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the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt: the mind may for some time fluctuate between them, but it never can entertain both together.
Yet, let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the human mind. There is scarcely any who are not in some degree possessed of this pleasing softness; but it is at best but a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance. With some it scarcely lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others it may continue for twice that space, and on some of extraordinary sensibility I have seen it operate for half an hour. But last as it may, it generally produoes but beggarly effects; and where, from this motive, we give farthings, from others we give pounds. In great distress, we sometimes, it is true, feel the influence of tenderness strongly; when the same distress solicits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility, but, like the repetition of an echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt.
Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance; but he's gone. Jack was bred in a compting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as an habitual prudence, and from such considerations, he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Those who had money, were ready to offer him their assistance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affecti advised him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumstances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modestly declined their proposals.
Some errors in the management of his affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking; and he at last thought it his best way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was therefore to a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps he knew those offers would have been refused.
Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony, and as a man confident of not being refused, requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money. “ And pray, Mr. Spindle," replied the scrivener, “ do you want all this money ?! “ Want it, Sir," says the other, “ if I did not want it, I should not have asked for it.” “I am sorry for that,” says the friend; "for those who want money when they come to borrow,
will want money when they should come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part; and he that has got a little is a fool if he does not keep what he has got.”
Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. “Let me see, you want a hundred guineas : and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer ?" “ If you have but fifty to spare, Sir, I must be contented.”
Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me." “ Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend." “ And pray," replied the friend, “would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know. Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so. -You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble servant."
Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her ser's modesty would permit. He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived, “No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind.” Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galloon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighborhood thought it would soon be a match.
Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery; his clothes flew piece by piece to the pawnbrokers, and he seemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still he thought himself secure from starving; the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner because he wanted one; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted. The last place I saw poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He assured the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk to White Conduit-House, where he had been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praised the figure of the damask; talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was overdone. All this, however, procured the poor ture no invitation, and he was not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being asked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought proper, at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the Park.
You then, ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace; whether in Kent-street or in the Mall; whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's; might I advise you as a friend, never seem in want of the favor you solicit. Apply to every passion
ut pity, for redress. You may find relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but seldom from compassion. The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting; and that mouth which is opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to close without a petition.
If, then, you would ward off the gripe of poverty, pretend to be stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. Hear not my advice, but that of Offellus.* If you be caught dining upon a halfpenny porringer of peas, soup, and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas broth for the gravel; hint that you are not one of those who are always making a god of your belly. If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark that stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be found some irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say, that neither you nor Sampson Gideont were ever very fond of dress. Or, if you be a philosopher, hint that Plato and Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ; assure the company that men ought to be content with a bare covering, since what is now the pride of some, was formerly our shame. Horace will give you a Latin sentence fit for the occasion :
*["Non meus hic sermo; sed quæ præcepit Offellus."—HOR.
"A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine."-Pope.) + [A rich Jew broker, remarkable for his slovenly dress. He died in October, 1762, leaving a son, for whom, in 1759, he procured a baronetcy, and who, in 1789, was created an Irish peer, by the title of Baron Eardley of Spalding.)
In short, however caught, do not give up, but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous; beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can excuse.
HISTORY OF HYPATIA.
Man, when secluded from society, is not a more solitary being than the woman who leaves the duties of her own sex to invade the privileges of ours. She seems, in such circumstances, like one in banishment; she appears like a neutral being between the sexes; and though she may have the admiration of both, she finds true happiness of neither.
Of all the ladies of antiquity, I have read of none who was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful Hypatia, the daughter of Theon the philosopher. This most accomplished of women was born at Alexandria, in the reign of Theodosius the younger. Nature was never more lavish of its gifts than it had been to her, endued as she was with the most exalted understanding, and the happiest turn to science Education completed what Nature had begun, and made her the prodigy not only of
["Clothes, which though coarse, wil keep me from the cold"