that he detests, and drinks Champagne and Burgundy, instead of his old beverage of port and punch, till he is sick, because they are the dishes and drink of great and rich men. The son's situation has the advantage of brilliancy, but the father's was more likely to be permanent; he was daily growing richer with the aspect of poverty; his son is daily growing poorer, with the appearance of wealth.

"It is impossible to enumerate the pranks which the sudden acquisition of riches, joined to this desire of figure-making, sets people a-playing. There is nothing so absurd or extravagant, which riches, in the hands of a weak man, will not tempt him to commit, from the mere idea of enjoying his money in the way of exhibition. Nay, this will happen to persons of whose sense and discretion the world had formerly a high opinion, even where that opinion was a just one; for wealth often makes fools where it does not find them." My friend, happening to cast his eye towards me at that moment, discovered a smile on my countenance. "You are thinking now," said he, that you and I could endure being left twenty or thirty thousand pounds, notwithstanding the truth of my observation." "It would spoil your lecture," I replied; "but you may go on in the mean time." He took the pinch of snuff which my remark had stopped in its progress towards his nose, and went on.

"From this motive of figure-making," continued he, turning to the ladies of the company, "Beauty puts on her airs, and wit labours for a bon mot, till the first becomes ugly, and the latter tiresome. You may have frequently observed Betsy Ogle, in a company of her ordinary acquaintance, look charmingly, because she did not care how she 14

VOL. XXIX.

looked, till the appearance of a gentleman with a fine coat or a title, has set her a-tossing her head, rolling her eyes, biting her lips, twisting her neck, and bringing her whole figure to bear upon him, till the expression of her countenance became perfect folly, and her attitudes downright distortion. In the same way, our friend, Ned Glib, who has more wit than any man I know, could he but learn the economy of it, when some happy strokes of humour have given him credit with himself and the company, will set out full tilt, mimicking, caricaturing, punning, and story-telling, till everybody present wishes him dumb, and looks grave in proportion as he laughs.

"That wit and beauty should be desirous of making a figure, is not to be wondered at, admiration being the very province they contend for. That folly and ugliness should thrust themselves forward to public notice, might be matter of surprise, did we not recollect that their owners most probably think themselves witty and handsome. In these, indeed, as in many other instances, it unfortunately happens that people are strangely bent upon making a figure in those very departments where they have least chance of succeeding.

"But there is a species of animal, several of whom must have fallen under the notice of everybody present, which it is difficult to class, either among the witty or the foolish, the clever or the dull, the wise or the mad, who, of all others, have the greatest propensity to figure-making. Nature seems to have made them up in haste, and to have put the different ingredients above referred to into their composition at random. They are more common in such a place as this, than in a more extensive sphere; like some vermin, that breed in ponds

and rivulets, which a larger stream or lake would destroy. Our circle is just large enough to give their talents room, and small enough to be affected by their exertion. Here, therefore, there is never wanting a junto of them, of both sexes, who are liked or hated, admired or despised, who make people laugh or set them asleep, according to the fashion of the time, or the humour of their audience, and who have always the satisfaction of talking themselves, and of being talked of by others. With us, indeed, a very moderate degree of genius is sufficient for this purpose; in small societies, folks are set agape by small circumstances. I have known a lady here contrive to make a figure for half the winter, on the strength of a plume of feathers, or the trimming of a petticoat; and a gentleman make shift to be thought a fine fellow, only by outdoing everybody else in the thickness of his queue, or the height of his foretop.

"But people will not only make themselves fools; I have known instances of their becoming knaves, or at least, boasting of their being so, from this desire of figure-making. You shall hear a fellow, who has once got the character of being a sharp man, tell things of himself, for which, if they had been true, he deserved to be hanged, merely because his line of figure-making lies in trick and chicane; hence, too, proceed all those histories of their own profligacy and vice, which some young men of spirit are perpetually relating, who are willing to record themselves villains, rather than not be recorded at all.

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In the arts as well as in the characters of men, this same propensity is productive of strange disorders. Hence proceed the bombast of poetry, the tumour of prose, the garish light of some paintings,

the unnatural chiaro scuro of others; hence, in music, the absurd mixture of discordant movements, and the squeak of high-strained cadences; in short, all those sins against nature and simplicity, which artists of inferior merit are glad to practise, in order to extort the notice of the public, and to make a figure by surprise and singularity."

The accidental interruption of a new visitor now stopped the current of my friend's discourse; he had indeed, begun to tire most of the company, who were not all disposed to listen quite so long as he seemed inclined to speak. In truth, he had forgot that the very reproof he meant to give his neighbours applied pretty strongly to himself, and that, though he might suppose he was lecturing from the desire of reformation, he was, in reality, haranguing in the spirit of figure-making.

I

No. 93. TUESDAY MARCH 28, 1780.

Parva leves capiunt animos.—

OVID.

THAT life consists, in a great measure, of trifling occurrences and little occupations, there needs no uncommon sagacity or attention to discover. Notwithstanding the importance we are apt to ascribe to the employments and the time, even of the greatest and most illustrious, were we to trace such persons to the end of their labours and the close of

their pursuits, we should frequently discover that trifles were the solace of the one and the purpose of the other. Public business and political arrangement are often only the constrained employments to which accident or education has devoted their hours, while their willing moments are destined, perhaps, to light amusements and to careless mirth.

It is not then surprising, that trifles should form the chief gratification of ordinary men, on whom the public has no claim, and individuals have little dependence. But, of those trifles, the nature will commonly mark the man, as much as circumstances of greater importance. A mind capable of high exertion or delicate sentiment, will stoop with a certain consciousness of its descent, that will not allow it to wanton into absurdity, or sink into grossness. There is, in short, a difference, which sense and feeling will not easily forget, between the little and the mean, the simple and the rude, the playful and the foolish.

But the surest mark of a weak mind is an affectation of importance amidst the enjoyment of trifles, a bustle of serious business amidst the most insignificant concerns. The bringing forward of little things to the rank of great ones is the true burlesque in character as well as in style; yet such characters are not uncommon, even among men who have acquired some estimation in the world. In this particular, the world is easily deceived; dulness may often ape solemnity, and arrogate importance, where brighter talents would have drawn but little regard; as objects are magnified by mists, and made awful by darkness.

Of a character of this sort I received, some time ago, the following sketch from a young lady, who sometimes honours me with her correspondence,