become more and more delicious, (for there are no jovial parties now without abundance of liquor,) and as vivacity, humour, and voice fail him, the desires of sense become proportionally stronger, and at length bring the old bloated voluptuary entirely under their controul.

When I began this letter, I meant that it should have contained, not a history of my life, but a few incidents that have occurred to me in the course of it, which I meant as an elucidation of the dangers to which mankind are subjected from the machinations of this lurking foe. Many thousands have made fools of themselves by believing flatterers. None ever did it more completely than I have done. That error Sir, has dragged me from a palace, of which I was the lord and master, to reside in a garret. Above all things, Mr. Spy, I charge you not to give way to vanity and vain imaginations, never listen with patience to any unqualified or fulsome praise. You are a poet presume Sir? Granted-well-confess : When a friend has applauded any of

I

your verses as excellent, has not your heart danced in your bosom? and have you not admired his good taste and extraordinary discernment? Again, when one has told you that such verses were poor, or that such were bombast, and would never redound to your honour; have you not reddened with anger and indignation? Believe me, my dear Spy, I speak from experience, the lat ter was your friend, the other was not.

If you make a proper use of this letter, you shall hear from me again; but if you never should,-beware of vanity, and give all your readers a charge to beware of it; for whoever will persist in paying their devotions at the shrine of that bewitching goddess, shall in the end be rewarded as Epicurus's gods rewarded him; who lay lolling on the clouds, and instead of showering down their blessings upon the heads of those who offered them up incense, they sent nothing but storms and tempests. I am, Sir, yours,

A. SOLOMON,

The SPY

1811.

Valeat quantum valere potest.

THERE is a principle of curiosity still inherent in every son and daughter of Eve, that exerts itself to such a degree, even in the affairs of common life, that such things as are most anxiously endeavoured to be veiled from the eyes of the public, by the parties concerned, are often most widely diffused. Some men have argued, that this violent curiosity exists in the female mind to a much higher degree than in the minds of the other sex. If it were not, say they, for the sake of being able to answer the teasing enquiries of the wo men, and join them in their favourite conversations, the men would never trouble themselves about any other af fairs than those in which they were some way concerned. This is certainly carry. ing the jest rather too far against the fair sex, poor souls! It is true, their perspicacity in discovering little family secrets, cannot be denied; particularly those in which a growing affection or a waning love forms the basis of the theme: but it is too bad that they

"Should get the wyte of a' fa's out

An' ilk ane dread them round about."

But, however, this irresistible principle of curiosity may be ridiculed by some, and prostituted by others; we may rest assured, that it was not implanted in the human soul in vain; or to be productive of fruits delicious only

No. 36.

to a perverted and malicious palate, and destructive to the peace of families, and the happiness of individuals. On the contrary, it has opened the way to the most part, if not the whole, of the greatest and most useful discoveries in the arts and sciences; and it is in the suffering of that passion to take a wrong biass where the danger lies: for it would appear, that the curiosity which has for its object the disquisition of the uses and qualities of any of the productions of nature, should never be repressed; even though the tendency of the discovery should not always be apparent.

For, is it not evident, that the earliest searchers after knowledge, must have proposed knowledge only as their reward? And that Science, though perhaps the nursling of Interest, was the daughter of Curiosity? Who can believe that they who first watched the course of the stars, foresaw the use of

their discoveries to the facilitation of commerce, or the mensuration of time? They were delighted with the splendor of the nocturnal skies, they found that the lights changed their places; what they admired, they were anxious to understand, and in time traced their re

volutions.

Who can believe that he who first perceived magnetic attraction, and applied it to various experiments, intended any thing more than his own amuse

ment? Or when the polarity of the needle was discovered, was it in the pursuit of any project to facilitate navigation! The gratification of curiosity rather frees from uneasiness, than confers pleasure; we are more pained by ignorance, than delighted by instruction.

Curiosity is the thirst of the soul: whoever attends the motions of his own mind, will find, that on the first appearance of an object, or the first start of a question, his inclination to a nearer view or more accurate discussion, precedes all thoughts of profit or of competition; and that his desires take wing by instantaneous impulse, though their flight may be invigorated, or their ef forts renewed, by subsequent considerations. We are eager to see and hear, without intention of referring our observations to a farther end; we climb a mountain to get a view of the plain; we run to the strand in a storm, that we may contemplate the agitation of the water; we are equally allured by novelty of every kind; by a desart or a palace, a cataract or a cavarn, by every thing great and every thing little; discovery has no effect but of raising further expectation, the gratification of one desire always encourages another : and, after all our labours, studies, and enquiries, we are continually at the same distance from the completion of our schemes. We have still some importunate wish to be satisfied, and some faculty restless and turbulent for want of its enjoyment; even Cæsar declared that he would have cheerfully abandoned all his glory and prospects, for a sight of the long concealed fountains of the Nile..

But, though this passion is regularly heightened in proportion as the powers of the mind are elevated and enlarged; so, on the other hand, there is no snare so dangerous to a low and uncultivated mind, when that mind is disposed to be busy and excursive, than the cobwebs of petty inquisitiveness which entangle them in trivial employments and minute enquiries, as insignificant as they are complicated. These detain them in a middle state, between the tediousness of total inactivity, and the fatigue of laborious efforts. This is the crisis when, for the peace of our own minds, the satisfaction of our associates, and the cause of virtue and truth, we should set a guard upon our hearts that they be not drawn away by this passion into an irresistable current of levity which will involve us without fail in pursuits, infinitely below the dignity of rational beings, and leave us at last in disrepute. It is happy indeed, when those who cannot content themselves to be idle, nor resolve to be industrious, are at least employed without injury to others; but it seldom happens that we can contain ourselves long in a neutral state, or forbear to sink into vice, when we are no longer soaring towards virtue.

Curiosity has one universal object of inquiry, which is to learn as much as possible of every person who has contributed to our delight. When we fall in with a gentleman whose manners and conversation we admire, or a lady with whose person and accomplishments we are pleased, we are instantly seized with à desire of learning as much of each of their characters and connections as possible. If such a thing were known to exist as the private life of Homer, with

what anxiety would the literary world search for it. Even an anecdote of the architect who constructed the abbey of Melrose, would be swallowed with avidity by the admirers of gothic grandeur; and, much as we know of the men of genius which our own country has produced, we would still wish to know a great deal more. This is a laudable curiosity, and it is with no small degree of pleasure that the Spy presents his readers this week with an interesting relict of one of the greatest poets, as well as one of the most amiable men that ever lived, and which is given from the bard's own manuscript, without the addition or cancellation of a syllable.

An original letter from James Thomson, the celebrated Scottish poet, to Dr. Cranstoun, at Ancrum by Berwick, North Britain :

Dear Dr.-I would chide you for the slackness of your correspondence, but having blamed you wrongfully last time, I shall say nothing till I hear from you which I hope will be soon.

There is a little piece of business I would communicate to you before I come to the more interesting part of our correspondence.

I am going (hard task) to complain and beg your assistance. When I came up here I brought very little money along with me,expecting some more upon selling of Widehope, which was to have been sold that day my mother was buried. Now 'tis unsold yet, but will be disposed of as soon as it can conveniently be done, though indeed 'tis perplexed with some difficulties.

I was along time here, living at my own charges, and you know how expensive that is. This, together with

the furnishing of myself with clothes, linens, one thing and another to fit me for any business of this nature here, necessarily obliged me to contract some debts. Being a stranger here, 'tis a wonder how I got any credit, but I can't expect it will be long sustained unless I immediately clear the debts already contracted. Even now I believe it is at a crisis with me; my friends. have no money to send me till the land. is sold, and my creditors will not wait till then ;-you know what the conse-. quence would be. Now, the assistance I would beg of you, and which I know, if in your power you won't refuse me, is a letter of credit on some merchant, banker, or such like person in London, for the matter of twelve pounds, till I get some money upon the selling of the land, which I am at last certain of.— If you could either give me it yourself, or procure it to me any way, though you do not owe it to my merit, yet you owe it to your own good nature, which I know so well as to say no more on the subject; only allow me to add, that when I first fell upon such a project, (the only thing I have for it in my present circumstances), knowing the selfish and inhuman temper of the generalty of mankind, you were the first person that offered to my thoughts as one to whom I had the confidence to make such an address.

Now I imagine you seized with a fine romantic kind of melancholy on the fading of the year; now I figure you wandering philosophical and pensive amidst the brown withered groves, while the leaves rustle under your feet, the sun giving you a farewell parting gleam, and the birds,

"Stir the faint notes, and but attempt to sing."