is quick enough in wearing away the sanguine and ingenious bloom of our thoughts, which we bring with us at first into the commerce of mankind. Let us leave it therefore untouched as long as we can, and reverence it as a testimony that does honour to our nature, and the original constitution of our minds.

N° 11. SATURDAY, APRIL 14.

Ipse ordo annalium mediocriter nos retinet quasi enumeratione fastorum; at viri sæpe excellentis ancipites variique casus habent admirationem, expectationem, lætitiam, molestiam, spem, timorem.

CICERO.

Annals, by their very nature, can interest us but little more than almanacks; but the changes and distresses in the life of an excellent character, raise in our bosoms admiration, expectation, joy, sorrow, hope, fear.

It is a common custom with me, when my mother is gone to bed, to take up some entertaining book for a quarter of an hour, in order to steal my mind from the weight of this undertaking, which otherwise would so oppress my brain that I should not be able to take my due rest: for there is a sort of tenacity in one's thoughts, that makes them adhere to what they have been exercised upon, in spite of one's self; just as iron which has been rubbed upon a loadstone, is drawn towards it with a greater force of attraction.

The other night, feeling myself in the predicament I have been describing, I took up the first book

that offered itself, which happened to be a volume of Tacitus. It opened itself at that passage which is at the end of the life of Julius Agricola, where the author pours forth his feelings in that pious apostrophe, and sums up, in a few sentences, all that is great or amiable in the human character. There is something in these unbought testimonies of genuine praise, that reaches to the hearts of those who are simple lookers-on; and I always feel that I have this advantage over the parties themselves, that whereas they can have but a single object of admiration or gratitude, I can venerate and admire both at the same time, and feel a double portion of sensibility and delight.

This is one among the many reasons, which render biography the most agreeable kind of reading in the world. It is the business of History to trace, through a long succession of events, the remote relations of cause and effect, to mark the different gradations in the progress of society, and to hold out to man the humiliating lesson of national vicissitude: but Biography is studious of finding out the paths which lead to our finest sensibilities, and, by acquainting us with the domestic transactions, introducing us to the private hours, and disclosing to us the secret propensities, enjoyments, and weaknesses of celebrated persons, increase our sympathy in proportion to our intimacy with the object held up to us, and heighten our curiosity with the touches of affection and interest.

Even in the contemplation of characters eminently flagitious, from this close inspection afforded us by the minuteness of biography, we feel a gloomy sort of satisfaction, in witnessing their moments of remorse and sorrow, and (as the heart is rarely abandoned to total depravity) in tracing out those so

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