her countrymen, and awake him on occasions to consult his safety. In this manner did the lovers pass away their time, till they had learned a language of their own, in which the voyager communicated to his mistress how happy he should be to have her in his own country, where she should be clothed in such silks as his waistcoat was made of, and be carried in houses drawn by horses, without being exposed to wind and weather. All this he promised her the enjoyment of, without such fears and alarms as they were tormented with. In this tender correspondence these lovers lived for several months, when Yarico, instructed by her lover, discovered a vessel on the coast, to which she made signals; and in the night, with the utmost joy and satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's crew of his countrymen, bound for Barbadoes. When a vessel from the main arrives in that island, it seems the planters come down to the shore, where there is an immediate market of the Indians and other slaves, as with us of horses and oxen.

To be short, Mr Thomas Inkle, now coming into English territories, began seriously to reflect upon his loss of time, and to weigh with himself how many days interest of his money he had lost during his stay with Yarico. This thought made the young man very pensive, and careful what account he should be able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon which consideration, the prudent and frugal young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian merchant; notwithstanding the poor girl, to commiserate her condition, told him that she was with child by him; but he only made use of that information to rise in his demands upon the purchaser.

(From the Spectator, No. 11.) Richard Ligon, a London Royalist merchant ruined by the Civil War, undertook at sixty to begin life anew in the West Indies, sailed to Barbadoes in 1647, and, driven home by ill-health in three years, was by his creditors clapped in prison, where he wrote his History of the Barbadoes (1657; new ed. 1673). There Steele (who had financial interests in the West Indies, through his wife) found the bones of poor Yarico's story; but the novelette is mainly Steele's own creation. Inkle (named from an old word for a kind of tape) is entirely his invention, and is unkindly made to sail by the ship Ligon was passenger on; it was Steele also, not Ligon, who discovered nightingales in Barbadoes! From the Spectator the story found its way into such compilations as Knox's Elegant Extracts and Masson's Collection, where Burns knew it ere he had the chance of seeing at Dumfries in 1794 the 'opera' or musical comedy of Inkle and Yarico, by George Colman the younger. In the Spectator form the tale attracted notice on the Continent also; was retold in German by Gellert, by Bodmer, and by Gessner; and had its share in securing a victory for the Swiss or Natural school over the Leipzig school of French sympathies and formal standards.

The Quaker in the Stage-coach. Having notified to my good friend Sir Roger that I should set out for London the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed hour in the evening; and attended by one of his grooms, I arrived at the county town at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant, who waited upon me, inquired of the chamberlain in my hearing what company he had for the coach? The fellow answered, Mrs Betty Arable the great fortune, and the widow her mother; a recruiting officer, who took a place because they were to go; young Squire Quickset her cousin, that her mother wished her to be married to; Ephraim the quaker, her guardian; and a gentleman that had studied himself dumb from Sir Roger de Coverley's. I observed by what he said of myself, that according to his office he dealt much in intelligence; and doubted not but there was some foundation for his

reports of the rest of the company, as well as for the whimsical account he gave of me. The next morning at day-break we were all called; and I, who know my own natural shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I might make no one wait. The first preparation for our setting out was, that the captain's half-pike was placed near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the mean time the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very loud that none of the captain's things should be placed so as to be spoiled; upon which his cloke-bag was fixed in the seat of the coach: and the captain himself, according to a frequent though invidious behaviour of military men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should have the place he had taken fronting the coach-box.

We were in some little time fixed in our seats, and sat with that dislike which people not too good-natured usually conceive of each other at first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into some sort of familiarity: and we had not moved above two miles, when the widow asked the captain what success he had in his recruiting? The officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, told her, 'that indeed he had but very little luck, and had suffered much by desertion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter. In a word, continued he, I am a soldier, and to be plain is my character: you see me, madam, young, sound, and impudent; take me yourself, widow, or give me to her; I will be wholly at your disposal. I am a soldier of fortune, ha!' This was followed by a vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all the rest of the company. I had nothing left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with all speed. Come, said he, resolve upon it, we will make a wedding at the next town: we will awake this pleasant companion who is fallen asleep, to be the bride-man,' and, giving the quaker a clap on the knee, he concluded, 'This sly saint, who, I will warrant, understands what is what as well as you or I, widow, shall give the bride as father.' The quaker, who happened to be a man of smartness, answered, 'Friend, I take it in good part that thou hast given me the authority of a father over this comely and virtuous child; and I must assure thee, that if I have the giving her, I shall not bestow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, savoureth of folly: thou art a person of a light mind; thy drum is a type of thee, it soundeth because it is empty. Verily, it is not from thy fulness, but thy emptiness that thou hast spoken this day. Friend, friend, we have hired this coach in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great city; we cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must hear thee if thou wilt needs utter thy follies; we cannot help it, friend, I say: if thou wilt, we must hear thee; but if thou wert a man of understanding, thou wouldst not take advantage of thy courageous countenance to abash us children of peace. Thou art, thou sayest, a soldier; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. Why didst thou fleer at our friend, who feigned himself asleep? he said nothing; but how dost thou know what he containeth? If thou speakest improper things in the hearing of this virtuous young virgin, consider it as an outrage against a distressed person that cannot get from thee: to speak indiscreetly what we are obliged to hear, by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in some degree assaulting on the high road.'

Here Ephraim paused, and the captain with an happy and uncommon impudence, which can be convicted and support itself at the same time, cries, Faith, friend, I thank thee; I should have been a little impertinent if thou hadst not reprimanded me. Come, thou art, I see, a smoky [knowing] old fellow, and I will be very orderly the ensuing part of my journey. I was going to give myself airs, but, ladies, I beg pardon.'

The captain was so little out of humour, and our company was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took a particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future, and assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, apartments, and accommodation fell under Ephraim; and the captain looked to all disputes on the road, as the good behaviour of our coachman, and the right we had of taking place as going to London of all vehicles coming from thence. The occurrences we met with were ordinary, and very little happened which could entertain by the relation of them; but when I considered the company we were in, I took it for no small good-fortune that the whole journey was not spent in impertinences, which to the one part of us might be an entertainment, to the other a suffering. What therefore Ephraim said when we were almost arrived at London, had to me an air not only of good understanding but good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim delivered himself as follows: "There is no ordinary part of human life which expresseth so much a good mind, and a right inward man, as his behaviour upon meeting with strangers, especially such as may seem the most unsuitable companions to him such a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and innocence, however knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself thereof; but will the rather hide his superiority to them, that he may not be painful unto them. My good friend, continued he, turning to the officer, thee and I are to part by and by, and peradventure we may never meet again but be advised by a plain man; modes and apparel are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me contemptible for mine. When two such as thee and I meet with affections as we ought to have towards each other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peaceful demeanour, and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to protect me in it.'

(From The Spectator, No. 132.) There are biographies of Steele by Austin Dobson (1886) and G. A. Aitken (1889), the latter of whom has also published an edition of his plays (1893). An annotated selection from his periodical essays was issued in 1885 by the Clarendon Press. There are recent annotated editions of the Tatler, in 8 vols., by G. A. Aitken (1898), and of the Spectator, in 1 vol., by Henry Morley (1868); G. Gregory Smith, in 8 vols (1897-98); and G. A. Aitken, in 8 vols. (1898).

ROBERT AITKEN.

Ambrose Philips (c. 1675–1749) was one of the poets of the day whom Addison's friendship and Pope's enmity raised to temporary importance. Born in Shropshire of Leicestershire ancestry, and educated at St John's College, Cambridge, he made his appearance as a poet in the same year and in the same volume as Pope-the Pastorals of Philips being the first poem, and the Pastorals of Pope the last, in Tonson's Miscellany for 1709.

Tickell praised Philips's Pastorals as the finest in the language, and Pope resented this absurd depreciation of his own poetry by an ironical paper in the Guardian. Pretending to criticise the rival Pastorals and compare them, Pope gives the preference to Philips, but quotes all his worst passages as his best, and places by the side of them his own finest lines, which he says want rusticity and deviate into downright poetry. Philips felt the satire keenly, and even vowed to take personal vengeance on his adversary by whipping him with a rod which he hung up for the purpose in Button's Coffee-House. Pope, faithful to the maxim that a man never forgives another whom he has injured, continued to pursue Philips with hatred and satire to the close of his life. The pastoral poet had the good sense not to enter the lists with his formidable assailant, and his character and talents soon procured him public employment. In 1715 he was appointed a commissioner for the Lottery; he was afterwards secretary to the Primate of Ireland, and sat for County Armagh in the Irish Parliament. In 1734 he was made registrar of the Prerogative Court. From these appointments, Philips was able to purchase an annuity of £400 per annum, with which he hoped, as Johnson says, 'to pass some years of life [in England] in plenty and tranquillity; but his. hope deceived him: he was struck with a palsy, and died June 18, 1749.' The Pastorals of Philips. are but poor things on the whole; but Goldsmith eulogised the opening of his Epistle to the Earl of Dorset as 'incomparably fine'—a judgment Mr Gosse contradicts, while Mr Leslie Stephen thinks the genuine description of nature quite remarkable for the time. His rendering of a fragment of Sappho was voted so excellent that Addison. was thought to have assisted in its composition :

Fragment from Sappho.
Blessed as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while

Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost;

My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled,
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;

I fainted, sunk, and died away.

Philips, who translated also from Pindar and Anacreon, produced three tragedies, but only one -The Distressed Mother, from the Andromaque of Racine-was successful, and was praised by

Addison in the Spectator; he wrote in the Whig journal The Freethinker (1718-19), which was his own venture, and he translated some Persian tales. A series of short complimentary pieces, by which Philips paid court, as Johnson says, 'to all ages and characters, from Walpole, the steerer of the realm, to Miss Pulteney in the nursery,' procured him the nickname of Namby Pamby from Harry Carey (see page 330 below), a nickname cordially adopted by Pope as suited to Philips's 'eminence in the infantile style.' Of Philips's own achievement in the namby-pamby rhythm, the 'Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling,' addressed to Miss Margaret Pulteney, is one good example, and this is another:

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's Arms.
Timely blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linnet in the bush,

To the mother linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray;
Wearied then, and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest.
This thy present happy lot,
This in time will be forgot :
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever busy Time prepares;

And thou shalt in thy daughter see
This picture once resembled thee.

Epistle to the Earl of Dorset.
COPENHAGEN, March 9, 1709.
From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow,
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow,
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing?
The hoary winter here conceals from sight
All pleasing objects which to verse invite.
The hills and dales and the delightful woods,
The flowery plains and silver-streaming floods,
By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie,
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.
No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring,
No birds within the desert region sing.
The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy,
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.
The vast leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.

The starving wolves along the main sea prowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain :
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear,
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow :
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn seemed wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds which watery marshes yield,
Seemed polished lances in a hostile field.
The stag in limpid currents with surprise
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,

The brittle forest into atoms flies;

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads

Through fragrant bowers and through delicious meads;
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabricks there attract his eyes,

His wandering feet the magick paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,

And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:

A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And as he goes the transient vision mourns.

From the First Pastoral-'Lobbin.'

If we, O Dorset, quit the city throng
To meditate in shades the rural song
By your command, be present; and O bring
The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing.
Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain,
And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain.

Begin. In unluxurious times of yore,
When flocks and herds were no inglorious store,
Lobbin, a shepherd boy, one evening fair,
As western winds had cooled the sultry air,
His numbered sheep within the fold now pent,
Thus plained him of his dreary discontent;
Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs,
He solitary sat to breathe his vows.
Venting the tender anguish of his heart,
As passion taught, in accents free of art;
And little did he hope, while night by night
His sighs were lavished thus on Lucy bright.

'Ah! well-a-day, how long must I endure
This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure?
Fond love no cure will have, seeks no repose,
Delights in grief, nor any measure knows :
And now the moon begins in clouds to rise;
The brightening stars increase within the skies;
The winds are hushed; the dews distil; and sleep
Hath closed the eyelids of my weary sheep;
I only, with the prowling wolf, constrained
All night to wake: with hunger he is pained,
And I with love. His hunger he may tame;
But who can quench, O cruel love, thy flame?
Whilome did I, all as this poplar fair,
Upraise my heedless head, then void of care,
'Mong rustick routs the chief for wanton game;
Nor could they merry-make till Lobbin came.
Who better seen than I in shepherd's arts,
To please the lads, and win the lasses' hearts?
How deftly, to mine oaten reed so sweet,
Wont they upon the green to shift their feet!
And, wearied in the dance, how would they yearn
Some well-devisèd tale from me to learn!
For many songs and tales of mirth had I,
To chase the loitering sun adown the sky :
But ah! since Lucy coy deep-wrought her spite
Within my heart, unmindful of delight,
The jolly grooms I fly, and all alone

To rocks and woods pour fourth my fruitless moan.
Oh! quit thy wonted scorn, relentless fair,

Ere, lingering long, I perish through despair.
Had Rosalind been mistress of my mind,

Though not so fair, she would have proved more kind.
O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time,
How flying years impair thy youthful prime!
Thy virgin bloom will not for ever stay,

And flowers, though left ungathered, will decay :
The flowers anew returning seasons bring,
But beauty faded has no second spring.
My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries,
Takes pleasure in the mischief of her eyes.
Like frisking heifer loose in flowery meads,
She gads where'er her roving fancy leads;
Yet still from me. Ah me, the tiresome chase!
Shy as the fawn, she flies my fond embrace.
She flies, indeed, but ever leaves behind,
Fly where she will, her likeness in my mind.'

His Poems were published by Ambrose Philips in 1748, and reappeared in 1765.

He

John Philips (1676–1709), author of The Splendid Shilling, which Addison pronounced 'the finest burlesque poem in the English language,' was the son of the vicar of Brampton in Oxfordshire, who was also Archdeacon of Salop. studied at Winchester and Christ Church, Oxford; his life, mainly devoted to literature, was cut short by consumption. His early love of Milton is reflected in all his poems. The Splendid Shilling, a mock-heroic poem in Miltonic blank verse, is not in the least designed disrespectfully to burlesque Milton, whom Philips reverenced. He wrote also a Tory celebration of the battle of Blenheim; but his most considerable effort in serious verse was Cyder, an imitation of Virgil's Georgics. The Splendid Shilling is a classic, read and reprinted while the other poems are forgotten.

The Splendid Shilling.

Happy the man who, void of cares and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains

A Splendid Shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale;
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise,
To Juniper's Magpie or Town-hall repairs:
Where, mindful of the nyn.ph whose wanton eye
Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames,
Chloe or Phillis, he each circling glass
Wishes her health, and joy, and equal love.
Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,
Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.
But I, whom griping penury surrounds,
And hunger, sure attendant upon want,
With scanty offals, and small acid tiff,
Wretched repast! my meagre corps sustain :
Then solitary walk, or doze at home
In garret vile, and with a warming puff
Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black
As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet,
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent :
Not blacker tube nor of a shorter size
Smokes Cambro-Briton, versed in pedigree,
Sprung from Cadwalador and Arthur, kings
Full famous in romantic tale, when he
O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,
Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese,
High overshadowing rides, with a design
To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart,
Or Maridunum, or the ancient town
Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream
Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!
Whence flows nectareous wines that well may vie
With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern.

Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With looks demure and silent pace, a dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends.

know

With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate,
With hideous accent thrice he calls;
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.
What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed,
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly

Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect
Thro' sudden fear: a chilly sweat bedews
My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell!
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;
So horrible he seems! His faded brow
Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,
And spreading band, admired by modern saints,
Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,
With characters and figures dire inscribed,
Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert
Such plagues from righteous men!
Another monster, not unlike himself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called
A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods
With force incredible and magic charms
First have endued: if he his ample palm
Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch
Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont,
To some enchanted castle is conveyed,
Where gates impregnable and coercive chains

Behind him stalks

In durance strict detain him till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware, ye debtors; when ye walk, beware,
Be circumspect! oft with insidious ken
This caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallowed touch. So, poets sing,
Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web
Arachne in a hall or kitchen spreads
Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands
Within her woven cell; the humming prey,
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable; nor will aught avail
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue;
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,
And butterfly, proud of expanded wings
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,
Useless resistance make: with eager strides
She tow'ring flies to her expected spoils :
Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.

So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades
This world envelop and th' inclement air
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts
With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood,
Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light
Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk
Of loving friend delights; distressed, forlorn,
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts
My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,
Or desperate lady near a purling stream,
Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.
Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought,
And restless wish, and rave; my parchéd throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:

But if a slumber haply does invade

My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake;
Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,
Tipples imaginary pots of ale,

In vain; awake, I find the settled thirst
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred,
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays
Mature, John-apple, nor the downy peach,
Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure,
Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay.
Afflictions great! yet greater still remains.
My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury and encroaching frosts,
By time subdued (what will not time subdue!)
An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice
Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds
Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force
Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves,
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,
Portending agues. Thus, a well-fraught ship,
Long sailed secure, or through th' Ægean deep,
Or the Ionian, till, cruising near

The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush
On Scylla or Charybdis, dangerous rocks,
She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak,
So fierce a shock unable to withstand,
Admits the sea; in at the gaping side

The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage,
Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize

The mariners; death in their eyes appears;

They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray. Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, Implacable; till, deluged by the foam,

The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

Juniper's Magpie and the Town-hall were Oxford alehouses. Mundungus, for tobacco, is from Span. mondongo, tripe, paunch. Cestrian is a Latinised adjective for of Chester' or of Cheshire; Arvonia is Carnarvon; Maridunum, Carmarthen; Brechinia, Brecknock; Vaga, the Wye; Ariconium is Kenchester (possibly Ross); Massic, Setinian, and Falernian were old wines of Italy, beloved of the Romans. Arachne is the spider; John-apple, or apple-john, is a variety best for use when long preserved and shrivelled. Cronian, from Kronos, Saturn, means simply Arctic: Lilybean, from the promontory of Lilybæum at the western end of Sicily, is here used for Sicilian at large.

Eustace Budgell (1686–1737) was a cousin of Addison, and from Trinity College, Oxford, entered the Temple. He accompanied Addison to Ireland as clerk, and afterwards rose to be Under-Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant and a member of the Irish Parliament. Thirty-seven numbers of the Spectator are ascribed to Budgell; Dr Johnson reported them to have been so much 'mended' by Addison as to be almost his own. No doubt in style and humour they resemble those of Addison; but it was probable enough that Budgell should have tried his best to imitate Addison. In 1717 Budgell, who was vain and vindictive, quarrelled with the Irish Secretary, and wrote pamphlets on his grievances; the result of which was his dismissal from office and return to England. He lost a fortune in the South Sea Scheme, in a series of law-suits, and in attempts to gain a seat in the English House of Commons, and subsequently figured principally as a pamphleteer writer for the Craftsman and Grub Street hack, being at times 'disordered in his senses.' His declining reputation suffered a mortal blow by a charge of having forged a testament in his own favour. By the will of Dr Matthew Tindal, the deist, it appeared (1733) that a legacy of £2000 had been left to Budgell. The will was set aside and the unhappy author disgraced. To this Pope alludes in the couplet :

Let Budgell charge low Grub Street on my quill,
And write whate'er he please-except my will.

In May 1737 this wretched man, involved in debts and difficulties, and dreading an execution in his house, committed suicide by leaping from a boat while shooting London Bridge. On his desk was found a slip of paper, on which he had written: What Cato did, and Addison approved, Cannot be wrong.

In this he misrepresented Addison, who made the dying Cato say: