First, the History of Lewis the Fourteenth, &c. For his part, he is determined to avail himself of the favourite passions of his readers, and is now actually employed in compiling Memoirs of the King of Spades, the Annals of the King of Clubs, Anecdotes relating to the King of Hearts, Remarks on the King of Diamonds; including battles more memorable than those of Cressi and Poictiers, fought in the verdant plains of Piquet, Cribbage, Quadrille, Whist, &c. in which will be interwoven the private characters of the Knaves, with the secret history of the Queens, their intrigues, &c. The work to be published in numbers, price One Guinea each Weekly Number; in proper places will be inserted a beautiful Copper-Plate of the Crowned Heads and eminent personages, taken from the original Drawings now in possession of the Club at White's; at the particular desire of several persons of quality, five thousand Copies will be printed upon Royal Paper; the subscribers' names to be annexed, with their places of abode, and how many card-tables each person keeps; which may serve to give posterity some idea of the grandeur of the present age. I make no doubt but this work, if carried into execution, will be in great demand; and I am sensible that a dissuasive from pursuits of this nature will be the jest of every tittering cardtable in town. I must, however, beg leave to inform my pretty readers, that they are highly mistaken if they imagine, that, by dedicating a few hours to literary amusements, they endanger their lovely features, and run the risk of dimming the sparkling lustre of the eye. On the contrary, a page or two in a morning may serve to adjust the countenance, and the acquisition of a new idea may give a more engaging ornament to the head than a new Paris cap; and the eye will certainly beam with more attention when directed by an active principle within, than when it swims round the room in pretty, giddy, vain, senseless, affectations? How finely has Mr. Pope described the consequences attending a life spent thus in a circle of folly: See how the world its veterans rewards! How much more eligible, therefore, is it to employ some portion of our time in a way that will furnish the mind with ideas fit to be communicated to rational creatures, and give an embellishment to the highest sphere of life. Add to this, that softening quality which letters have in all cases of adversity. In the day of affliction, the surest and most certain relief the mind can receive, will be derived from the habit of being conversant with books. If I remember right, it is Mr. Locke that observes, in his Conduct of the Understanding, that a power of transferring our thoughts from one object to another is an essential requisite in a well-formed understanding: And surely nothing can better help to prevent the mind from dwelling too long upon any habitual set of ideas which may induce a settled form of melancholy, than an attention to the performances which men of learned leisure have sent into the world. Instead of urging any thing farther on this subject, I shall conclude this paper with a Journal, for one week, of an acquaintance of mine who never reads at all, and a journal of another who devotes part of his time to letters. JOURNAL OF WILLIAM TASTELESS. Monday. Dozed away five hours after natural rest-rose at one o'clock, pulled on one stocking, then yawned for a quarter of an hour by the bedside, and pulled on the other-journeyed into the next room to breakfast-looked out of the window every thing appeared the same; no variety in life-lounged at the coffee-houselooked over the papers-paragraphs all the same-deaths, births, burials, and marriagesplayed cards at Tom's in the evening-went to bed fatigued. Tuesday. Got up fatigued-the same thing over again-the Park-the Play-the tall woman at Charing-Cross-Cards at night. Wednesday. Nothing done. Thursday. Nothing again. Friday. Horrors all day-weary of my life -ready to hang myself. Saturday. Waked in bad spirits-wished myself dead-went to the play at night-slept during three acts-lost my pocket-handkerchief as usual-weary of the world. Sunday. Weather gloomy-Horrors-Sunday the most muzzy day in the year-went to ten different routs came home tired-ready to hang myself again.— JOURNAL OF ALEXANDER TASTEFUL. Monday. Waked at eight o'clock out of a pleasant dream of being in company with Horace, Virgil, &c.-went to breakfast; read a paper in the Adventurer-opened my book-casewent back three thousand years with Mr. Pope to converse with Homer's heroes-looked over Spence's Polymetis-went to my bookseller'sadjourned from thence with two men of genius to dinner, and afterwards to see Mr. Garrick in the character of Hamlet-supped at the Rose, and admired the poet and the player-went home, and read the three first acts of Hamlet. Tuesday. A rainy dull morning-had recourse to Virgil, who dispensed blue skies, lakes, caverns, lowing herds, &c.-turned to Warton's elegant Criticisms on several Passages, and went through the Dissertation on the Eleusinian Mysteries-went in the evening to a rout -tired of the company-retired home, and spent the evening with Locke, Sir William Temple, and Lord Bacon. Wednesday. Met with an unexpected misfortune; soothed my uneasiness by reading Fielding's Joseph Andrews. Thursday. Read the World at breakfast, also the Connoisseur-opened my book-case, and took in hand Brown against Shaftesbury-highly pleased with the author's account of Ridicule -turned to Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, to see what he has on the subject-carried away by the enthusiasm of his poetry, and could not lay down the book till I went through it. Friday. Rose somewhat feverish-my mind |